10

It was a long day today. I brought Monty and all three cats to the vet’s. And, then Iz and I headed out for important supplies like a new bathing suit for her stay at a hotel with a pool this weekend, kitty litter (a staple and seemingly my middle name most days), three pairs of flip-flops for Iz (because her current pair flipped but they didn’t flop or so she tried to explain), boxers, socks, and shorts for Nate, and jelly beans for me.

The trip to the veterinarian’s was complex. Thinking I was saving myself time, I booked an appointment for Monty and the three cats. The cats needed maintenance (shots and check-ups), but when it came to Monty, I needed a piece of mind.

I needed to know that when I rubbed his tummy the other night that the lumps and bumps I felt were normal; well, I needed to know they were normal given that he was dying of lymphoma. I also needed to know that his labored breathing was to be expected. After having my Mom, good friend, and Dad all die of cancer, I realized that even after all these experiences, cancer still took me by surprise, dumbfounded me, and made me ask “Why?” when I knew there was no answer.

Due to illness, Nathan happened to be home today. At 9:50am, I said, “Let’s gather the tribe.” He didn’t ask, but I answered without being asked, “I’m sure it’s going to take us a while to get the cats rounded up.”

Liam went into the carrier…not. He braced all four paws on the entrance. He then said, “Noooooooo!”

After we got him into one carrier, we chased Plume around the house for 10 minutes. I finally trapped her, wrapped her up in one of Iz’s sweatshirts, and was able to dump her into the smaller carrier. This occurred after she put two or three scratches in my back; I haven’t dared look yet!

When Nathan and I had Monty on the leash and two cats in carriers, we were done. I said, “Oh, jeez, Thunderbolt.” Nathan asked, “Can’t he just ride in the car?”

At that point, I said, “Yeah. Good idea.” Thank goodness it was only a 5-minute ride to the vet. Monty panted in the back seat, Liam meowed every five minutes, Plume, ever the dainty girl, meowed only once to say, “I object!”, and Thunderbolt roamed freely about the cabin complaining that he was going to miss his connecting flight and that his headset didn’t work, so he’d not heard any of the dialogue for the in-flight movie, “Beverly Hills Chihuahua.”

Upon arrival at the vet’s office, we had to make a few trips in. I carted in Liam and Plume in their carriers. I then brought in Monty on his leash. Nathan carried in Thunderbolt.

We had to wait for a few minutes. I sat with Liam, Plume, and Monty. I wandered over to find Nathan, and he sat on the bench while Thunderbolt stood on his shoulder meowing out the window as if to say, “Help! I’m wrongly being vaccinated for distemper. I really need to get my connecting flight to Miami!”

After we were escorted into an examination room, Nathan and I unleashed the pets. They were all free to roam about the cabin. Monty just stood there and panted, Liam jumped up on the exam table and immediately sniffed out the cat treat jar, Thunderbolt continued to complain about his connecting flight to Miami, and Plume decided to stay wedged in the far corner of her cat carrier.

Everything was going fine until Thunderbolt got his distemper shot. Apparently, the shot is now given with an air rifle (well, the syringe equivalent). The vet shot the vaccine into Thundie’s buttocks, and then Thudie complained about his missed flight and the shot. Thundie shot off the examination table and onto the floor.

Of course, since the room had exceeded its occupancy, Thundie went face-to-face with Liam. Thundie hissed at Liam; Liam hissed at Thundie. Monty, wanting to know why, Thundie, the Ghandi of Cats was upset, poked his nose in Thundie’s face and asked, “Good God. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Thundie hissed at Monty. Monty barked; Liam whacked Thundie. Thundie hissed at Liam, and then Nate and I separated Thundie from the rest of the tribe.

After all cats were examined, Nathan shuttled them back out to the car. The vet told me that she’d examine Monty in the next room, where they had an exam table that Monty could jump up on and then be elevated. Monty had never liked to be picked up; I liked this practice, because they “got” me and my dog.

After examining Monty and confirming that his lymph nodes, spleen, and liver were enlarged, I saw blood on the table. The vet, the vet tech, and I had no idea where it was coming from until I saw a red spot on Monty’s bottom. I said, "I think it's here," pointing to his bottom.

I then asked, “Could it be because I didn’t give him his pepcid yesterday? I ran out.” The vet then said that she thought it might be. She peered at and prodded his behind, and then she paused.

She said, “You know what?” I asked, “What?” She said, “It’s not the meds. It looks like one of the cat’s clawed him when we were in the other exam room.”

Unfortunately, the guilty cat didn’t claw him in the bottom. The cat got him in the fleshy tender part that rhymes with the planet Uranus. Yes, frickin’ ouch! The poor guy!

Just then, the vet who owned the practice asked me if a student vet could “feel” Monty. She entered the examination room, and the vet stated to the student, “He’s got lymphoma.” I began to cry, but I realized, along with other losses this week, that this was life, and I needed to accept it; I didn't have to like it, but I needed to accept it.

After leaving $425 poorer and with a prescription for antibiotics for Monty’s Uranus, I felt a bit defeated. The vet student told me how handsome Monty was and what a good boy he was. I thanked her for that, but I couldn’t help but feeling her presence had made everything worse, even though I agreed she could feel Monty. Good acts don't always give way to good feelings.

Nathan and I dropped the tribe off at home. I then drove Nathan to school, and I traveled home. When I got home, the tribe was fast asleep; I didn’t blame them, because sometimes, I wanted to do the same after a trying day.

At 5pm, Iz and I dropped Nathan off at his Dad’s. Iz and I headed out to do a bunch of errands and had a good time doing so. When we finally arrived home, I dragged Iz into the tub.

For the last few nights, she has wanted me to braid her hair when it’s wet. She takes out the braids in the morning and goes to school looking somewhat like Roseanne Roseannadanna. When she got off the bus today, she said all her friends said her hair was “cool,” and they wanted to know how she did it.

Tonight, as I was braiding her hair on my bed, she read out loud from “Junie B. Jones and the Yucky Blucky Fruitcake.” I then thought, “Wow, this is one of those times, whether I’m here or not, that she’s going to remember for the rest of her life.” I realized that I'd gain things in life and I'd lose things, but it was most important to have these memories and keep them closest to my heart. ♥

Back to ACK -- The Cyclone

Note: I forgot to bring my cell phone-internet cord yesterday, so I was at the mercy of the Steam Ship Authority’s wireless network. Unfortunately, it blocked my video and blogger websites. Technology is only good when it’s good, and yesterday it sucked!

After a two hour and fifteen minute ferry ride, John and I drove his van off of the ferry named Nantucket and headed toward the house. I think that’s the first time I’ve referred to the house generically. Even though it was my house (well, Citibank owned half), I had always called it my Dad’s house. And, considering the way things went, it was never really my house and ended up going back into the sea of available properties on Nantucket.

As we drove off the ferry, I said to John, “Drive straight out of here, and then we’re going to go straight up this road.” I was totally stumped when I saw the “Do Not Enter” sign where we were supposed to "go straight up this road." I said, “Oh, jeez. We can’t get there from here.” It was like the last time I was on the island; I would have to find another way home, which seemed ironic as I sat there jostling in the passenger seat of John’s van.

Even when my Dad was living at "the house" in Nantucket, I was unable to go there a lot. It wasn’t that I wasn’t welcome. It was that Nantucket was a PITA (pain in the ass) to reach, even though it was only 26 miles off the coast of Massachusetts.

By car, I knew only one way to get to my Dad's house. When John took a left, where we should have been able to go straight, I said, “Um, I think we’ll have to go over the cobblestones. Sorry!” When we hit the first cobblestones, John’s van jumped, jerked, and then rattled. I said, “Thank God I don’t have to pee right now,” and John laughed.

After a 10-minute kidney jostling ride, we found our way to my Dad’s house. We pulled in the driveway, and I immediately saw the moss on the roof, the rot on the boards outside the family room windows, and then I pondered if I even wanted to go in. It seemed that the exterior had already set the tone for the interior.

Nevertheless, I climbed out the door of John's van. It was good to see her, though I immediately wanted to wrap her in a huge Hello Kitty band-aid and rock her in my arms. I could feel her pain. I could see her wince when I stepped on the porch stairs and I could hear her cry when I opened the door, yet she reached out to hold me knowing we might comfort eachother one last time.

The deadbolt had been unlocked (see “Wicked Witch of the West” realtor), and I opened the door. I walked in, and I smelled her. She always had this distinctive smell; she wasn’t Chanel No. 5 like my grandmother nor was she Jean Nate or Emeraude like my Mom.

I couldn’t describe her scent. She was wise, she was worn, but she smelled so comforting. I breathed in, and I didn’t want to breath out.

Like Dorothy in Munchkinland, I was greeted but not by munchins. I was greeted by small piles of swept-up dirt on the floor. Not recognizing where I was after landing in a big white van on top of this island, I began to search for life.

In the bedroom next to the bathroom, I saw this….



She said, “Jean, life goes like this. It’s somewhat crazy, it’s really crazy, and then it all goes normal again.” I looked at the shade for a long time. I decided she was right.

I then looked to the right, and I saw this…



She said, “Jean, things break. Sometimes you can fix them. Sometimes you can’t. And if you can’t, don’t feel badly about it, just move on, girl.”

I left that bedroom, hoping to find a room that hadn’t been bruised or sprained. I was worried because I only had two Hello Kitty band-aids left in my purse. I then entered the family room, and I saw this…



She said, “Jean, I’m coming apart. You can’t fix me. I know you want to, but you know you can’t. I understand that and I love you for loving me, but you need to let me go…to someone else.”

I turned around, and then I saw this…



Before she spoke, I got angry. I couldn’t believe that a vine had made its way inside her. And before I could speak, she said, “I know you care. Above all, I know you will always care the most. They (see the evil apple trees) care, not like you, but they care and can and will make me feel better.”

I walked up the stairs from the family room and entered the living room. The sun shined brightly through the window. Then, I walked outside to see if John needed my help; actually, I knew John didn’t need any help. I knew I might need help from John to go back in again.

As I stood on the porch, I looked at the door…



She then said, “Remember this.” I asked, “Why?” She said, “I’m going to a better place and you are, too.”

I took a deep breath and walked back into the house. There was so much nothing where there had once been so much something. She said, “You of all people know that when the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.”



She was right. I would always love her. But, we were better not being together even if we wanted to be. ♥

Back to ACK -- The Cast of Characters

Once upon a time…

The realtor:



The ex-tenants:



The buyers:



My driver and Ellen’s husband, Professor Marvel (a.k.a. John):



Me, mostly a good witch:



Will they all live happily ever after?!
Stay tuned…
♥

Back to ACK -- ZZzzzZZZzzzzz

5:15am: Not awake.



5:30am: Coffee! Food!



5:45am: At least my sneakers are awake! ♥



Was that short and informative enough?!

Take the Long Way Home

Tomorrow, I’m going to see a friend who’s dying. My friend’s a house and she lives on the island of Nantucket. She was diagnosed with Regret, Disillusionment, and Disappointment, and her doctor, Bob Vila, said she’s terminal; it’s time for her to pass away…to another owner.

I’m making the long voyage (two-hour car ride and a two hour and 15 minute ferry ride) to the island tomorrow. It’s surely not a necessary trip for the things I am going to retrieve, though it surely seems necessary to me to see her one last time. I really hope I don’t cry when I see her; however, lately, when I think about her passing away, I cry… a lot.

And, I know it seems like I’ve been crying a lot lately. Like cleaning my house, crying is often therapeutic for me. I always feel better after a few tears, which makes me think that crying is sometimes like an emotional enema; you have all this shit bottled up inside you, the water comes, and then washes it all away, well, mostly.

As the time draws nearer to leave (6am tomorrow morning to be exact), I find myself further away from crying, which I guess is good. I try and think that what I will see is not the “home” I once knew, even though I once knew it to be my “home.” It’s only walls, windows, and doors now; it’s a shell that someone else will again fill with furniture, appliances, beds, and, most importantly, love.

My father, who originally owned the house, has been dead over 10 years now. When I wonder why the loss of the house is so upsetting for me, I think a large part of it is feeling like I’m losing my father again. Upon further reflection today, I realized that like the house, I sometimes feel like a shell due to a lot of regret, disillusionment, and disappointed these past few years, and I have to hope that, like the house, someday soon I will be whole again and filled with love. ♥

P.S. I’m going to try to do a few mini-blogs tomorrow; have pink laptop, will try to write. I’m still trying to master the art of the short yet informative blog post, so I shall try and practice tomorrow! If not, please don't cancel your subscription to my blog, especially if you've already used your free gifts, the Freudian slippers and the breathalyzer keychain.

Pleasance

I was in NYC this weekend; every time I go to NYC, I go alone. Do I really want to be alone. No, I really don’t, but it seems to be my destiny right now.

I could stay home and be with the kids, the cats, and Monty; however, every now and then, NYC calls to me. It tells me that my life is largely in Massachusetts where I am a mostly a Mom and a technical writer. Yet it also tells me that from time to time, I can live my other life as an avid music lover, theatergoer, and person who sometimes likes to think that “Awake is the new sleep” at 2am in the morning.

A few weeks ago, the call from NYC came, and I answered like I always do.

She said, “Hello, Jean. One of your favorite musicians is playing on a Friday night. This time, stay the weekend and see a Broadway show.”
I said, “You’re right. Let’s do it!”
She said, “Life’s too short not to live a life you wished was part of your everyday life.”
I said, “You’re right again. Thanks, my friend.”

You had to love a city that called you regularly, made you feel special, and got you out of the house for a weekend when you needed it the most. NYC was my girl when it wasn't my mini-me, Iz. It was my city, even if while in my city, I didn’t know where the hell I was most times nor where I was going and often thought that any one of my trips might easily end up as an episode of “Law & Order.”

Last week, I told a friend about my impending trip. She asked, “Who are you going with?” I said, “Me, myself, and I.”

She asked, “All by yourself?” I said, “Yes.” She said, “You’re brave!”

I thought people who survived cancer, natural disasters, and Justin Bieber concerts were brave. I was not brave. I was only determined to not let the fact that I was alone prevent me from doing the things I loved the most, things that most others might feel more comfortable doing with a partner.

When I get on the train to NYC, I am always excited. But, I'd be a liar if I didn’t admit that I was always a bit fearful. While I planned, packed, and ventured out on my own for the trip, it was sometimes difficult looking at myself in the mirror while in the ladies room at the Amtrak station in Westwood, knowing that I was going to get on the train with just this girl, me.

In retrospect, I believe I was the only one of my friends who was willing and able to venture out on such a trip, which some might also see as a whim. In my defense, I am a Taurus; thus, I will be impulsive! Also, while I’m a responsible parent and gainfully employed professional, I am also a free spirit, prompting one friend to label me a “hippy chick” not too long ago. And, can you really be a hippy chick if you’re a Sephora devotee, love clothes, are fond of shoes, and shave your armpits regularly?!

After I attended a great concert on Friday night, I ventured out on Saturday afternoon to see La Cage aux Folles. I had loved the movie, “The Bird Cage,” and I knew the show would be even better. When waiting outside to enter the theater, a lovely woman sashayed out from a theater door dressed from head to toe in pink and rhinestones and wearing pink rhinestone stilettos.

She strutted down the sidewalk and spouted off joke after joke. I fell in love. Yes, I think I have a thing for men in drag, or maybe it’s just that I respect and admire someone who’s willing to be who they are regardless of anything else.

Near the end of the first half of the performance, Harvey Fierstein sang “I Am What I Am.” And, while he doesn’t have the voice of John Barrowman or Anthony Warlow, I cannot recall being so emotionally moved by a song since I heard “No One is Alone” when I saw “Into the Woods many years ago. I began to cry, and then I sat there feeling stupid, wondering why the song and the words had me sneaking a Kleenex and dabbing my eyes before anyone sitting next to me would know that the song had made me cry.

During intermission, I sat there and pondered my tears. It then struck me that I, too, had tried so hard to be myself for the last 10 years. I had only met with frustration, a terribly lonely frustration.

I was not a perfect person. Actually, I thought I was a pretty good person when I wasn’t cursing the women in the locker room at work for not turning out the light in the bathroom (my 70s energy-crisis upbringing) or wishing my neighbor contracted a bad case of head lice for choosing to use his power tools at 7am on a Saturday morning. To be honest, the first time he did that, I wished for imminent death.

When I left the theater, I passed a store with a handbag that caught my eye on my way into the theater. Did I need a bag? No. Did I go in telling myself, “I’d just look.” Yes.

Shopping in NYC somewhat intimidated me. At home, people rarely asked you if you need help with something. As soon as I walked into the Fossil store, a lovely young woman approached me and asked, “How are you doing today? Can I show you something?” I said, “No, thank you. I’m just looking,” because I needed to remind myself in the next two minutes that I didn’t need a handbag to be my friend just because I was alone.

I found the bag that caught my eye. I picked it up; it was lovely and very, as another friend would say, “me” because it was "hippy chick." The lovely young woman came back to me, and I thought, “It looks like I will not be alone while here.” She saw the bag I was holding and said, “Oh, I love that bag!”

She didn’t look like she was a hippy chick. In fact, she looked like she had only been parked in front of the TV watching “Sesame Street” a short 15 years ago. I saw another bag nearby, and I surrendered to the fact that I had a friend now who wasn’t a handbag yet had the same good taste I had, so I squealed, “Oooo. I like this one, too!”

She said, “Would you like to try them on?” I said, “Nah, well….” I knew I really liked my new friend, who wouldn’t leave me alone, so I caved and said, “Okay.”

We walked over to the corner of the store. I saw a full-length mirror, and I flung the bag I saw in the window over my shoulder. I said, “Oh, I love this.”

My friend said, “That’s one of my favorite bags, too.” I then said, “Oh, but I like this one.” She said, “I really like this one better,” pointing to the one that was in the window, and so did I.

I said, “Oh, I really shouldn’t. But, I love it, But I shouldn’t, but I really need some retail therapy, you know?” She laughed out loud, raised her hand, inviting my hand to a high-five and said, “Oh, I know!” I high-fived her, and now the Mom in me wanted to adopt this lovely young lady, who was going to make sure I walked out of the store with a new friend.

I said, “Okay. I want it.” She said, “I’ll put this back and go get you a new one.” She then asked, “What’s your name?” I said, “Jean.”

She said, “I’m Pleasance.” I said, “Pleasance, really? That’s a beautiful name.” She thanked me for saying so and was off to find my new friend, my hippy chick doppelganger purse.

Unfortunately, due to my recent rhinestone overexposure at the theater, something sparkly caught my eye. Okay, that’s a lie. Sparkly things always catch my eye, especially when they’re pink.

I saw a watch that suddenly wanted to be my friend, too. “Pssst. Come over here. Try me on. I’m so you!” it said. (Objects often talk to me. Do they talk to you, too? Just asking.) By then, Pleasance had come back and handed me my hippy chick doppelganger purse wrapped in plastic.

I said, pointing to the watch, “I love that. Can I try that on?” Pleasance laughed and then said, “You’re so funny!” I then asked, “Pleasance, what are you doing to me?” And she giggled.

Pleasance was wearing the same watch my friend, Suze had. I loved Suze's watch, but I knew that I couldn’t buy the same watch; it was the girlfriend code. You could not buy the same thing a girlfriend had if you saw her on a regular basis; this was just an unwritten rule that I always liked to follow.

Pleasance strapped the watch on my wrist, but not before mentioning that the band I had was interchangeable with a rainbow of other colored bands. I said, “Oh, I can change the plastic band.” She was then quick to point out, “Rubber not plastic.” It seemed as though “plastic” was a four-letter word in this store, and Pleasance's job description said that as an employee she must make it clear that rubber ruled and plastic was so not cool.

I tilted my wrist forward; I tilted my wrist backward. The rhinestones twinkled. I looked up at Pleasance and smiled, and she twinkled too.

I sighed and said, “Oh, dear. I’ll take this, too.” Pleasance said, “Let me get you a new one. You can go over to the wall and pick out a box for it.” I felt silly going to pick out a box for a watch, but I also felt silly for being totally enthralled by pink and rhinestones twice in one day – first, a transvestite and now a watch.

I got my pink, white, and blue box covered with birds, and I went over to Pleasance who was at the register. I looked at the wallets, I gasped, and I said, “Oh, those are so cool, too. In Massachusetts, the department stores don’t carry all of this.” Like a good friend, she threw a catalog into my bag and said, “You can order online!”

I laughed. She asked, “Are you here visiting for the weekend?” I said I was and that I had just seen La Cage aux Folles. I added, “It was so good,” and then she said, “I really want to see that!”

She then asked, “Are you here on your own?” I felt a small jab in my heart, and I said, “Yes. I am.” She asked, “And how’s that going?”

Since Pleasance was now an accidental BFF in my middle of my afternoon, I said quite honestly, “It’s okay.” I think she put “retail therapy” and the tone of my voice in an equation and summarized my mood. She said quite heartfelt, “Maybe next time, it’ll be different.”

I said, “Maybe it will.” I paid for my purchases, Pleasance handed me a large paper bag, and she wished me a great rest of the day. I did likewise; I turned around to leave, took a few steps, then I turned back. I caught Pleasance’s eye, and I whispered, “Thank you so much,” and she sparkled like she was wrapped up in pink and rhinestones.

Ironically, "pleasance" is a feeling of pleasure or delight. I had delighted in transvestites, hand bags, pink, and rhinestones yesterday afternoon. Amazingly, I had experienced half of that delight with a real Pleasance. And, most importantly, I would take pleasure in being alone until there's a different "next time," which was a hopeful delight I took from Pleasance. ♥

The World Needs More Lindas

Writing is difficult. Well, sometimes it’s more difficult than at other times. When I have a lot on my mind, it’s difficult for me to write, and then sometimes I’m just not inspired or only inspired by bits and pieces that don’t seem story-worthy.

I’m inspired by bits like Iz and her antics with her fairy dust necklace. I went to clean her room last Sunday, and after I unearthed the first layer of clothes and toys, I found fairy dust all over the floor of her room. I said, “Iz, you’re not supposed to throw the fairy dust all over your floor.” She asked, “Well, where am I supposed to put it then?” as if she were really saying, “Duh, Mom. It’s fairy dust, and it must be scattered somewhere.”

I, not wanting to spoil the fairy dust fun nor encourage scattering that made more vacuuming for me, answered, “Scatter it outside!” Iz asked, “But what if I need magic inside?” I, not wanting to prolong the conversation, then quickly asked, “Hey, let’s go have some cookies!” By the way, that always works, and I hope it works until she’s 18!

I’m also inspired by pieces like my long stay in the waiting room after my mammogram earlier this week; the imaging center at the hospital was running about 30 minutes behind schedule. The technicians were in the waiting room every 15 minutes to tell us that, which was most likely to dispel the quiet fear we were all thinking very loudly to ourselves. That fear was the radiologist is taking much too long looking at my pictures.

After I counted seven of us in the waiting room, the brave seventh rolled her eyes in disgust at the soap opera on the TV, grabbed the remote control, and then said, “There’s got to be something better on.” We all sighed in relief at her ability to take charge of the remote, which was something we probably all wanted to do but didn’t, because we kept thinking, "I know my results are okay, and I will be out of here any minute!"

She changed the channel and yet another soap opera appeared. There was a collective groan. She changed the channel again, and there was a collective, “Yeah, this is better.” Amazingly, all seven of us played along with Family Feud for the next 30 minutes, which didn’t make the wait any easier but it made it made it a group effort filled with a bit of laughter that took our minds off of the wait.

Anyway, writing has been difficult here lately, because I have so much on my mind. It’s nothing life-threatening. They’re just things that I worry about, and they clutter my mind making words here seem somewhat impossible for me.

Today, all that changed. One of my tasks was to get myself to Nantucket to get three pieces of furniture from my Dad’s house. I undertook that task today.

Was I fetching a Chippendale desk, a Stickley rocker, and a William Savery highboy? No. I was fetching two desks (one which a Great Aunt owned and one that my Dad bought at an antique store) and a mahogany trunk that had belonged to my grandmother that some nice young woman had danced on while wearing her stilettos. The pieces were pretty much juntiques, but I felt I needed to pull something out of the emotional “rumble” that this house had become.

I enlisted my neighbor's husband, John, to help me; he’s got a huge van, and I figured he might have the bandwidth to accompany me on my one-day pilgrimage to the island. Someone asked me if I could just ship the furniture to Hyannis. I explained the trip was two-fold; it was to get my furniture and to leave a small bit of my heart behind the way I could only do in person.

This afternoon, I called the Steamship Authority armed with the make, model and license plate number for John’s van. (Actually, I called five minutes before that call, but I was naïve about the ferry ways having only the license plate number.) I pressed one to speak to a reservation agent, and then I heard, “Hi, this is Linda.”

I told Linda that I’d like to make a reservation. She asked if I had my profile number handy, which I didn’t. She stressed to me the importance of writing my profile number down, keeping it in a safe place, and always giving it when I first called.

It was painful enough making this call, and when Linda went all profile number on me, I thought, “Oh, this is going to be even more difficult.” Speaking out of stress, frustration and disappointment, I then said abruptly, “That’s okay. I really won’t need it again, because this is my last trip there.”

Linda quickly said, “Aw, don’t say that, Sweetie!” My reservation agent went from corporate to comforting in under twenty seconds. I said, “Yes. It is.” She said, “Never say never, Honey.”

I felt myself smile, and then Linda began to take my information and made a light-hearted joke about something insignificant. Yet, whatever it was, it made me significantly laugh. She immediately said, “I knew I was going to get a laugh out of you somehow!”

I then said, “Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should write that profile number down. Maybe I will go again.” Linda said, “That’s the spirit.” I then blurted out, “You see, I’ve sold my Dad’s house,” and I know Linda could hear me holding back waves of tears for which I felt stupid, because I had no apparent excuse for them.

Linda offered waves of comforting words in return. I thanked her, and she asked me when I wanted to go. I told her Monday was the preferred day leaving at 9am and returning at 5pm.

She told me that the 9am ferry was sold out. I sighed, and she told me she could get me on the 8pm (what my brother and I used to call the garbage scow as it transported all the really large vehicles) and save me some money. I said, “Oh, we’d have to stay over then.”

She said, “Yeah, but you’ve got the furniture in the house, right?” I said rather sadly, “No. I’m just going to get the last three things.” She said, ‘Oh,” and I thanked her for suggesting that alternative.

She said, “When do you need to go?” I said, “I need to get there by the 31st; that’s when the house closes.” She then said that Tuesday was available, and I said I needed to check with John before I could book it.

Again, frustrated that I was missing information and making the voyage seem that much more difficult, she said, “I can reserve the spot for you. You just need to call back by Sunday to confirm and pay for it.” I thanked her; it was probably what she could have done for anyone else, but she had already made me feel like she was going to get me to Nantucket but with a ferry ticket full of hope and love.

She then asked for the make, model number, and license plate number of John’s van. I gave it to her. Then came a question that stumped me. She asked if the van was a crew cab, a regular cab, a short cab, or a long cab.

Mystified, I said, “Well, he measured it, and it’s 17.6 feet long. Does that help?” She said, “You know, I’ll just put it’s a regular one, and then you can check that and tell them when you call back.” Desperate to finalize the plan, I said, “It’s got four wheels and looks like a refrigerator box!”

Linda laughed, and I laughed because Linda laughed. She gave me my confirmation number, and I wrote it down. Linda said, “Everything is going to be all right. You will go back; miracles happen sometimes. Believe me, they do.”

Starting to cry again, I thanked Linda. She then said, “When I say my prayers tonight, know that you’ll be in them.” I thanked her again and said, “You know, after talking to you, I now know that there are angels.”

After I hung up, I pondered what I had last said to Linda. I was totally surprised that I had said that about angels. I thought it might be so and I hoped it was so, but I had just had a real angel help me cope.

We all have these tough times. They are times when we hope someone will swoop down out of nowhere and make everything okay. Thank you, Linda, the Steamship Authority Angel.

I would like to think now that my Dad sent Linda. If that's so, thank you, Dad. It will be like saying good-bye to you all over again next Tuesday, but I will have Linda with me, knowing in my head and my heart that some day everything will be all right again. ♥

The Best Gifts

For the longest time, I had this quote on my bulletin board. It said, “The best gifts are not those that cost the most money but those that show how well you know the person you’re giving the present to.” I have received many gifts this last year or so that have been in that vein.

There was the vintage pin-magnet from Nancy, the Hello Kitty Las Vegas cell phone charm from Nancy’s daughter, Kelly, the pink tool kit and the perfect coffee travel mug from Brenda and Steve, the cycling jersey and Hello Kitty rubix cube from George, and the Sephora gift card from Suze. Hey, nothing says “I know you’re crazy about Sephora, but I love you anyway,” like a Sephora gift card.

I’m sure I’ve missed others. That’s why I dislike naming things but yet I can’t resist the urge to name things! Oh, yeah, and then there was that bottle of red wine at Christmas, a special vintage with a hint of pizzazz and quite a kick.

When I arrived home today, I was lugging six grocery bags. As usual, the front door banged wide open, and several people came out to help me. That didn’t happen, but it’s a reoccurring dream I have when I’m awake carrying six grocery bags!

After placing six bags of groceries on the front steps, I saw a box from Amazon by the door. I racked my brain and thought, “I didn’t order anything from Amazon.” I lugged my work bag and the six grocery bags through the front door.

After I put all the bags on the kitchen counter, I went back outside to get the box. I brought it in and double checked the address label. It was for me, and I couldn’t think of what it was.

I started my crock pot meal for a party tomorrow night, made coffee for the morning, and then made Iz’s lunch. I put the box up on the counter; it was heavy. I thought, “Did I drink too much wine and order several pounds of marbles?”

I took a knife and cut the tape on the box. I opened the horizontal flaps, and then I opened the vertical flaps. Sitting in the box was a huge (6 pounds to be exact) bag of hard candy.

Perplexed, I saw a white card. I picked it up and read it. It said, “Hi Jean! Thought it would be nice to have some hard candy to fill your Mom’s candy dish with!!!” Love, Lisa”

As I’ve said to many people, this blog is my heart and my soul. If you read it from start to finish, you’d know me, pretty much all of me. Sometimes people have said to me, “I can believe you share so much," but this is who I am; I am what I am, and, World, please come and “get” me.

I stood there and looked at the bag. It was not a bag of candy; it was 12 dozen roses, a 12-carat diamond, and 12000 stock options bought for .05 cents and now valued at $5. Though, it wasn’t the money behind the gift; it was the wealth of love behind the gift.

My Mom’s candy dish was empty; Lisa filled it up and then some. With friends like you in my life, I knew I'd never be alone no matter how lonely I might become. My heart was full, and that was the best gift anyone could hope to receive in their lifetime. ♥

P.S. There’s a Part III to the other blog; however, life gets in the way. ♥

A Beginning and an End -- Part II

“When you're safe at home you wish you were having an adventure; when you're having an adventure, you wish you were safe at home.”
~ Thornton Wilder

Part II -- Killjoy Street

I own part of a house on the island of Nantucket. The house will be sold at the end of this month. I have owned the house with three others for eight years.

While I owned the house, I didn't tell many people about it for fear that they would think I was a person born to privilege when I was really only born to Richard and Ruth in 1962 in Dorchester, Massachusetts. While this was a privilege, it didn't make me privileged. Growing up, I was well fed, clothed, and loved; however, I didn’t get a mini Mercedes SL 500 Two Seater Car on my 7th birthday, a pony for my 10th birthday, a car for my 16th birthday or a small condominium upon my graduation from college.

When my parents bought their home in Sudbury in 1964, they paid $22,000 for it; at the time, my Mom said that they had enough money to pay the basics. Anything after that like trips and entertainment weren’t in the budget. That’s not to say we were poverty stricken; I did get the first Atari among all of my friends, though I was pretty sure that my Dad bought it for himself first and foremost!

My parents, specifically my Mom, did give me a great gift besides the gift of life. It was my college education; I paid for a year on my own, but my Mom paid for the other three. I was very fortunate in that regard, and looking back, I never felt deprived; I’m sure I wished for a pony on my 10th birthday or a car on my 16th, but I always felt like I hadn’t really missed a thing when I was growing up.

After my Mom died, my Dad sold our family home in Sudbury. He moved to a small condominium and bought a house on Nantucket. When he first bought the house, I was perplexed.

My Dad never liked going to the beach when we were growing up, and now he’d be living just a mile from the beach. When I found out his new girlfriend had been to Nantucket most every Summer of her life, it didn’t take me long to figure out why he bought the house. I had hoped she was worth the somewhat radical purchase. (In my opinion, she wasn’t.)

After my father died, I inherited a bit of the house, which I then bought with a family member, owing to the fact that we had to buy out two others. We had a grand plan to rent the house and use it in the off-season. Well, after only two years, that was a bust, and we ended up renting it year round for the remainder of the time we owned it.

I went down to stay at the house after I was first laid off; two tenants had moved out, and I needed to clean up their mess. It was a difficult trip, but I’m glad I made it with my trusty scaredy cat dog, Monty. In hindsight, little did I know it was to be my last trip; I only wish I had enjoyed more, but when I left, I guess I already knew that it was unlikely that I’d ever be back.

Anyway, it was decided a while ago that we needed to sell the house; it had become a living nightmare, and that’s putting it nicely. It was sad to think that such a beloved place by my Dad had become a battleground involving relatives who behaved so very badly, wretched tenants, slimy realtors, and bozo buyers. But, as one friend said recently, “Thank gawd you’re almost done with that place.”

This past weekend, it was time to begin clearing out the house in preparation for the closing. The first closing date had been originally scheduled for February 14th, which told me that a true test in life had to be losing something you loved on a day that was all about being with the one you loved. After a few glitches (see “bozo buyers” above), the new closing date was April 1st, which immediately reaffirmed for me that I was a fool for buying the house; however, I should learn from the experience and always try to make a joke about it.

Anyway, the tenants (see “wretched” above) were told they could take anything they wanted when they departed recently. It seemed best given that there weren’t any things I wanted from the house (that is, there weren’t many things that hadn’t been ruined by the above-mentioned wretched tenants). The realtor (don’t see anything above and only imagine an ugly slug wearing a Nantucket island pendant around its neck) mentioned she knew “some Costa Ricans” who might like to also take some furniture.

I laughed when I heard that. Not only was she slimy, but she was with the “Costa Ricans” too. (You’ll only get that if you listen to “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” by Warren Zevon.) I can only imagine that she got some kind of kickback for providing furniture, as I failed to see her helping people who were most likely low-paid workers on the island. Can you tell I’m a tad bitter?

Well, there are three stages when selling your father’s house under these circumstances. They are grief, anger, and bitterness. I could only hope that relief, happiness, and joy came right after I signed the paperwork to pass the house onto the buyers (see a picture of Bozo the clown and his live-in girlfriend).

I was asked if I wanted furniture from the house. At first, I said I didn’t. Upon reflection, I changed my mind and chose two desks and a chest. The desks belonged to a great Aunt and my Dad; the chest had belonged to my grandmother.

The trunk was mahogany, and I had it refinished after my grandmother gave it to me. I tried to store clothes in it; however, it turns out my grandmother’s middle name was “Mothball” when it wasn’t Louise. She had put so many mothballs in it over the years that anything I tried to keep in it ended up reeking of mothballs.

When first moving furniture down to the house, I decided that the chest might make a nice coffee table in the family room. It was shipped down to Nantucket and remained in the house with our Winter tenants. Unfortunately, I found out that the Winter tenants had let a party guest, who was wearing stilettos, dance on top of it making it look like it had been a victim of chicken pocks; you know how much I love shoes, but I couldn’t look at a pair of stilettos for about two weeks after that.

In my heart of hearts, I knew I really didn’t want these things. Had they belonged to family? Yes. Could I have lived without them? Yes. Did I need to take something from the house, because I needed to walk away from it with something that had once been in good condition and meaningful? I guess so.................................and then there were the whale mugs.

Last night, the whale mugs were brought home to me. I requested them; however, I hated them. My sister-in-law bought them as a house warming gift. They were ugly, small, and she paid a fortune for them on the island. I couldn’t exactly tell you what they meant to me, but they’re in my house now.

I was also given something else. When it was presented to me, I gasped. I knew it so well, and I found it hard to believe it had survived the wretched, the slimy, and the bozos.



My Mom was never one for clothes, cosmetics, or anything fancy or expensive. I’d say this gives more credibility to my “I was adopted,” claim in that regard, but I can’t escape the fact that I have my Dad’s creativity and sense of humor, although unlike him, I don’t call women “broads,” which he always did in jest. I call them chicks!

My Mom’s china was a very inexpensive pattern called Blue Danube. She had all the basic pieces. My brother’s first wife had given her some extra pieces over the years, and this was one of them. My Mom used to keep hard candy in it.

I stood there and looked at it. I flipped the top up and down. I remember she kept all her china in a hutch that my Dad had moved to Nantucket when he first bought the house. I asked “Did someone take the hutch?” thinking that it was yet another piece I should have clung to, all the while I knew I was clinging to things like they were life savers when I should have been swimming away, far away, under my own power.

I was told that one of the Costa Ricans had taken it. Damn them all I thought; damn the relatives, the wretched, the slimy, and the bozos! I was then told that a woman had taken it. She said that she had young children, and it would be great to place her nice things in something that her kids couldn’t get into.

Okay, damn the wretched, the slimy, and the bozos, but I’ll leave the Costa Ricans out of it. I looked at my Mom’s box again, and I flipped the lid; I wanted to cry, but I would not cry in front of him. I looked up at him, thanked him for the box, and then hoped that what comes around goes around. I was glad that my Mom’s hutch had gone but come around to a woman who would treat it well and store her special things in it like my Mom did so many years ago.

All night long, I kept trying to think that the time owning my Dad’s house was a learning experience and that the passing of the house on (Kill)Joy Street, unlike my father’s, was a good thing; however, sometimes, good things don't necessarily feel so good. This morning, I took my Mom’s little Blue Danube box into work, and I placed it on my desk. I had the rest of her china at home; however, sometimes it felt like that when things went to pieces, it was important to scatter the pieces everywhere and in time, like a jigsaw puzzle, you'd be able to put it all back together again, at least in your heart. ♥

A Beginning and an End -- Part I

A friend recently said to me, “Everything has a beginning and an end.” It sounds trite. But, it’s true just like how the sun rises and then sets.

This past week involved three ends that all had beautiful beginnings. First, I was told that my dog, Monty, had lymphoma and didn’t have long to live. Second, my Dad’s house would soon be gone, maybe earlier if the things inside were cleaned out sooner than anticipated. Finally, my friend’s mother lost her battle with cancer.

Part I -- Monty

I bought Monty two weeks before my Dad died. I was never a “dog” person, but for some reason, as my Dad grew more ill, I became more of a dog person desiring unconditional love (let’s face it, cats can love you or leave you), barking, and regular walks. After I saw “The Accidental Tourist,” I knew if I were to ever get a dog, it would be a Corgi.

One day at work shortly before my father died, I googled “Corgis.” I came to a website, I saw the cute dogs, and they conquered my heart, even though the website said, “This breed sheds a lot.” This was ironic given that I had previously dated a guy with a yellow lab that was always shedding; I could never wear black there, and if I did, I cursed the poor dog for two days afterwards.

A week later, I was at the mall. I was just about to leave when a voice in my head, which sounded a lot like Queen Elizabeth's, asked, “Are there any Corgis at Debby’s Petland?” I answered, “I doubt it.”

Queen Elizabeth said, “I really think you should take a look.” I said, “No. I doubt it.” She said, “Even if you doubt it, I command you to go there anyway.” Hey, she was the Queen after all.

I entered Debby’s Petland thinking “There’s no way there’s going to be a Corgi here.” As I scanned the cages, I said, “Queen Liz, you were like so wrong, girlfriend.” When a flash of white and sable met my eyes, I gasped; it was a Pembroke Welsh Corgi!

An employee saw me gawking at the dog and asked, “Would you like to meet the dog?” I said to myself, “No, no, no!” Just then Queen Elizabeth said, “Come on then. Just meet the little bugger for a few minutes,” and I said, “Okay, just for a minute.”

I was instructed to a little play area. I waited, and in about two minutes, the little sable and red creature came running out to greet me as if he had known me all his life. Queen Elizabeth said, “Ask if he’s a male?”

Damn her. She knew that in my fantasy dog house that my corgi was a boy and his name was Montgomery after General Montgomery. Obeying my Queen, I asked the employee who brought him in, “Is he male?”

The employee looked at the puppy’s card and said, “Yes.” Meanwhile, the little sable and white puppy, who was six months old, jumped up on my leg and wagged his bottom at me. I sighed, and the employee said, “You can put a $25 deposit down, and it will hold him for 48 hours.”

The puppy was now smiling at me. Queen Elizabeth said, “Your Dad needs you now, and you’re there for him. This puppy needs you now, and, look, you’re here!” I said to the employee and to Queen Elizabeth, “I will leave a deposit.”

I had no idea what I was going to do. I knew I was losing my father. And, then I knew, I loved this little dog.

Monty smiled again. It was so hard to say good-bye to him. I said, “I will see you again soon!”

Two days later, I went back with John to fetch him. When I went to pay ($750), John whipped out his American Express card and paid for Montgomery. We led him out of the mall, drove him home, and within five minutes of being home, untrained, he pooped on Nathan’s bedroom floor!

When I went to visit my Dad the day after I picked up Monty, I said to my Dad, “I got a dog!” My Dad laughed, smiled, and in his smile, I saw so much more. It was as if he knew exactly what Queen Elizabeth knew; he would always be with me no matter where my love for him manifested itself. ♥

Where’s Skippy?

Earlier in the week, my friend, Brenda, sent an e-mail with a photo attachment to me and to two of our friends, Nancy and Sarah. The e-mail was titled “From Our Wildlife Preserve.” Last I knew, Brenda and her husband, Steve, had not moved to Africa, so I was a little confused; however, instead of reading the e-mail right away, I sat there and pondered what one might name a pet giraffe (“Yao”), gazelle (“Flo Jo”), aardvark (“Arthur”), eland (“FunkyAntelopeDudeWhoICan’tThinkofaGoodNamefor” or quite simply “HeyYou”), impala (“Chevy” after Chevy Chase, of course!), hyena (“Giggles”), or hippopotamus (“Hippocrat”).

I proceeded to read her e-mail which described the photo attached. It said, “You might miss Skippy. He’s on the lower corner of the picture, behind the weeds.” Okay, I knew Skippy was not a giraffe, gazelle, aardvark, eland, impala, hyena, or hippopotamus; Skippy was Brenda’s domestic short hair orange tabby cat.

I opened the photo, and I saw this.



After looking at the lovely deer, I went directly to the designated “lower corner” of the picture. For the life of me (pre-second cup of coffee in my defense), I could not see Skippy. I saw a beautiful deer, snow, weeds, and rocks. (Upon reflection later, maybe there was only one rock in the picture.) In about five minutes, both Sarah and Nancy responded to Brenda to acknowledge that they had seen Skippy.

I took another look and I still could not see Skippy. I felt stupid asking again where Skippy might be, so I pretended to be busy with work, didn’t respond, and got that second much-needed cup of coffee. Upon return, I looked at the picture again; jeez, I had always stunk at those “Where’s Waldo?” books.

Nathan would find Waldo over and over again. I’d sit there looking and looking and Nathan would ask why I hadn’t spotted that dear chap, Waldo, yet. I’d say, “I see him everywhere, but I just didn’t want to spoil the fun for you!”

Anyway, today, I had lunch with Brenda. I guess because I didn’t respond to her e-mail (but I was way too busy with work, Brenda!), she asked, “So, did you see Skippy's picture.” Damn. I could have feigned a trip to the bathroom or thrown my roll on the floor and gone under the table to fetch it, hoping Brenda might forget her question; however, there really was no avoiding an answer at this point.

I hesitated. I knew I had to confess to my friend that I had a problem; I was “Where's insert_item_here?” challenged. Would she understand? Would she be supportive? Would she direct me to the closest “Where’s insert_item_here?” anonymous meeting? I knew I had to tell her the truth, even if I was going to feel totally stupid.

I said, “I couldn’t find him!” Oh, the anguish, the shame, and damn the second cup of coffee that didn’t make me see the Skippy light. She said, “Really? He was right there in the corner of the gazebo.” I said, “I know; he’s in lower right corner. I looked, and I could not find him!”

She laughed, though I knew she must be thinking, “How did Jean not see Skippy in that photo? Jean can always spot a cat at one pace. Jean is losing her feline identification mojo; this usually doesn’t happen until after the age of 50. Gasp!” I said I’d attempt another look. I was really thinking that I would just respond to her e-mail with an “Oh, yeah. There’s the little furry dude,” even if I still couldn’t see him!

When I got back to my office after lunch, an email was waiting for me. It was from Brenda. I didn’t open it immediately. I knew she was just probably sending me the date and time for the next “Where’s insert_item_here?” anonymous meeting in my neighborhood.

After acknowledging that I might benefit from such a meeting, I looked at the title of her e-mail which was “See?” Anticipating "Monday night at 6pm at the Congregational Church," I opened her e-mail thinking I had nothing to lose and only super x-ray vision to gain. Isabelle was missing about 8 socks; this meeting might be the key to me finding all the matches in her bureau. I could play “Where’s purple with green polka dots?” successfully!

A photo displayed. It was the same picture of the deer and the alleged Skip in the right corner in the weeds. This time though, there was a huge circle around Skippy and a large red arrow pointing to the circled Skippy.



After the not so subtle pointer to Skippy, I thought about replying, “Oh, I get it now. Skippy is your new deer!” Actually, when I saw the circle and the arrow, I laughed out loud. Okay, okay, okay, Brenda! I see Skippy now!

I told Brenda that it wasn’t my fault. Skippy was too good at cat camouflage, which I'm sure he learned at the Cat Intelligence Agency. For all Brenda knows, Skippy is with the CIA and that deer is on the terrorist watch list, a suspected card-carrying member of Elk-Qaeda!

Just so I didn’t feel totally stupid about my inability to identify a cat in the weeds, I sent the picture to my friend, Chris, in the UK. When you feel like you’re on another planet because you can’t find a cat in a picture, you outsource to another country for a different perspective. He said, “I wouldn’t have spotted that cat.” You have to love friends, who say things like that while they are secretly thinking, "I'm with Brenda. How the hell did she miss that cat?"

After looking at the picture again, I thought that Skippy did a great impersonation a clump of vertical weeds or a rock with ears. No offense, Skippy, because you know I think you're the George Clooney of cats! I do know that the next time I receive another “Where’s insert_item_here?” message, I am going to respond with “Yes, I see insert_item_here by the insert_location_here and it looks insert_adjective_here!” whether I see it or not! ♥

Dress You Up in My Love

I run a few days a week with a friend at work. My friend and I are vastly different in looks and in interests; however, something about the Sikh girl from Chandigarh and the Great Cat Goddess Girl from Poznan clicks two days a week for a run.

For a long time, our preferred running time was at noon. I got ready, and then waited for her to put her hair up. After a few months, she decided that it would be better if we ran a bit later instead; this would give her time to put her hair up. I insisted that I didn’t mind waiting; however, she insisted that she minded that I had to wait.

In an IM conversation one day, I asked, “What time do you want to run then?” She responded “12:08.” I laughed out loud, thinking it was such an arbitrary time; she was not one I’d called “goofy,” like I’d call myself, so I was clearly impressed by the goofiness of her appointed time.

I agreed we could run then. I was then instructed that she would leave first for the locker room, because she needed exactly three minutes to put up her hair. I would then follow her.

Knowing she was engineer, I then realized that 12:08 was not a goofy time; it was a carefully thought out and designed running time. She arrived at noon; she had her hair up at 12:03. I arrived at 12:03, and I had five minutes to get ready; thus, at 12:08, we were off and running!

Sometimes, when I entered the locker room a bit early, I was chastised for arriving before she put her hair up. It was then repeated that she did not like me waiting for her; and a few times, I might have responded like Iz by saying, "Okay, okay, okay!" It was rather quirky of her, but I loved that about her.

Of course, eventually, our runs became about a lot more than just running. When the weather was nice, we’d sit outside the building after our run, drink water, and chat. We’d talk about what was going on in our lives; I probably shared more than she did.

I knew this one day when she asked me, “Do you have a lot of friends who you can tell anything to?” She asked the question like she was asking me if there really was an Easter Bunny. When I said, “Yes,” she seemed genuinely amazed.

I named a few friends. She reaffirmed, “And you feel like you could tell them anything?” I said, “Yes. I feel like I could tell you most anything, too.”

A few weeks later, she asked me for some advice; unfortunately, it was about men. I’ve not fared too well in that department; however, I felt quite honored that she asked me. Up until that point, I don’t think she had a friend who she felt she could tell many things to.

Last Fall, she had mentioned that it was time for her to visit India. She asked me if I wanted to come along, and I decided I wanted to. Unfortunately, I decided with my heart and not my brain. A few weeks later, I told her that my efforts and finances were best spent at home for the next few months; she penciled me in for the next trip.

A few weeks ago, she told me that she was set to go on her trip. She had been planning it all along; however, in some ways, I think she didn’t share the details, because like a good friend, she didn’t want me to feel badly for not going or that I was somehow missing out. She understood where I was, because she knew all of my “everything.”

She told me she’d be gone for a month. I exclaimed, “A month!” She laughed, and I again said to myself, “Jeez, a month!”

Okay, I do know that it’s impossible to go to India for a weekend. Heck, it’s pretty impossible to go to Pittsburgh for the weekend, and that’s even in my time zone. I guess I just hadn’t thought how long a month would be in terms of our friendship; I knew she would be safe with her family, but I was going to miss her, the only female friend I had at work in a sea of male co-workers.

I told her that she was going to have a wonderful trip. Sensing my sadness at not being able to go along, she immediately said, “You will go next year.” I said, “Yes. I think things will be much better next year.”

When Iz and I were at the mall two weekends ago, I was thinking about my friend’s journey to India and was somewhat feeling badly that I had a long journey to make at home before I’d ever make the long journey to India. If I couldn’t go to India, part of me would go there. I dragged Iz over to my favorite jewelry kiosk, and I said, “We need to pick out some earrings; they have to be small, and they can’t be dangles!”

Perplexed but motivated by a fashion challenge, Iz spun the earring racks around. I like pink; however, my friend was not a pink person. I’d show up wearing something and she’d say, “Oh, what a surprise. It’s pink!” We’d then laugh, because we constantly teased each about our color choices.

She didn’t get pink. I didn’t understand why with her beautiful coloring she chose only to wear brown and black. In a nutshell, we had a friendly color rivalry.

As Iz spun an earring rack around, I said, “Oh, and the earrings must be pink!” Iz looked at me and asked, “Why pink?” I said, “Because she doesn’t like pink.”

Iz looked puzzled but returned to her task. In about three minutes, she spun a rack around and stopped it. She said, “Mommy, I like these, these, and these,” pointing to three different pairs of earrings. I examined the earrings, and I said to the salesperson, “I’ll take these.”

I knew instantly that I liked them. They were the non-dangle version of the earrings my friend, Brenda, had given me. They were pink, reminiscent of opals, and the tiny embedded specks of green in the pink stone sparkled brightly in the light.

Yesterday, I told my friend, who is leaving on Thursday, that she must stop by my office. I told her I had a bon voyage present for her. Of course, she told me it wasn’t necessary, but I told her to come by just in case we were unable to run today.

In five minutes, she was at my cube. I handed her the silver box tied with the silver bow and a small card. She again said, “You didn’t have to do this,” and I answered, “I know, but I wanted to.”

She opened the envelope to reveal a pink card covered with white sparkle dots. She started to laugh, mumbled, “Pink!”, and then asked me if I had made the card. I told her I was talented but not that talented.

She lifted open the card, and she read. I told her to have a safe trip, and that I’d miss her. She looked up from the card, and she said, "I’ll miss you, too.”

She took the ribbon off the box, opened it, lifted up the tissue paper, and then she laughed. I said, “You have to wear them!” She then laughed even harder and thanked me.

Today was our last run before her trip. Finding it a bit hard to concentrate for some reason, I headed up to the locker room a bit early. I was brushing my teeth when a voice saying, “Jean!” startled me so that I almost swallowed my toothpaste.

I peered around the bathroom door, which was halfway closed, and my friend said, “You’re early!” (Did I already tell you that she hates it when I’m early?) I said, with my toothbrush still in my mouth, “I saw-ree bub I wuz notb bizee, saw I comb earlbe.” She smiled and continued her fake irritation by imitating me with my toothbrush in my mouth.

If my mouth had not been full of tooth paste, I would have laughed out loud. You think you know a person. That was the first time I ever saw her act, well, exactly like me – goofy!

After much more feigned irritation, she said, “I forgot my gym bag in the car.” She fretted because now I would have to wait longer for her. I said, “Don’t worry about it.”

She left and came back with her bag. She said to me, “Now you have time to stretch. Go out in the gym and stretch.” I said, “I’m sitting here stretching my brain,” and she laughed.

She fretted again about being late. I said, “I’m just relaxing here.” Funny, but she then said, “Tell me something exciting,” and I said, “Sorry, but I can’t. I’m meditating now.”

As I sat there in the locker room meditating (okay, I wasn’t really) and watching her put up her long jet black hair, I could not remember how I first met her. I know it was because of work and involved running, but for the life of me, I didn’t remember the first time I met her. I suppose it didn’t really matter; all that really did matter was everything that came after whether it be pink, brown, or black.

After our run, I was getting dressed and said, “Now, you’ve got to wear your pink earrings on your trip.” She said, “Oh, yes, I have the perfect pink sweater to wear them with.” I got all excited and asked, “Really? You do have a pink sweater.” She laughed as if she was Iz playing some sort of joke on me and said, “No!!!!!”

I laughed and said, “Awww, I hate it when you get me all excited about you and pink like that!” Hoping to give the runner left behind from the long voyage some hope, she said, “I do have a pink outfit that I wear to church.” I said, “Okay, maybe you can try to wear them with that, and send me a picture!”

At that point, it didn’t seem like it mattered whether she wore them or not. My pink earrings were going to India with a dear friend. I smiled and thought, “To Chandigarh With Love.” ♥

Blog Picture Note: I love this picture, and I had it pinned up on my office wall before I was laid off. Ironically, my friend, George, gave me a cycling shirt this past Christmas with this picture on it. I like it when people tell you they love you; however, I think it’s even greater when they are able to dress you up in their love.