pawspauseprose

Life as it arrives and dreams as they happen


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“What’s news with you?”

In recent years, like most of us, I have aged, experienced the loss of family and friends and seen my children grow into busy adults.  During this time, there have been numerous changes in the way communication can happen, but the actual intent has stayed exactly the same – reaching out.    The best way to describe  our contact with family and friends is to see if  they a playbill or a newspaper.

The annual “newspapers” in my life always make contact with a Christmas letter or card and remain that way even with the ease of texing, email and Facebook.  The daily “newspapers always are in contact with news, happiness and tragedy, reassuring hugs and conversation even more so with all the new options of Facebook, email, text  and Twitter.  They are true “smiling” faces when I need them.  There is however, a small group, which makes communication questionable,  these are on the surface perfect, polished and decorated ‘Playbills” in my life, and more often than not, are more of a somber frown than smile.

Playbills only reach out to me if they have great personal news to share and need to be appreciated, patted on the back and praised or to hear them out as them deliver the polar opposite in their own tragedy or  loss,  needing to be given reassurance, understanding and agreement in their view of the situation.  There is no truer thespian than these players of communication.  Playbills don’t really ask about your life, give concern or offer to help if they can or at the very least just let you know they are really there, an electronic or warm human shoulder to cry on.

I know daily collectives of newspapers  seem a bit much, when emails of additional inspiration are randomly sent along with occasional jokes or cartoons.  What makes them worth the while however, is the unspoken compassion that comes through, when you need it the most.  Newspapers are glad when you insert your comments to their ever mindful editor, cry together over an obituary and delight in an article of personal gain or growth.  They also love having endless photos of babies and dogs, trips and experiences submitted for approval and will turn around and reciprocate, adding their comments to further this soulful subscription of communication.

Somewhere I read – probably in a newspaper, that life is a stage and we are all just actors playing a part.  I can respect that and on most days appreciate it as well.  However, when you realize some of the people in your life only exist upon their decorated stage, it becomes painful to admit they are not really in your life at all.  The lights and excitement surrounding a production always draw us in, and we vicariously wish to be playing a part as we hold the playbill close.  However, there is nothing darker and more tragic than a stage after the performance is over and the lights are off.  It is just empty with an echo of emotion.  Exactly what happens when their conversation or contact ends.

As a child I grew up reading the “funnies” first thing in the morning with my mother.  It was a tradition I maintained until this past spring when she passed and my subscription ended.  I still have many yellowed cartoon strips cut out and pasted into my cookbook because they touched me in some way.  This is why, I appreciate having those individual  newspapers in my life,  knowing someone cares to give me the facts even if I don’t want but need them; they share advise now and then and we laugh over a personal experience.  Regardless what the situation, it is in the true black and white of humanity that they are there and I know I can rely on them for anything.

The best part about newspapers, is even after they have changed in color, ripped, faded or have been tucked away and forgotten for a while, they remain steadfast, and the news they want to share is still there.  Playbills on the other hand, loose their meaning right after the production is finished; they end up blowing in the wind getting caught in a random fence or against an ally wall.  You may see them from time to time and remember some brilliant image or scripted line, but it doesn’t stay very long and like the play itself, it is only there briefly, moving along in search of another great review.  Think about it, when was the last time an actor stopped you and offered a compliment on something you did, wanted to buy you a cup of coffee or asked for an autograph?

Yes, newspaper makes my hands dirty and sometimes it piles up demanding attention when I might have let my own life take center stage.  But when it is all said and done in life and the final curtain falls, I will be the one looking at a newspaper for reassuring information and reviews, leaving the playbills to mark nothing more than the end of yet another lonely, selfish but always personally important production.

 


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Barbie has more answers than boobs!

There are lots of self help books and articles assuring women all we ever need to know in life, we learned before the 6th grade.  In a nutshell, they are correct.  However, they neglect to mention the best teacher is 12” of structurally seductive pink and perfect Barbie (and this IS the version wearing panties.)

I wonder when Ruth Handler dreamed up her lifetime of pastel annuity payments with a bubble cut, if it was more than just an answer to paper dolls that would last.  As a one time Barbie girl and later Barbie Collector (one shoe short from being on “Hoarders”) I knew the value of Miss B. early in my life.  However, before I could pass it along to my daughters, they showed me how it was learned by female osmosis.

You see there are only a handful of women you will ever meet in life (similar to that literary group of 5 in heaven).  These women will change in appearance, ability and attitude (the 3 A’s), just like Barbie herself.  The key is realizing that the plastic is the same and it never changes.  We call this core value; Mattel would call it an industrial secret.  The bottom line is the plastic is fake and so are the 3 A’s, and if you recognize it early you are already ahead in life and have a good chance of making it out happy and undamaged.

When I was going through an ugly time in my first marriage, I went out of state to visit family.  As I sat at the breakfast table, my sister began to ask personal questions she apparently already knew the answer to which freaked my twenty something brain out.  Cheshired, she explained while my 2 young daughters bathed the night before, between the bubbles and the Barbie’s there were baubles of babble.  Barbie was upset because her marriage was over and she was crying because Ken had a girlfriend and she hated her job and cried all the time.  Yes from the mouths of babes through the Babs.

Laughing over that mint in box intervention, my sister and I found the moment priceless.  Later as the girls grew I shared the memory and also so much more.  I asked them to show me the Barbie’s they played with the most and tell me “who” they were.  What they gave me was:

  1. The “pretty” girl who everyone liked, she was nice and usually had a pet.
  2. The sexy and popular girl all the girls pretended to like, but only the boys liked.
  3. The rich girl who had everything she wanted … or did she?
  4. The bad girl who was always in trouble.
  5. The mom who had babies and pets and made cookies and went to the park.

Now, the real kicker here was there was only one Ken, he married one of the girls and the rest did just fine without a man.  My guess is this was my single influence at the time and frankly, common sense I still stand behind JMHO (screw Calgon, Will and Grace take me away).

I told the girls in a very sincere and honest talk , when they advanced to grade school and beyond, these five “names or barbies” would apply to all the girls they would ever meet, every day of their life until they were dead and buried.  Never truer words were spoken.

As most police shows will inform you, “names have been changed to protect the innocent.”  What they fail to say is there are no innocent’s growing up female and only prisoners are taken.  How wonderful it would be if the logic of Barbie could be put in a pink box and sent home with every NRFB newborn little girl.  Think of the pain she would be saved from in life knowing all she had to do was look for one of those five dolls in her life and avoid the actions, lies, back stabbing, betrayal and revenge that comes with them.  I have often thought of going through the Bible to see if “Karen,” “Theresa,” “Pam,” “Carolyn,” and “Kim” had roots there as well or if they were just curvaceous idols of our era.

As my girls became adult women and entered the working arena, the knowledge of Barbie never left them.  Two of them who have been beaten down emotionally more than the other, have remarked many times, “When do these women ever stop?”  I totally understand having been at more than one XX chromosome mercy match.  I also find it no coincidence, but a sign from God warning us that females are a double X for a reason, and that is not for X marks the spot but XX you have been canceled out.  Indeed the female doesn’t just eat her young; she devours her own kind and smiles in stiletto heels holding a Coach bag dripping in blood.

Mattel may have thought they just made a plastic novelty that became a dream icon to millions of little girls for over 50 years, but in truth, they offered a predetermined Pandora’s Box , that only comes to light, after the teenage and adult damage has been done.  I guess the best we can ever hope for is that we are the nice girl with the pet, who occasionally dreams of being the bad or sexy famous girl and once in a while there is a small financial break affording us the ability to spoil our children and grandchildren, and maybe even ourselves when no one is looking.

Look at the yearbook a little closer over coffee tomorrow, think of your school and working career and even your own family.  Sort  out your groups of five at a time, and give yourself credit if you have survived with little or minimal damage. However, keep in mind YOU are one of someone else’s 5, so how well did you do?

 


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Speak loudly and stick it!

I am not invisible – at this point in my not so twiggy life, I would like to be a little skinnier, but I am very much a solid visual and I matter.  This being said, explain to me why at 3am when my dog who is unable to jump from the bed in his old age cries to go out, my husband sighs at an audible 10 on the scale, loudly turns on the side light, sits up and says, “What is wrong?  Where is mommie?  Do you have to go out?”  Seriously?  With all the power of prayer, I wish the dog would turn to him and say “Dude have you lost your mind? I AM a dog  <(-‘.’-)>”

In a nutshell I guess that sums up so much in life anymore, to avoid confrontation, disappointment or embarrassment – actually any emotion can be inserted here, we turn to that old friend “third person” who is always behind the 800 pound gorilla in the room.  Children learn this technique early, as they approach one parent and then the other while both are in the same room.  Great set up, play them off each other, one is bound to break down with a yes vote.  Now, as adults we have made it social media, where things are posted and contact avoided all together, isn’t that just one warm and fuzzy *:*   feeling all over!

In the days of answering machines, some of my fondest memories were of my father, who would speak to my machine – literally.  “Oh, hello, tell her that her Dad called and I love her and if she isn’t busy she can call me back.  Good-bye.” Those were priceless and in his elderly state of untechnical knowledge very acceptable.  I am even a little guilty of leaving a few messages myself after a date that was not going to happen again – “sorry I guess I’m just not your type after all” hit and runs do have some merit.

But now, emotions have been scaled down into “emoticons,” and have literally taken away the need for actual words for the past 29 years if you can believe that!  I wonder in some future archeological dig if it will be studied how we went from cave drawings to computerizations, nuclear physics and medical advancements of creating life in a Petri dish to:  <):) :-“ @-) by a ~:>    in case you need crib notes (no that has nothing to do with frggin MTV show ) those little marks  say “Cowboy was hypnotized by a chicken.”  Frankly I will always prefer the popular verbal “The Crow screams at midnight” for my secret agent communication.   The point is, the wasted time and stupidity it took for someone to sit at a keyboard way too long     =%-O  and think up all these little symbols and do-dah shorthand things just to avoid really communicating or  [-(  “ not talking” as the case maybe – upper or lower be sure to check, is pathetic!

Sometimes it is nice to just get a random little heart on my smart phone telling me I am thought about, loved and not alone and I give them as well.  But it doesn’t substitute for the involvement in life, the 🙂 happy and 😦 sad times when being there for someone matters.  I seriously [-o< pray that we get past this stage in communication and can return to a warm hand, soft heart and loving voice that has nothing to do with a keyboard. I know I am probably just  :-“  whistling in the dark here over my imaginary  ~O) coffee and smelling some font scented roses @>–;– @>–;–  but it is a nice thought, even if I am just

sitting here at home

…¸ __/ /\____
,·´º o`·,/__/ _/\_ //____/\
“`)¨(´´´ | | [1] | | [1]| | |[1] || |l±±±±
! ; ¸,.-·²°´ ¸,.-·~·~·-.,¸ `°²·-. :º°            talking to myself.  I want the real version of life back, not the cliff notes (Google it), shorthand or emoticon versions.

Maybe reducing ourselves to this language of marks is more symbol-like than it appears.  By sending off these little squiggles and hashes, we’ve edited out everything in the text of the moment which wastes time, so we can hurry and get on to the next more important event in our lives and really leave our mark.  Not that anyone is going to be around to notice it of course unless it is on a computer screen.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_emoticons

http://www.netlingo.com/smileys.php

http://www.muller-godschalk.com/yahoo.html

For your next discussion………………


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No “Oxy” needed for Politically Correct Morons

A good way to get punished when I was a kid was to call someone stupid.  It was and still is rude, hurtful and the only thing it ever accomplished was getting in trouble.  There was a golden rule, we knew it –enough said, and what was said was never stupid.  There were other things like this, all covered under an unspoken law, which as an adult I discovered was being polite, compassionate, and well – just plain nice!

I am so sick and tired of the “Politically Correct,” “Challenged” and “American” crap I could throw up.  When did everything in life have to be correct?  This takes me to my other soap box where everyone is a winner – what a load of something rude.  Just because someone doesn’t measure up they are in some way or form “challenged.”  This I might add, from a fast forward to backward society that is trying not to label people!  As for the “American” tag, for the love of all that is good we live in the USA so leave it there!  I don’t need Indian Americans, African Americans, Hispanic Americans, Irish Americans – you get the point.  We are all in this life together so enough with the don’t touch P-Touch self-adhesive stupid!

If people took half the time they take making sure they are politically correct, (and excuse me but WHEN did politics EVER become correct?) and just accept each other and get on with life, things would be one heck of a lot better in this world.  When I was raised you accepted people for who they were, judged them on their actions and either lived with them or without them as your life continued into adulthood.  Nobody ever gets along with everyone; we are too cynical, ego driven and insecure.  However, make the effort at least and then decide, but decide on the merit not the label.

A typical day in my school years would be getting to class, saying the pledge and singing America the Beautiful, wherein Erma who sat to my left would go into this kum-by-ya style production of hand gestures showing the sea to shining sea.  Then, you had class and some of the slower kids would be dismissed to special education and the day continued.  We did not sing politically correct music, sit in educationally correct class rooms and some of my friends were not mentally challenged!  We would have needed a score card to understand all that crap and we got along just fine.

I watch kids now that are so scheduled and labeled it makes me dizzy.  We came home, got our bikes or a rubber ball and went off in search of friends.  We did not have time outs or scheduled activities with a group.  Some did have music lessons and we laughed at them being in the band – I guess they were play-challenged and we were off tune and politically incorrect.  All I know is after they were done, they got their bikes and rubber balls and we played in harmony.

The society now taking center stage in a totally incorrect and challenged world, has taken their practices and politics, to levels that are destroying what was once a stable society.  That society at its very core was sincere and compassionate and at its worst stopped to inhale the flowers it wore in its hair.  I am proud to have been born when I was and how I raised my children.

One of my favorite affirmations of  just that, was when my oldest was in 6th grade and became close friends with her teacher.  She would tell me about their lunches together and how they would walk around the playground together.  I was anxious to meet this wonderful woman and when I did found her to be everything my daughter had described and more.  I also found her to be black (sorry that is how I was raised and it is no slam on any race – I am white, it is what it is damn it.)  When I told my daughter we had chatted and I was surprised she had never mentioned her teacher was black, she turned to me shrugging her shoulders like I had just asked her what time it was, she said “Oh.”   Enough said and I smiled and thanked God for his wisdom in my parenting – after all he DID start us all out with a “stable” society didn’t he?

Forrest Gump thought life was a box of chocolates and he was on the right track.  However as I see it, life is more like a good vegetable soup.  If you stick to fresh ingredients, cook slow and add an occasional spice, you don’t need a cook book, the food network or a degree from a college to have a great meal, because it will take care of itself as it simmers.  It can’t get any simpler than that, no need for labels that are more harmful than ever helpful.  The only way to ever be correct, is to just be the person you are inside, and see others the same way.

Take all the political challenged and labeled crap that can set an overstressed mind to boil and leave it by the curb.  Let ideas, emotion, compassion and care simmer on your back burner until you realize the value of those around you.  That is after all the correct thing to do and just in case you need an illustration of this, ask Dakota Meyer who just received the Medal of Honor for risking his life while saving numerous others while under fire.  When asked how he felt about the award, he commented honestly, “I just did what was right.”

THAT is American, THAT is Politically correct and THAT is a Challenge we all need to accept and emulate. 



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A case of two mothers

A case of two mothers

Last night two mothers did something very different, in cities hundreds of miles away and never meeting once. They both went to sleep with their little girls at peace in heaven.  One was a cold case, which after 18 years had been solved with the magical genetic matching of DNA.  The other, was a warm case, after two years in battle with the devastating genetic monster of cancer.  One little girl died cold and alone at age 5, the other died warm and loved, surrounded by her family and 25,000 unknown facebook friends just short of her 9th birthday.

When Alie was kidnapped in Colorado 18 years ago, everyone looked for a suspect, prayed and when her body was discovered we all cried.  The act was that of a coward, but Ali became a hero.  Her foundation provides bloodhounds, like the one who found her lifeless body to police departments in need.  In her own way Alie has been saving children for the past 18 years, hoping that her own killer might someday be found and through DNA he was – dead since 2001.  She was finally at peace on September 12,, 2011, and along with her parents and grandparents, the nightmare was over.

Faith’s body was kidnapped in Oregon, the coward was worse; as it allowed her to live each day with hope just out of her reach.  Cancer took the innocence from this beautiful child and gave her pain and suffering.  But Faith was a Warrior and she held on to hope.  Reaching out through facebook, the media and her community, Faith took charge of her life at 8 years old and gave a face to her cancer and to other children dying in the shadows.  She finally gave in and left “the real world” as she called it on September 12, 2011 and along with her family and all who loved her, the nightmare was over.

So just what are little girls made of that makes them so special?  Is it sugar and spice and everything nice?  As the mother of 3 of them and a grandma to a very delightful one I can tell you that yes those ingredients are there.  There is also a touch of spunk (sorry Mr. Grant I know you hate spunk) a magic whimsy of imagination and enough determination to take on the world if given the chance.  Thank God Alie and Faith got the chance – even though it cost them dearly.

Today, the world woke up much the same as it always does bills to pay and things to see and do.  However, the spirit of two little girls shines brighter than ever, as they look down on the world they once walked.  The genetic magic of our science has been uplifted to find chromosomes that don’t work, in strands of DNA that are now visible, but yet just out of our grasp.  Today, maybe some of the strength from a little girls soul will made a difference on how we hold on.

Be their hero today, support medical research, even if it is just a dollar and maybe another child will have the Tuesday morning Faith never did.  She lived her last days hoping a cure would be found – can you go without a cup of coffee or a donut and do the same?  Support missing children in the same way – Alie was found by a bloodhound that tracked her unstopping, his paws bleeding as he walked from the city into the foothills.  He never gave up.  Don’t give up on these faceless children because yours are safe at home.  There is another girl who was missing for 18 years, and she came home.  Isn’t that right Jaycee?

We are all the same on the inside as we walk this life, regardless of what is on the outside.  We have the same heart and soul, genetic material, blood and tears.  So today, reach out because you don’t have to, because today your life and your home is all in order and your daughters will be waking up on Wednesday morning, looking forward to the day they turn 18 and can change the world.

Change the world for them right now.  Find a dollar, say a prayer and make your faith as strong as God’s pinkest warrior.

http://www.missingkids.com/missingkids/servlet/PublicHomeServlet?LanguageCountry=en_US https://www.facebook.com/pages/Faiths-Friends/120764287940176 https://www.cancer.org/involved/donate/donateonlinenow/index


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Peacock or Pineapple choose your Covah ….

Books are the most incredible escape hatches life has to offer, but they are never taken as seriously as they should be.  I cherish the freedom they give me and the choices to read and write what I feel at a moments notice.  There is also a solid, reassuring feeling when I run my fingers up the back of my unkindled books, where everything is put together on the spine.  I am grounded as I hold each word in my mind, and just like that well read book, my own spine keeps me connected to life through bones and muscle, comma and dangling participle all of which make up who I am.  Of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t insert here the over used, parental lesson of “Judging a Book By its Cover.”

We have all heard, ignored and been needlessly shocked by this lesson, as we punch our library cards of life.  The best time I ever heard it delivered though was in the Rocky Horror Picture Show.  Tim Curry, in his alter-ego and RKO driven persona Dr. Frank-N-Furter croons in goose bumping and grinding to Janet, about not judging Riff-Raff like a book by his covah.  Not a nod to a Jewish tradition, just one from humanity with a tease attached.  I wonder how many in the audience picked up the reference of “Riff-Raff?” a phrase also overly used in growing up; referencing those unsavory and unwritten characters awaiting us in life.  Personally, I like the flavor Curry implied and got the message crystal clear.   Sadly, too many don’t and they miss a chance of having some of the best experiences in their life all because they stop short of a tattoo, disability, religious or racial judgment call.  Damnit Janet!

Rocky Horror changed more than a few generations for other reasons I realize, not to mention the use of a squirt gun, piece of toast and a roll of toilet paper.  It is a fact however; books and those pesky covers certainly are always around us.  Everyday, we talk in book language filled with characters, plots and summaries, as we take on new chapters in our life.  Just ask yourself, in true Illustrated Man and Fahrenheit 451 spirit, if I were to start telling the story of Goldilocks and the 3 Bears, you know your mind  could see the pictures move, emotionally feel the words and verbally finish it.  Loved books feed our brain and imagination, keeping us company.  When it is one  from our childhood, it has made an impact we needed the most, even if we didn’t know it at the time.

Sadly, many people take shortcuts both in life and in books, picking up a DVD or just taking another person’s adventures as their own – seriously, I hate reality television!  By doing this, it becomes the difference between a good dinner and some Twinkies.  When dinner is cooking and you’re hungry, it’s nice to go in and smell everything, maybe sneak a taste because you can’t wait.  That’s also a good book and really living.  You might read the back cover, run your feet on wet grass, find the story and characters, and suddenly you are unable to wait for what is next.

Choose a DVD or avoid that road untaken experience and what do you get?  Twinkies!   Sure you can have sweet white frosting and cake anytime, you don’t wait for them to be done and if you put one down, it will be the same as you left it.  But there is nothing like a hot, fresh dinner.  Also, if you eat too many Twinkies your dinner is spoiled and you aren’t hungry anymore, and if the DVD version made you sick, you’ve already” judged the book by how it was covered,” and assumed it to be a waste of your time.  How tragic!  Because just like a hot, healthy dinner making your body full, and working better – a good book, relationship or adventure will do the same for your imagination, heart and soul.  You also get the chance to think and feel raw emotions as you discover new things.

Right now, stop and open that book and your life.  Begin an adventure you can add to your own history, passing it on someday – maybe with the person you are sitting next to, and share the day as well.  Wow what a concept – life imitating art all in one.  Because, whatever stories and experiences you choose to store in the library of your brain, they will define the type person you become, and like the Velveteen Rabbit, as you become real, so will your “covah” decorating the lives of everyone you encounter.

Yes, grabbing Twinkies once in a while is a guilty pleasure, like a comic book, sitcom or party of epic proportions.  But when you sit down and enjoy a hot and flavorful meal tasting life, you get so much more.  Just like an unassuming, unknown or titillating book you keep meaning to read, there is also individual you have yet to find or maybe have already misjudged, but yet they continue to page you, hoping you will try something new in your life.

Start a fresh chapter.

 

 

Check out my new book, “My Life Has Been A Waist”

http://www.amazon.com/My-Life-Has-Been-Waist/dp/1463405030/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1310053400&sr=1-1


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Some Bunny to Love?

When I was almost 21 and “legal” to finally tilt back the actual alcohol proof of my “long tall one” moniker, I was 9 months pregnant with my first daughter.  Since becoming both a new wife and almost mother, the “long tall one” changed to “caution baby on broad” (yes I was the broad, along with my backside).  It was okay with me, as there wasn’t anything I wanted more than a tiny warm bundle of ten toes and fingers which accompanied a button nose.  It was ironic however, during that same period before I became documented in the eyes of the world, as a real grown-up, I also met the life I passed up for motherhood.  You see, in those days you didn’t get to bite both sides of the candied apple unless you were irresponsible to the core.

Just before leaving for maternity leave, one of the older women at my job, joined into a conversation I was having.  She was what my father referred to as “put away wet” and frankly, I think of her whenever I use that expression.  She had lines in her face that had obviously taken up residency after a short visit, and real red hair, which had seen better days – the flame faded almost as much as her eyes.  Her name was “Loretta,” and she was the only Loretta I have ever known, so again, she became the standard for that name to this day.  When the Beatles belted out “Sweet Loretta,” I laughingly wonder how they knew her, because indeed she did get it when she could.  You see, Loretta had been a real Playboy Bunny.  Our brief conversation was never repeated, but it changed something in me that day, and frankly at almost 200 pounds of me and baby, there was already a whole lotta changing going on.

My generation was really the last one, where girls were told they didn’t need college; they needed a wedding ring and a family.  I know I thought about more, I wanted to be a lawyer like Perry Mason, at the last moment saving the day by finding the secret evidence.  But the evidence found me instead.  I was to marry a Mr. Dad liked him, birth 3 daughters in the town where I was born, and live in a house only a few miles from my parents.  50 years later, my case would be closed.  Loretta however lived a life I could only imagine.  The key here as I saw it, was she had “lived,” and as she remembered stories over coffee, her key shined gold and had a bunny on it.

A single Loretta lived in Chicago, at the same age I was that day; she had poured her curved measurements into a green satin bunny suit, flipped up a powder puff tail and checked her cuffs and reputation at the door every night.  Each tale that day unfolded life into her eyes and color to her face.  She even sat at an angle on her chair, and laughed saying once you learned the “Bunny Dip,” you never sat or bent down the same way again.  That wasn’t just an idle comment either, because she lifted her shirt and showed us the scars on her sides where years of green satin envy left their mark on a young girl, who paid more than her dues for this late in life show and tell experience.  I remembered her later that night, when I saw stretch marks across my own extended stomach, which kept me from dipping at all, gracefully or otherwise.

I realized then, in my not yet valid adult intelligence, there is a price for any dream, regardless of how it appears to someone outside of our lives and it marks us.  Whether we set up home in an average hutch or run fast as a bunny to something we think is better.  There are lasting scars and disappointments along the way, which help determine if we measure up.

Over the years, as a divorced and working mother in high level jobs and top business clients, I was able to touch some of the magical green satin and glitter that Loretta poured into my imagination so many years before.  I’d be a liar if I didn’t say it was wonderful!  Dean Martin, who still melts my heart with every song, said it best, “Ain’t that a kick in the head.”  The rush of excitement, boosted with an ego driven adrenaline dip, into an unknown arena of fun and debauchery has no better definition.  However, that being said, even dipping your foot into the deep end of the pool, the end result is not to get too wet, have a good time and maybe, just maybe meet up with the lifeguard for dinner.  No matter which direction we end up going, none of us really ever want to end up going it alone.  When it is all said and done, we are just looking for some bunny to love if we admit it or not.

My years have faded, much like Loretta’s curves and red hair, and so have my stretch marks and the what if dreams on my road not taken.  I often wonder what happened to that Playboy Rabbit, long past being a Bunny, who went home alone for as long as I knew her and I hope she eventually found love to keep her feet warm at night.  Personally, I have failed more than I want to admit on that mission myself, but having my daughters and now grandchildren in my life, I do know a taste of that illusive love, and have had it snuggled up in my lap, covered in dirt, bubbles and glitter depending on the moment and have wiped everything from cookie crumbs to blood away, with the loving hand of patience.  I too have been put away wet more than once, but it had nothing to do with thrills, usually from chills after being peed on, splashed on or had inclement weather attack, as I protected my keep.

Regardless the curves given to Loretta and me in this life, I think we stayed the course and ended up with a life we knew best even if it wasn’t always hopping down the bunny trail.

 

Check out my new book, “My Life Has Been A Waist”

http://www.amazon.com/My-Life-Has-Been-Waist/dp/1463405030/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1310053400&sr=1-1