I have a friend.

I have a friend.

Don't seems so surprised. I know after my last post it is a little shocking. That with all this crazy Blue Blood in my veins that I have anyone that wants to be around me. Especially since there is not a "Muffy" or "Tad" anywhere in sight where I live in the middle of nowhere.

"God help us, I cannot go through another 11 month winter."

"Was that summer or just a breeze?"

"Do people here just not go to the dentist?"

"You mean to tell me a snunk did that?"

"Polar fleece can be worn for fine dining if you put a pretty pin on it."

"So if I don't watch my dog that Eagle is going to carry it away while

she tries to pee?"

"What do you mean it is going around town I am a lesbian

and I posed for Playboy"

"OK, how long do I have to swim before hypothermia sets in?"

I call my friend Kimo Sabe. It means "trusted scout" but I think of it as a friend that is always at my side. Wherever they are. If you think of it "trusted scout" is a wonderful thing. She has my back I and I have hers. She calls me Hibachi....You see Kimo Sabe has a bit of a hearing problem. Not just a little problem mind you, one of the whopping "Grandpa needs to go to the hearing aid store" problems. So in the first year of our friendship she thought I was calling her Hibachi. Not knowing why and not wanting to seem stupid she let it go on that way for awhile. Until she had to ask.

" Susan what is a Hibachi?"

"A small portable grill. Very popular in the seventies. Why do you ask?"

"Well, why do you call me Hibachi?"

"Listen deaf one" as I affectionately call her "I called you Kimo Sabe!"

"Ooooohhhhhh!" Hysterical laughter ensues.

"Susan?"

"Hmmmmmm?" I've learned to answer this way. She asks lot's of questions.

"What is a Kimo Sabe?"

My friend is much younger than me. So much younger in fact people think she is my daughter quite often. Something she quickly corrects. I am 48 and she is 24. Now you might just ask what the heck do we have in common? We have a bond of pain in common. It is what brought us together but it is not what has binded us as friends.

I see behind her eyes an old soul and a glimpse of the woman she is going to become. I thrive with the young energy that exudes off of her but I get frustrated with the child that has not left yet. I am floored by her kind spirit and grateful for her generous giving of her time. I respect her brilliant mind. I like that we can be silent for a long time and never feel awkward. I know she does not care if I am fat or skinny and I don't care if her hair is frizzy or what she does for a career. (Stripper is out though, I could never go to that office Christmas party. Those places have to be really sticky.)

The question does remain what does Kimo Sabe see in me. You can see by the picture we are actually standing by an alligator having our picture taken in Savannah. I am a little reluctant to look stupid. Hibachi, well she is game. Stupid does not bother her. She likes to embarrass me in stores. Loudly. Without any dignity. Last time I checked that was against the code of the Kimo Sabe.

I don't like constant hugs. She is a hug machine. (I will go on record here that she hugs more than any person I have ever met. Her hug bucket never gets filled. There must be a pill for that.) I am blunt and to the point when I feel strongly about something. She is very sensitive and thinks she is often being told she is bad. She is very secretive about her inner demons and I am an open book. She is constantly moving. I cannot stand squirming. (I am convinced she is so thin because she squirms off every calorie that has ever entered her mouth...wait..I see the chance for an info commercial here.) I am in the second faze of my life and she is just leaving the dock. Mystery isn't it?

Whatever it is that bonds us as we grow older the age difference narrows. Some day she will be sixty four and I will be eighty. Her kids will be grown. My child grown. Her marriage long. My marriage long. Her wise stories cataloged. Mine well known. Her second life started and mine? Well, by the Grace of God I will be thinking about my third faze of life. We shall sit in comfortable silence and hug.

The Queen is lost

I have a fear. Well, I have alot of fears. One is the fear that I am going to get my mother's mouth as I age. She got her mother's mouth and hmm, pshst, lets just say I and you do not want those lines and frowny things. They are scary looking.............very scary.
No, this fear has come about lately. I am afraid I am not a very nice person. There. I said it. Now look at me in that picture. All cozy with the pugs. One would think, " Awww, look at the crazy lady with all those dog, pig things. She must be so nice to let them sleep with her like that." What if the real reason I let the dogs sleep with me like that is because I am such an insecure person I don't want to make the pugs mad at me so they leave and go to another family. What about that ?

The thing is my husband is not very happy with me right now. I think I irritate him alot. I am very theatrical. It must be hard living with me. Imagine asking for the butter and me standing in full Shakespearean costume saying " Oh fair sir, if thine could only please thee with this humble offering." I think you would be irritated too. My therapist...........what?.......oh, like 90% if of you don't have therapists to deal with your dysfunctional family past.
Yes I said it. Dys- func- tion- al. My father would say if I had not been born he and my scary mother would not fight like two women at a Barney's Warehouse sale. Heck, they would and could fight if one of them had one too many olives in their martinis. I don't think my plopping into their little world had anything to do with it. Dad did though. Mom just hit and screamed. Alot. I never knew when it was coming. My younger brothers were better than I was for sniffing out the impending doom and running. Never knew when the cruel and often surprising comments would come either. Often served with a smile and a cookie. Recently, before I took a permanent vacation from Motherland, she said " Giggle, Giggle.....Susan I don't know anyone that has breasts bigger than you accept for that blond girl on that Dog show." Dog the Bounty Hunter for those of you who do not speak my mother's code. Have you seen that woman ? What do I belong in a circus ? Then there is the ever popular and shared in public. " Susan I only say this because I love you but you are mentally ill and I know what it is ". By all means Dr. Kildaire fill me in while a drool on myself and talk to the elves in my head. Ah...How you bask in the sunny love of the dysfunctional family.
So I digress. My therapist said that I am like a Ferrari. Not a Ford. Hard to live with Ferrari's I should think. So, since my husband is more like a Honda he must be frayed around the edges a little living with a Ferrari so long.
What if I am like 'gasp' my mother and I am too critical ? Oh I need a drink of water. Really how would we know ? How do we know if we turn into our parents ? What if the DNA is so strong that we cannot fight it ? The good DNA goes to battle against that warped DNA wearing those old gardening shorts and rose perfume and loses. Oh it is too horrible to imagine.
I come from a long line of WASP crazy women that did not like men and made those men hate them. I was quite certain up to recently that I took after my Italian side and not the crazy ones. ( Oh please don't let me get the mouth.)
Oh, how I adored my Italian Grandmother, Jenny. She would yell at my Grandfather in Italian all the time. Her yelling was not like my mother's. Her yelling made me laugh. Her yelling came with all kinds of hand gestures. Some that looked like ones I should not imitate.
My grandfather never seemed to mind her yelling and he never yelled back. Well sometimes but he still adored her and she him. I loved all that yelling. It seemed like safety and warmth to me.
I grew up like my Italian relatives. Right down to the hand gesturing and my expressiveness. It seems natural to me. It is my safety and warmth. I don't think it is my husband's safety and warmth. ( My grandmother Jenny would be proud though.) Poor man what has he signed up for?

But still the question remains. Am I a bad person ? Do I have the strain of DNA that repels men ? I look at myself in the mirror but who I see is not a person I know very well. She is a person who has let others define her all her life. Now like a young child morphing into young adulthood I must learn who I am in the world. This scares me. What if the person I am is not very nice. What if my husband says " You know, I think I want a much quieter, less theatrical, less critical, less flamboyant version of you." This is a time of worry, of breakthrough, of embracing newness and alot of natural face oil.
Perhaps my husband loves me in spite of my failings. Just perhaps.

" Can we talk God?"

How did I become a mother? No don't look behind you. I am asking you. How did it happen? No, no...I know the mechanics of it all but when I look at my 15 year old daughter I wonder how I became her mother.

I don't feel like a " Mother". I mean what is a mother supposed to feel like? Oh, you can go buy all these books that wax poetic about motherhood. Yes, of course I cried when they handed her to me for the first time. Yes, I cried when she got on the bus for Kindergarten. Yes, I have wanted to push her back in many a time. Yes, I would die for her.........but still when I look at her there is a part of me that feels.....well... confused. She is a wonder to me. I mean look at that picture. I have bunny ears on and she is a pirate. Aaaargh, adventures on the high seas for her. I am matching my Isaac Mizrahi coat. Sigh.

To make matters more confusing my daughter came into this world with some painful challenges and some extreme gifts. It has taken all my brain power, patience, tears and strength to do right by her. She taught me when she was tiny that I knew nothing about her world. I have had to learn to relate to how it is to be her and also be willing to learn so much more about myself that I did not even know was there.

Now I have often asked in a desperate moment " Uhmm, God? Excuse me, if you are not too busy up there managing world hunger, keeping the planet in check, making sure your Angels

are not goofing off and making Miley Cyrus a star could I ask you a few question? Thanks. First thanks for the great husband. I know you could of just left me a single mom so I truly appreciate the help. Second, my big question once again is why have you trusted me with such a special child as my daughter? I think I might be screwing things up. Don't you think there are other, more competent women out there that could have served your greater plan better than I? I mean really, did you not witness the "Scotch for dinner" night? I try to understand why she was given to me. Truly I do. I have read Mother Teresa's book. (Great lady by the way.)

Now I know they say you do not make any mistakes. I don't want to come off as a "know it all" here but perhaps you had a head cold the day you gave her to me. 'Cause I don't think I can do this. I mean I got the dogs antibiotic mixed up with a cinnamon candy. See!.... God?.... Hello? "

I never do get an answer but I do think I get listened to. Like a therapist does. Pen and paper in hand. Maybe filed away for Judgement day. " Hello Susan, you have arrived! Now let me look at your file. Oh, yes I remember now. You whined just a little too much through your daughter's childhood. Tried my patience quite bit and that is not and easy thing to do. I am after all God. Your daughter was sent to you for a purpose. I wanted you to learn some things. About yourself, about life and the true importance of things. I wanted you to have an old soul to help along the way and to help you grow as a person. Not to give me a giant headache for 18 years and a desire to yell at Jesus to blow off steam!" I hope Jesus will forgive me. I don't want to start off on the wrong foot with the Son of God.

So what is a mother, hmmmm ? My mother was a confusing mix of wonderful and.... well, lets just say not so frickin wonderful. Not a model for me. I modeled my idea of a mother from what I did not want to be. I feel maternal, protective,loving........but still........I look at myself and wonder. Do I look like a mother? Should I look like a mother? Do I need to look like a mother? Are you a bad mother if you don't drive a mini van and have one of those mother haircuts? Is that what feeling like a mom is about? Soccer meets, mini vans, book clubs, short and perky hairdo's, seasonal sweaters, Labrador retrievers, smiling all the time, competitive birthday parties, ballet.......Have I missed out? Has she? I don't think so. My daughter is artistic, witty,poet well traveled, well read, brilliant, a songwriter, musician, fiber artist and has not gone to school since the third grade. Even though she tests higher than 12Th grade. She cannot step into a school. It terrifies her. So what kind of mother am I? Have I failed her?

This question is echoed around the world I bet. Desperate cries from women who have been untrusted with delicate souls that we as women feel too human to raise. We still feel in some way as a child ourselves. Delicate, confused, inadequate and floundering. Making life changing decisions for these special children that we love so much. Perhaps we are not so much the classic 'Mothers' but brief Guardians of their special souls. I don't really know. I will have to ask God next time we chat.

Into Wonderland

You may be wondering why you are looking at a foot. My foot to be exact. My foot in a sunny warm place. It is quite enjoying itself. It even looks tan and happy. Doesn't it?
You are looking at my foot because I won't show you my face. To show you my face you will see me in my bikini. To see me in my bikini you will have to see my,well...my breasts or as my husband likes to call them, boobies.......sigh.........We humor him poor soul. It was his upbringing that caused all the damage.
Yes, these things I tote around are the bane of my existence. They are heavy, they hurt my back and neck, they cause migraines, they hugely limit what I can wear and they cause otherwise sane men to act like drooling, mentally challenged monkeys. They get in the way when I play golf and they make riding more difficult. Bras, when I can find one that fits, cost as much as the ransom for a third world dictator being held by some misguided teens that think that they are still playing 'World of Warcraft'.
Due to some "issues" with one of these bothersome circus attractions that I carry around had me at the Oncologist just about a month ago. She was warm and very friendly. She came right to the point and said she was sending me to a surgeon to get these things reduced. Reduced? Really? I can do that? Me a mere mortal, not a Hollywood star ( although there are those of you out there that know I should of been. I got jipped. Oh I know you can say I let myself get married and I was the one who left. Lies! Propaganda! Oh, the stories I could tell...) where was I? Oh, so not being a Hollywood star and not being a socialite or living in Miami who would really think that a reduction would be so close to my grasp. Oh and get this. I am so big insurance pays for it. No, really.
So that is where I went the other day. The plastic surgeon. To Dr. "Nicely Tan and Oh So Very Nice".
Amanda went with me posing as my sister. As soon as you enter the building you are surrounded by a cocoon of luxury. Fireplace in the waiting room. Coffee alcove for your pleasure. (Although I could have used some cute guys serving martinis at this point.) Even the receptionist were pretty. I started wondering " Hmm, what work have they had done? Do they have to have work done to even be employed here? Do they get a discount? What a cool job if they do." We were greeted by unnaturally white smiles and soothingly told to sit and wait for the doctor's nurse. His nurse. He has his own nurse. I started wondering again " Does she get to have him do work on her? Maybe on her lunch hour. Does she get a discount or does she get freebies. How long does it take to become a nurse for a plastic surgeon anyway?'
I sat and looked around. Everywhere there was some glossy poster, among towering tropical plants and huge tanks full of exotic fish, for some procedure that promised to do something that would either make you younger, thinner, smoother, tighter, lashes longer or lips perfectly fish like. Things made bigger, things taken off, things put back on, even make up that you only need to have applied once or twice a month....Wow. I was mesmerized. Now I am not a newbie to this thing called plastic surgery. I modeled. I did. I new girls that had things done but this was different. This was the first time I was inside the secret doors of Wonderland. The place of promises of youth and beauty. I was entranced.
When my name was called by a lovely and sweet nurse I followed into a perfectly regular doctors room to wait for the magic maker. Amanda followed. Even she by now was wondering if she should seek employment with a Plastic surgeon. We waited for a bit, me nervously and after a quick knock in came Dr. Charming. No really he was very, very Charming. Just enough gray, just enough tan and just enough age as to give you confidence but not to old to have you worry that he might have a memory lapse during surgery.
He discussed the surgery, showed me pictures of past reductions, got more history on me and then asked me to undress. Oh, dread of dread. I do say hate the undressing part. Now I know I have undressed for the camera years ago but really it is much different for the doctor. First of all it is cold. Always cold. You know what that means. Yup. Then you are always bloated. I don't know why but you are. You want to yell. "I really do not usually have a belly that looks like a starving African child." Then there is the shaving thing. Of course you make sure you shave before an event like this but under those horrid lights discover that you missed a spot and that is a big pulsing neon sigh saying "Look how hairy and slovenly I am standing here with my distended belly".
I had to stand there while my breasts were discussed, touched, lifted, drawn on, pointed at and finally photographed. Somehow by this time I was under Dr. Magnificence's spell and discussing a tummy tuck already. " How much could that cost?" I asked casually as if I had these things done as often as a pedicure. He checked my third world belly with his head cocked pinching and pulling, telling me all the different ways to get a flatter belly ( how about not being pre-period and not having Fibromyalgia). With glazed eyes, as Amanda silently lipped sychined "Don't do it, don't do it!" I asked them to write up the paperwork for a tummy tuck too. Just in case. Yeah, just in case my husband drops dead or falls under Dr. Fantastics spell too.
With my paper work in hand and an estimate of seven thousand dollars for a tummy tuck I a wait for Amanda. Amanda emerges from the ladies room to find me in front of the pamphlet rack eagerly reading up on the next thing I could possibly have done. " I can see how this could get addictive" I say a little breathlessly.
"Ok, time to go. You have had enough" Amanda says in her best Nurses voice.
" But I was just looking, Did you know that you can have this stuff injected that isn't botox and your wrinkles just go away?" I am deeply swimming in the intoxicating brew of Dr. Wonderful and Office Luxuries.
" You don't have wrinkles "
" How about a lower face lift. How much do think that would cost? That can't be that bad. At least they don't peel your whole face off.?" I fear she is going to make me leave.
" OH MY GOD, YOU DON'T NEED ANYTHING! NOW LET'S GO!"
" That easy for you to say with all your youngness. Young skin,young tight body, flat tummy. Oh you can get on your little mountain exclaim that plastic surgery is not necessary but wait until you are my age." How dare she say my old carcass is still young and pretty.
"You are not old and you are beautiful the way you are. Now shut up."
"No, you shut up"...............Hey lets go to Homegoods and buy stuff.......Still want that tummy tuck though."
Amanda just lets out a big sigh.
Wonderland is a very,very dangerous land.

The Sacred Washer and Dryer

I praise my washer and dyer almost daily. Even though my washer came with the house and only can wash a few socks and a towel without becoming too full. It won't return those socks either. Still I adore the luxury of my machines.

I lived in NYC for a very long time and for all that time I had to use a laundromat. BRRRRrrr, a chill just ran up my spine. Do you know what horrors and adventures lie behind the doors of such places?

During a brief period of my childhood our well went dry and we had to use the laundromat. This was my introduction into the dark side of washing. At the laundromat was a rather large and disarrayed family. Oh heck, uncivilized is a better word. Mom had no control over her brood of sticky, matted, dirt laden crew. Every now and then she would make an attempt to yell some profanity at them to get them to stop whatever delinquent activity they were engaging in (I think at some point the mother had to pull the two year old out of a turned on dyer).

I was a shy and reserved child that had never scene anything like this spectacle. I watched in fear and sick fascination. My attention was particularly drawn to a younger member of the brood that was eyeing a rather black and old spot of gum on the floor of the laundromat.

As she crouched down to inspect it closer her mother screamed more profanity but this child was not deterred. As I watched in horror, she slowly reached out with a dirty hand and scraped at the dark spot, which once I am sure was delicious piece of gum but now was a horrific bacteria laden dangerous living thing that made my stomach turn.

She slowly raised her finger to her mouth and ate the piece of scraped up gum that was on it. She ate it. I wanted to flee, I wanted to watch, I wanted to stop her, I wanted to scream ....but I could not speak or move. I continued to watch as she did this several more times before her mother, laundry in tow, hoodlums scurrying behind her, grabbed her daughter by the arm said. "Let's git, time to go".

Suddenly they were gone and all that was left was silence and the soft swish of our laundry in the dryers and the spot. I looked at that spot, scarred by a small finger nail, pink peeking out where she had opened the surface. I turned to move closer to my mother when I heard her say, "I cannot wait until our new well is ready.". I said nothing and just looked at her. I wasn't sure if I agreed. In the heat of that summer day, dryers humming, something new had happened. The world, however scary, had come to me. I felt a little older, a little less niave.

Since then I have had many amazing and horrific eccounters at the laundromat. I think the Universe had declared the laundromat either a unfit place for me or a place for me to take one more step toward knowing deeper secrets of life. But those tales will have to wait until later. Doled out just as they were doled out for me.

Super groovy pants

What the hell happened here? Where did my mother find these pants I am wearing, why did she let me wear them and why did I think it was o.k to wear them? I mean what the heck was I thinking here? My little brother has shorts on and my mother has those canary yellow things on that I think are shorts. [I think she still has those]. So why did I choose to wear bell bottomed red plaid pants to Niagara Falls with the family? No really, let's think about this. I was in the future going to go to design school in NYC and become quite chic and stylish. All on my own.

My mother, who does some things right in her clothing choices, still will often line her lips with dark liner and fill in with a lighter color reminding me of a WASP version of a Latin Debutante. She also thought stirrup pants looked good with shoes. Never mind that stirrup pants never looked good with anything but with shoes it was an invitation to be made over by Stacey and Clinton. She also has these ancient baggy plaid pants that I call 'her clown pants'. Too horrible for words. I cannot for the life of me understand how she can wear them with a straight face. My brother and I have stopped each other from laughing upon occasion when they have appeared in public. In all there day glow green, yellow and red enormous plaid glory.

That brings me back around to my pants. How could I bare the shame of knowing I myself wore those pants. Did people smirk and point? Did they wonder if I bought the last pair? Did they think it was just a silly teenage fad? Did a bring shame on the family. I worried terribly about this until my brother sent this. This is my dad at Niagara Falls. Hmmmm, seems he had a lack of taste and some groovy plaid pants too. Now perhaps mom found a two for one sale? Double shame. The family of shame. How could this happen? It would seem this will be our family secret. We....gasp....wore plaid pants in the 70's. Almost too hard to say but cleansing all the same.

I was feeling better and coming to terms with the terrible fashion sense of yesteryear when my brother sent this.

Oh, God will it never

stop!

Is that your family?

I had intended that my next entry be about my six dollar wonder manicure but I have not arranged for pictures yet, oh yes there are pictures, so until then I am not telling the 'tale' of the ""khu!+-" six dollar pedicure.

Today, I thought I would write little about my family. My family has been on my mind lately since my father passed away so suddenly.

I , perhaps like many of you, have a crazy mother. No, I am not talking about the amusing crazy where mom wears funny hats to delight all your friends or wears her bloomers on the outside of her dresses once in awhile in front of the mailman. Nope I am talking the Blue Blood " Great, Great, Great, Great Uncle Wallingford must have slept with his sister" crazy. ' Grey Gardens ' crazy.

I am convinced that this kind of crazy runs rampant in Blue Blood.
Especially in Blue Blood that has long lost all their money. Just a wild theory here but I think it sends them over the edge. Lots of rules you see. Rules that apply to a life riddled with wealth held in tightly closed purses and wallets. Moths leap to life when said wallets and purses are opened. Dancing in the light singing " I am free, I am free, thank god I am free."
When a Blue blood has lost that money all is scewed. Position, rules that apply to that position, schools, communities. All gone and all they are left with is this mountain of protocol and information handed down from generation to generation. Makes a mind go crazy one should think.

My grandmother was the first to go crazy. {well as far as I know} She had shock treatments. They did not have the drugs of today so they took poor tortured souls and sent electricity into their brains and through their bodies. I cannot imagine what torture it was for her. However, grandmother was not a pleasant woman nor was she a good mother. Passing on not just her less than ideal mothering skills but her left of center brain to her son and her daughter.

My mother was quite beautiful. Still at seventy one she is young looking and attractive. My father was full Italian who wanted up in society and was quite taken with her. She was desperate to be loved. So like all co- dependent couples they married. My mother's parents did not crack a smile at the wedding. Blue Bloods have a code........you marry Blue Bloods. Yes! Silly this is how you get your money back. Don't you see? You get your standing back, your money and you marry into your class level. This is how the world stays in balance. My Grandmother hated my father until the day my mother separated from him. Then she loved him.........

My grandmother and mother hated each other. Their fights were legendary. Perhaps if the D.A.R knew of their unladylike behavior they would have been cast out like scratchy linens or polyester pants. My grandmother idolized my mother's brother, Stanley. Stanley, the craziest of all, rich, successful and almost a character out of a Hunter S. Thompson novel did not participate much with the family. Still grandmother nearly drooled at the mention of his name. It was a disturbing sight.

I loved my Grandfather. He as a tall,handsome, quiet man who despised my grandmother. He spent most of his time in his gardens. I would go out there with him and work in silence. Every summer he would make me a kite from the funny's in the paper. I thought the kite was a treasure. Grandfather was also a miser. His miserly ways made trips to the dump a delight for a young girl. We would trod around the dump looking for discarded trash that he thought was just wasteful and needed to come home. I always managed to find a treasure or two. Grandmother did not approve of the unsanitary hobby. Nor was it seemly to be wandering around in garbage looking for things to bring back home. I loved it.

When Grandfather died I was sixteen. We lived in Upstate NY then and had a large horse farm. Grandmother and Grandfather lived in Falmouth Maine on the water. Mother would not let me go to the funeral. She said I had to stay and watch the barn. So she took my brother's and left me all alone. I was so distraught. I lay one night in bed with my coon hound Reggie,my devoted companion, crying. When all of a sudden a calm came over me and I saw grandfather next to the bed. Reggie sat up and whined. I felt calm and loved. With that feeling enveloping me I feel asleep. To this day I know my grandfather came to tell me it was alright. That he was alright and he loved me.

When I told my mother this she just looked at me and said " Why you? Why did he come to you? I was his daughter. Why would he come to you?"
Ahhhhhh the golden warmth of a crazy Blue Blood mother.