"Melancholy Man"

I met James Miller on LA's The Sound radio station's Facebook page; an excellent start since I'm fanatical about the music I love.  It's a Classic Rock/vinyl-spinning/deep cuts/ high variety type of station--the kind of station I would own and have full control of if I were rich. 

On Memorial Day weekend, they were playing requests. On FB, James requested "Stairway to Heaven" for his lifetime friend and sweetheart, Tina, who literally died in his arms a little more than a year ago.  Having lost my oldest sister in January, a brother to murder two years ago, I was moved by his loss and his heart worn words.  I wrote to him and told of my loss, how I felt about his request and sorrow and wished him well.  James wrote back, and we continued this way for a couple of months.  It seemed natural as breathing to reveal ourselves with bleeding honesty.  His loneliness and sense of all good things being wiped from his life, and the rest of his life, was wrenching.  Tina had been his light--a peaceful, positive and forgiving soul.  She believed in filling yourself and others with positive love--that good follows good.  And James, having reconnected with her after some rough years, was learning to rebuild himself and his life through her example.  So it was so much more than losing a mate when he lost her.  Now he felt untethered, floating in dark depression and an unsure future.

I'd been divorced after nearly thirty years with the same man.  I told him I'd been stricken with a skin disorder that prevented me from intimate relations.  So my loneliness also saw no future worth living; where in the world would someone like me find a man willing to love me in spite of what I couldn't offer in return?  For a few years, I'd been on the edge.  One attempt to end my life left me in a mental ward for a 72 hour observation.  Scared straight, I can't say I lived my life--I simply continued to breathe through each hour, each day and night, week, month and year.  If not for my faith, my children and my family, I'd been creeping dangerously close to giving the void another chance.

And then James wanted to meet face-to-face, and I was terrified.  I kept putting it off.  I still don't have a clear picture why.  All I do know is that, in my mind, I already knew he was perfect for me.  I worried about my heart . . .   Vulnerable and close to starvation, I knew that one more blow and it would crack and break like a poorly cut diamond.  Then one day, he sent a post saying that if he "didn't get out of my house tonight, I'm gonna lose it!"  I knew that feeling too well; I told him "okay, let's do this.  Come on over."

I knew the second I saw him that I was in trouble.  His attractive FB profile picture did not do him justice.  A glaring combination of Biker Bad Boy and the most tender smile I'd ever seen, he presented me with flowers.  His joy was evident, and all I wanted to do was cry.  We talked until 3 am, and I asked him to stay.  And it's been a wind-in the-hair journey every day since.

I fit perfectly in his arms; my head nestles between his chest and shoulder like it was always meant to.  His tender hands are always touching, stroking or simply at rest on my skin--which he loves, and which I thought was getting a bit rough.  We're like teen-agers.  Time apart is blissful agony.  Constant texts of love-you's and thinking of your _____  keep us blushing.  We've tried to take it slow, but apparently love doesn't know the speed limit.  And, well, shit.  I'm 57.  I seriously doubt I'm due a second miracle.  I've slipped this one under my coat and running for my life--and for his.

He talks of Tina often, and I feel I know her.  I showed him a picture of myself at twenty-one; she and I could've been sisters.  My manner and mind set are nearly the same as hers.  At first, a big red flag hit me--REBOUND ROMANCE!  I told James of my concern, and he said, adamantly, NOT at all.  Discussed further, I no longer feel those red flags, just a communion with a gentle spirit we both feel has a good deal to do with our meeting.

The most amazing of all--he's made love to me.  I'm totally at ease with him, and he is concerned and gentle with me.  Sometimes we're slow and full of sensual intensity; most times frantic, as if all that's left is to crawl up under each other's skin.  I don't question it too much, just as I don't want to jinx this obvious spiritual awakening we've both fallen into.  There are too many "Holy crap!" coincidences to believe it "just happened".

We both love the Moody Blues.  There's a song I've always kind of connected to myself: "Melancholy Man".  For those of you who aren't familiar, it's about a person maybe a bit too introspective and sensitive for this world--a person who feels so much, they struggle to keep their feet on the earthly path.  At the same time, their hearts are above in the stars, beyond this life.  They know there's hope for change, for growth, for happiness . . . for love.

On his way home the other night, James called to tell me he heard a song on our station.  The Moody Blues.  Something about a man . . .?
"Melancholy Man"? I said.
"Yeah!" he said.  "It's so me and you!" 
The hair on my neck rose and tingled along with my love and hopes for our future.

Thank you, Sister Tina . . . 

"Fire and Rain"

I slept too long this morning; it always makes me feel like a lazy good-for-nothing.  But I just could not keep my eyes open, not even after coffee.  So, this began my third or forth day of being alone is this apartment without speaking to another human being.  Talked to my daughter once on the phone, but couldn't think of anything to say.  I do go to the grocery store, the post office, WalMart.  I applied to probably six jobs this week, called back on two and one was taken, the other "call later in the week".

So, what I call the "Black Hole", is big today, and really fucking dark.  I took a shower, ate some Raisin Bran with a banana, checked FB and emails.  Still felt lower than hammered shit.  Time to get busy.  Since I've moved into this apartment, I haven't really gone through the boxes in the closets.  No. I take that back.  Everything in the boxes are things I thought, at the time, were valuable, stuff I'd want to hang on to in case I ever move to a bigger place.  More room for pictures, drawings, candles, etc.  Still, I knew from previous experience, that I'd look through them and think, "why did I keep this?"  So started on the first closet of boxes.  One was filled with artsie-fartsie stuff I one day intended to finish.  Keep?  Toss?  Who was I kidding--toss.  Another was a box of old but protected People magazines of my favorite stars who've passed on.  Wow,  :(  I couldn't believe how many good people the world has lost, how many memories they held for me.

 Black Hole getting bigger.

 "All in the past," I told myself out loud. "Look forward!"  On to the next box.  Albums.  Records, I should say.  Bing Crosby Christmas, The Beatles IV, Phil Spector's Christmas Album.  And a boxed set of The Beatles Complete, London pressings.  My ex-husband gave me this one Christmas and it's been one of my prized possessions ever since.  Suddenly, I recalled the exact moment I opened it, with him sitting close and excited for me to see it.  I'd cried and cried, I was so happy he'd remembered and thought enough of me to buy such a treasure. 

One foot in the Black Hole . . .

Then came pictures of my mama, who passed in 1999, with me and my two sisters at her bedside.  One of those sisters passed in January, and the other, Sandy--well, we're not speaking.  Under my mother's pictures was one of those tin-plated wall hangings.  My oldest sister, Carol, collected those Victorian pictures of little girls with long, dark curly hair.  The most iconic is the one with the girl pouting in the corner with her little dog at her feet.  My sister had been sexually molested by my father--her stepfather, and in her heart and mind, she was another little girl named Callie-Lou.  This was the girl in these pictures.  The tin-plated wall plaque I found was of four little girls playing in a circle.  One was Carol, another was supposed to be me, with long blonde curls, the next with shorter hair was Sandy, and among them, with long dark curls was Callie-Lou.  Four sisters, innocent and carefree, playing 'Ring Around the Rosie' or some other child's game.

Cannonball into the Black Hole.

 It's all still sitting on my bed.  I can't--not today.  Maybe not tomorrow.  But I will organize it all and give it to my two girls, sell it in yard sales or give it to Goodwill.  I can't move forward with the sadness of the past staring me in the face all the time.  A part of me feels like I'm turning my back on people I love, but what choice to I have?

I was watching "Sling Blade" the other day.  Near the end, Carl (the mental guy) goes to ask a friend to look after the boy he'd made friends with.  "That boy lives inside his heart.  And that's a mighty big place to live", he said.  That's me.  I feel my life to the bone--past, present and future.  It's been a blessing in many ways.  It's made me a good mother, a good writer, a rabid lover of good music.  But it's a curse, too.  Life is too harsh to feel every single thing like a knife to the heart.  

They say divorce is like a death; I'm dealing with both.  I've passed denial.  I feel myself moving into anger.  Next is bargaining and then acceptance.  Those should be an interesting fucking circus.  Lots of clowns, that's for sure.  And me on the tight wire.

I miss my sisters--especially Sandy.  I miss my girls.  I miss my family, I miss my youth, and yes, if I had it to do over again, I would do many thing differently.

And I'm not built for living alone.  I have a lot to offer someone, even a roommate.  I still love the things I love passionately.  Even my sadness is vibrant.  The radio is now playing "Sounds of Silence".  And I can't turn it off; it's too pretty . . .

"Oh, Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood."

I've heard the saying, "It's hard to stay confident in a vacuum."  It rings true to me, in my case.  I come from a negative environment; the times didn't preach teaching your children with support and positive feedback.  Our parents lived their troubled lives, and us kids went along for the ride.  I learned that love doesn't last, when it comes to sex, neither men or women can be trusted to be faithful.  Love is pain, with very few shining moments thrown in; these seem, thankfully, to stick in our memories--making us feel that maybe things weren't so bad.  The good floats to the top, the bad lays low in our subconscious. It reveals itself at our weakest, when we're hurt, or angry, jealous or frustrated.  We act out like the children we were when those emotions were born.

People who spend too much time alone tend to ruminate on the negative.  I admit this is me.  However, I wasn't always this way.  I've heard loved ones say, " I just want the old Sheila back."  Sheila wants her back too.  I miss laughing with my friends, my family.  But so much time alone makes one awkward in social situations.  1. You're so giddy to get out and have some fun, you laugh too much.  You seem a bit hysterical; you try too hard.  2.  If you don't laugh enough, then you feel watched and awkward. Others ask if you're okay, which is nice for them to care, but it makes one feel as if the whole gathering is thinking the same thing: boy, Sheila's a real mess.

Okay, so--this is me.  A lucid me, someone who's had time to step back and see what messes she's caused and what messes fell in her lap.  I am not lazy; I want to work.  Having a job is salvation.  Get me out of this freeking apartment and daytime TV.  Not only do I feel worthless watching daytime TV, but every other commercial is about how "you can start your life today by going to - - - - college!"  Makes me feel like even more of a loser that I didn't do something with my life long ago.

 I sleep too much just to make the day go by faster.  I don't work out enough.  But I have a good novel to finish.  I sometimes think I've got myself deluded, that I'm not a writer.  But then i work on it, read older chapters and find that it's pretty fucking good.  Maybe nothing will come of it when it's done.  But stranger things have happened.  Still, if not, I've written a dang novel.  I will find other work and do my best.  

Yes, I do get alimony.  It's adequate, but never is enough for the whole month.  I'm sick of Top Ramen, Cherrios, and not enough healthy stuff on my dinner plate: they're too expensive and don't last. 

I'm grateful for the roof over my head.  My health (which is actually good), and my kids, friends and family who always are there for me.  I'm grateful for FB, the way I can keep track of family instead of the phone.  I've met wonderful people, too. 

God will give what he thinks I need.  I still pray for other things, but it's up to Him.  I'm silly happy for my best friend and her grandbabies, but I'm envious, too.  It seems to have pulled their whole family together.  A family I used to be a big part of, and now feel a bit squeezed out.  Only natural, I guess.  Still, the feelings remain.  That there's a big confession!

And mostly, what other's may see as self-pity, is actually humiliation.  I hate other's paying my way for anything.  It's not that I'm so proud, it's just that I'm 56.  Growing old and being poor terrifies me.  I stress over my future big time, although, at the same time, I chant "think about today, think about today."  And when the past gets me down, "Past, past, past. Leave it there."  All of this exhausts me.

So, that's my rambings for today.

Talkin' 'Bout My Generation!

I just heard on 100.3, The Sound, that Bob Segar is turning 66, and that he's thinking of hanging up his guitar.  He doesn't see himself touring at 67.  I understand his point, but it made me so very sad.

I've wanted to write about this subject for a very long time: the music from my generation, and how strange it feels to watch it fade away into the genre of "Classic Rock" or even worse "Old School".  Now, Classic Rock fits, however, there seem to be many opinions of what classic rock is.  When I see radio stations billboards crow about their classic rock playlist and I see "Captain and Tennille" or "Michael Jackson" on there, it makes me want to gnaw my wrists.

Since you're already reading, allow me to paint a picture for you.  In '64-'68 (my ages 9 to13), my narrow listening pleasure consisted of The Beatles (and still does), The Monkess (along with their TV show and the Partridge Family--in my defense, I never spent a nickel on a Partridge Family record.)  My radio station was 93 KHJ AM, the L.A. based top forty station.

Then, in my sophomore year of high school, I found Dave Anderson, or I should say he found me.  6'3", wire rim glasses and long, straight blond hair.  We instantly fell hopelessly, Romeo and Juliet, in love, as most first-lovers do.  Dave lived at home, but had his own room fixed up in the garage, separate from the main house.  It was there he took my hand and turned me on to real "music". 

His LP collection totalled 233; he kept count.  KMET FM was the station he listened to.  FM was "Underground" then.  KLOS was close behind.  You couldn't hear these stations on AM frequency; they weren't allowed . . . and were not subject to rules and regulations of AM.  The disc jockey's played what they wanted to play (my God, what a concept!).  They played underground LP's from Britain: Cream, Blind Faith, Led Zepplin, The Who, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Jimi Hendrix, Jethro Tull, so many more--and not just the hits.  What they now call "Deep Cuts" were the norm for these radio pioneers.  We knew them because we drove all the way to Hollywood to get the LP's.  Only the coolest "heads"(stoners) at school knew where to go.  Amoeba Records was one, if I'm not mistaken.  Now I believe it's more commercialised; sad but true.

Dave had a state of the art stereo system (Quadraphonic) that he financed by selling pot from his garage.  He'd buy a kilo, a 2.5 lb. dense brick of delicious homegrown from Mexico, bust it up in a galvanized tub and fill plastic sandwich bags (no Ziplocks yet) two to three fingers full, tape it and put it in a lock box he'd kept under his bed.  One of these bags could be purchased for ten dollars.  Lids, they were called; only good friends were invited to this party-tribal-ritual.  ;)   He also sold acid, speed (or whites), reds (Seconal), hash oil, hashish and magic mushrooms.  He imbibed quite a bit, but being the lightweight I was, and still am, would take a fraction of whatever, but had just as much fun without loosing control or inviting the dangers of a "bad trip". 

But while I was under the influence, he'd slip his headphones on my head, make me comfortable on his pillowed bed, incense and candles aglow, and leave me in peace to "listen".

It's hard to find the right words to explain the worlds and feelings the music opened up for me.  My life up to that point had been loneliness, heartache and the starvation of soul.  My parent's were divorced.  All my brothers and sisters had grown old enough to "escape".  My brother to the hell of Viet Nam, My sisters to the nightmare of bad marriages.  My mother and her new husband drank in their tiny Valley apartment--so I was sent to live with my dad and his new wife.  They both worked 3pm to midnight.  So, you see, no one was ever home with me.  Except for weekends, I lived alone.  So when Dave and his new world came along, it sucked me in as sure a rainbow-colored whirlpool--and I loved, and still do, every second of it.  For the first time in my life, I had friends, a boy who loved me for me, and of course Sex.  I had beautiful music and freedom.  A new way to live my life--a fresh sense of me.  I was a Freak, a Head, a Stoner, a Hippie--and I say this with all honesty: for me, the drugs were a very minimal part.


And the music was dolled out in time.  New albums came out in the course of weeks and they were all we talked about.  When they did come out, we wore out the vinyl before attending, in a group, the opening concert for the LP we'd come to adore.  We didn't have itunes, we didn't have iPods.  We didn't have computers.  Nothing was instant. We had turntables and we got together as a group and lit our candles and incense and hookahs and heard the music together.  We shared and held our friendships like lifelines, which for most of us, they were.

The music today is obviously enjoyed by the young.  But it's a bombardment.  Everyday there's a new artist, song or group, video or award.  There doesn't seem to be any time to savor.  The lifestyle seems to be hauling-ass, a thousand miles an hour.  Maybe it's because I'm getting older.  No, it's for sure--I'm getting older.   Not that I like it.  But I wouldn't change the time in which I grew up for anything

I suppose this could be said of any generation, but Mine was the turning point of musical freedom.  So many genres came from that time.  None would exist without mine coming first.  The Stones wouldn't have been so blessed without the blues of Muddy Waters, etc.  The Beatles' great harmonies were inspired by The Everly Brothers and Roy Orbison, and on and on and on and on

I'm proud to say that I've influenced my two girls with my music; they love it like I do, as do their friends who happened to be in the vicinity at the time.

It wasn't just Sex, Drugs and Rock n Roll.  It was a state of mind.
Watch "Almost Famous".  
All I'm saying is, well . . . "Talkin' 'bout my generation!" 

"Hangin' on to those good times, Baby!"

100.03, the Sound, is playing the greatest top 100 albums (that's vinyl to you young-un's), voted into being by their listeners.  I didn't vote--not because I couldn't narrow it down.  But the songs they've been playing have taken me from the floaty buzz of that third tequila shot--high school-ditched afternoons on the shores of Redondo Beach, when the lowering sun lined everything in gold, and the salt air seemed hypnotic.

I've thought of every family member.  "Some are gone, and some remain", as Mr. Lennon says . . . said.  No, says.  Just like all these songs speaking to me today.  My mama used to like "Teach Your Children" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.  My brother, back in the day, had a killer stereo: receiver, turntable, cassette player, three microphones and "Quad" speakers.  Family-party time, always including mama, was to get totally blind and sing.  My sister's, my brother, myself and our partners would spin C.S.N.& Y. , the Eagles, Poco and others and sing like the stars we'd suddenly become--beer in one hand, mic in other.  Rockin' It!

 We'd sing along to the LP (thank God), record it all onto the cassette and listen to it the next day.  Which was nothing less than wizz-your-pants hysterical.  Hard on a hangover.

Still. I will never forget how my mama smiled and cried whenever we sang "Teach Your Children", always requesting encores.  I loved my mama deeply, but, by her own admission, was not the greatest mother.  So, I always wondered if she'd really listened to the words of that song.   And now that I'm a mother, I think she did.  Probably hoping we'd notice that she 'got it'. For us to know that her life hadn't been easy, and that she did the best she could.

I listened, Mama.

This radio show has brought back old loves and bad ones.  My first love and first broken heart.  The first time I was "flashed".  A lot of songs (LP's) wrap around some of the best vacations I've ever taken.  Right now, they're playing "Exile on Mainstreet".  Great album, but at the time I was without a home and sleeping at a friend's  house with her sister's two kids.  Still, I was a kid myself: 17.  Not a care in the world.  Right.

Anyhow--I could go on and on, but I'm saving stuff for my NEXT BOOK!  Yes, I will finish the one I'm on.

Memorial Day is for remembering, and I enjoyed myself.    Music is my favorite way to travel. (I think that's a Moody Blues song.  Damn, thought I came up with that on my own).

Update on The Mansions.

I researched The Mansions haunted history online.  The owner's name was Richard Chambers; one of his two nieces (who did indeed hate one another) was named Claudia.  It was Claudia who died in a bloody "farm accident" which cut her body in half.

There were no pictures of the family that I could locate.  The only photo I could find of The Mansions itself is the one to the left a remodeled front-view taken by a realtor. While the listing does mention the home is haunted, it quickly goes on to describe how it's been "painstakingly reformed to its previous glory". 

But not in my eyes.  It pretty much looks like any other "new and improved", cookie-cutter Victorian home. 

The Mansions I experienced was beautiful with its peeling paint on the porch, too many indoor plants and cobwebbed corners on the vaulted ceilings.   Bald spots shined on the red velvet curtain edges, and the smells of old mahogany and sweet flowers sent goosebumps up my back.  19th Century rich folks had lived there, died and left all their gaudy "stuff" along with a few of their souls.  I'm sad it's gone, apparently along with it's amazing history.

Gonna keep looking for those pictures I took.  Keep checking here; maybe you'll get to share in a piece of Haunted San Francisco.

The Mansions Hotel, Louie's and The Sutro Baths: A Ghost Story.

More than ten years ago, my sister's husband, Bill, caught a virus which shot straight to his heart.  Within days he fell into congestive heart failure and was forced to stay in a San Francisco hospital where they kept him alive to wait for a heart transplant.  He endured this for nearly 18 months before some stranger had been beaten in the street until brain-dead--and  that night, my brother-in-law got his new heart.

My two sisters, Carol, Sandy and Carol's son, Billy and I flew to San Francisco. 
We'd been there many times before for visits and near-death nightmares, so we were well aware of the short-term apartments the hospital provided for families.  However, this one time, they were full.  As the hospital knew Bill and his family very well, they rallied and found a place called the Mansions.  There were others on the list, but the Mansions were first, so we took our chances.

Not knowing what to expect, we were all fascinated as we pulled to its curb: The Mansions Hotel was a three-story, sprawling, turn of the century home, complete with stained glass, gingerbread trim, domed rooftops and beautiful grounds.  I got out of the car, ran up the three sets of front steps to the lobby to see if there were any vacancies.  I opened the door and was shocked by the blood-red carpet, velvet drapes with gold-fringe and tie-backs.  Giant ferns in gilded pots, statues holding other plants and peacock feathers.  There were mirrors everywhere and candles, chandeliers and urns. 

At the front desk stood a man dressed in a dark jacket with a brilliant Macaw parrot on his shoulder.  I managed to ask if there were any vacancies and he said that one room had just become available on the third floor with two standard beds and a private bath (other guests had to share one on each floor).  I told him that would be great, and as he made busy, I looked to my right.  On the wall was a framed picture and article with Sylvia Brown (a famous psychic), attesting to her time spent at the Mansions, and that "Yes, it's indeed haunted."

I ran out, excited beyond words, and told my family that we could stay there.  "And guess what?" I said, "it's haunted!"  My sisters looked at each other and started laughing; Carol's son (about 17 at the time) was not thrilled.  Not wanting to show it, he went along, and all four of us were book to stay in a room called The Sutro Room.

Of course, before we were shown to our room we checked out the place, read everything we could find on the walls about who had lived there, who haunted the place and actual testimonials from previous guests.
It seems a family lived in the mansions with two sister who literally hated each other.  After years of arguing and family squabbles, the father cut the house in half.  There were two entrances, two dining areas, two staircases, etc.  Apparently, those who "walked the house" were one of the sisters, a gentleman and one of the housemaids, if I remember correctly.

The room itself couldn't have been more beautiful and quaint.  Two small windows overlooked the old fashioned fire escape near the window seat.  The two small beds were about four feet apart, piled with fluffed, flowery quilts and pillows.

Our bathroom had a gorgeous domed ceiling, black and white tile floor and an old fashioned claw foot tub with a circular shower curtain.  On the wall hung a huge diagram of The Sutro Baths that used to be "thee" place to relax if you were anybody back in the day.

So, sufficiently scared, we spent time in our room, taking pictures, making fun of Billy who sat in the window the whole time.  We all left the bathroom door open when we had to "go" because we noticed that the hanging mirror would swing just ever so.  It being a very old house, and us on the top floor, we ppfftt it off with a giggle.

Being very late in the afternoon, we went out to dinner and had a great time celebrating Bill's new heart.  We returned to the Mansions to find it very quiet and creepy, to say the least; all the guests seemed to have gone to bed.  Back in our room, we still found that the mirror swayed a bit without any of us going in there and no audible movement in the house.  But again, it was, after all, San Francisco; the place probably swayed all the time.

We spent a couple hours talking, snapping more pictures and finally went to bed about 3am.  Sandy and I took the bed beside the bathroom, Sandy near the wall.  Carol and Billy were beside us, Billy to the wall.  Teasing and giggling we finally fell quiet.  I turned on my side facing Sandy when I felt a hand tuck my covers under my ribs.
I immediately turned to give Carol hell for scaring me only to find her facing away from me, her bed four feet out of reach.

I felt no fear at all--no sense of harm, so I said nothing.  At breakfast I told everyone what happened, and Carol, always a joker, swore she fell immediately to sleep and had not touched me.  Breakfast got real quiet after that.

We went to the hospital to check on Bill: he was conscious but drugged and needed rest.  So we went to do a little sight seeing.  Around lunch, we all agreed we couldn't eat in San Francisco without trying some seafood.  We drove and drove all over the hills wanting to find a place out of the crowds.  After a long while we saw, way down at the bottom on a cliff was a place called Louie's.  Right out of a movie, right?  It was the same inside: having been there for 50 years, it was old time classy with red booths and giant windows overlooking the ocean. 

We sat at our booth, started looking at the menus and noticed a historical flyer-book: The History of The Sutro Baths.  Out our window, on the rocky beach below lay the ruins of the famous Sutro Baths--the reality of what was left of the diagram on our hotel room wall. 

We told our waitress about our experience.  She was pretty freaked out and told us that Louie's was also haunted" the ghost rattled glasses and tipped barstools over, always after closing.  And there had been reports of a Lady in a blue evening dress who walked the beach below at night.

Pretty wild, huh?  We told everyone about our experiences, but few believed us or had some explanation.  But when I developed my film, there were half-moon star bursts over the mirror in the bathroom at every angle.  No other pictures revealed anything out of the ordinary.  Still, I know a kind hand tucked me in that night.  I was wide awake and felt it as definite as a gentle handshake.  No one will ever make me believe otherwise.

The Mansions doesn't exist anymore.  It was purchased and turned into condos.  Sad, huh?  I bet you can find its history online, though.  I'm glad we stayed there.  It was a haunted step back in time, and I won't ever forget it.
Sleep tight . . .

The Sociopathic Penis or the Sleaze Gene

To begin, let me say that I do know several "faithful" guys, so I won't generalize by saying "all men".  But what the hell is up with Arnold--besides his dick?  If a man is not getting his Knob Polished like-he-likes, can't he try something other than boning the help?  Is his need so strong that he can no longer hear the voice of reason?  No.  Know why?  Because, for one thing, dicks have no ears, and for a second thing, his "Little Head" has a Sociopath personality disorder: the inability to feel guilt or conscience, acts out for its own benefit and blames other for its actions.  These dicks are also very often grandiose in their thoughts of themselves and ideas of how the world perceives them.  Believing they're bigger than life, they act accordingly. 
One would think that fame brings this out in some dicks.  Politics certainly.  Maybe they have a gazillion more opportunities than the average penis.  Or maybe it's just that we see the consequences of their behavior on the news more the "Common Joe" dicks.  But I can't rule them out; let's not forget Loreena Bobbitt and her famous slice, drive and toss treatment of her husband's afflicted member.
Then there's the Sleaze Gene--Hugh Grant picking up street whores for blow-jobs while married to a beautiful model.  Now, I agree, beauty isn't everything.  Maybe his pretty wife was an ice princess in the sack and otherwise.  I sympathize.  Still, I believe that the very idea of possibly being caught is part of the "Little Head's" sick thrill.  It's an epidemic!
My own daddy was taken down with both of these.  My mother found out he'd been doing the babysitter the day she brought me home from the hospital.  He'd be gone Friday or Saturday night, but come Sunday morning breakfast, there he was at the head of the table laughing and groaning over Mama's good cooking.  And the whole time she had to sit at that table with her five kids, knowing where he'd been, knowing what he'd been doing--all their married life. 
Are men's egos really so big that they can't stop themselves and imagine what they stand to lose?  Do they not ever look into the eyes of their children and see the adoration and think, "Am I willing to ruin that?"  Apparently not.  All the lives ruined . . .  The countless perceptions of "whole" and "good" and "safe" tarnished. 
I know we all make mistakes; men and women.  Some we can't see until the damage is done.  Still, any moron knows that if you fuck your housekeeper, have a love child while your the GOVERNOR of California should know that you can't keep that a secret.  Shame on him, her and God help the baby.  'Cause his life is gonna be one big ugly mess.  And Lord only knows what kind of man he'll turn out to be.
Hurray for Maria Shriver for NOT standing by her man.  I heard that their oldest son is changing his own last name. 
And that's all I have to say about that . . .

Nelllie Mae, RIP

Heard last night that my dog Nellie died of congestive heart failure.  Years ago, when my husband and I separated, I had to leave Nellie behind.  As soon as I got an apartment where I could have her, I brought her home to live with me again.  Nellie was a beautiful mini Aussie, tri-color.  She adored me and followed where ever I went.  At the dog park--Nellie right at my heels.  Dog beach--Nellie would only go in the water if I did (but she had to daintily step over that first line of sea foam before touching the water).  She slept curled up against my back, rested her chin on my thigh while napping. 
After some bad decisions and nasty business with my daughter's boyfriend, I had to move.  My only financial choice was a 55 and over apartment.  Pets are allowed, but under 25 pounds, plus and $500 deposit and $50 added to my rent.  Again, I had to give her up.  Some sweet, dear friends of mine took her in, even though they already had a yellow Lab.  They kept Nellie for months before a friend of theirs fell in love with her and adopted her.  From then on she became a dearly spoiled lap dog, loved as much as I loved her.
So, she's gone now, but in a better place.  That doesn't take the hurt away, for me or the kind lady who became her mama.
I love you, Nellie Mae.  I'll see  you soon.  You can go in the ocean now; it's all good up there.

Virgin Blogger

This is my first time blogging.  Funny, I was so anxious to start this.  I was bursting with rants and views, opinions and secret revelations; now I can't think of a single one.  I haven't read any other blogs, except my neice's ultra cool writings of the little girl who's haunting their home--complete with pictures from the scene of the apparition. 
For me, I suppose, I've thought of blogging as a diary that others can read, and so that's how I'm going to continue.  I live alone, and too often find I talk to myself--always followed by a frightened little, self-depreciating giggle: Yikes.  Old.  I'm getting old.  Sad that, most times, what I have to say is profound or funny--but I'm the only one who got to hear it.  Not that I'm a brilliant bundle of wisdom or anything, but I have been through a lot in my life.  I have good stuff to say, damnit!   ;) 
Shit, I just rememberd: today is my 28th wedding anniversay--or would've been.  I don't miss being married; that's a lie.  I miss having a warm somebody in my bed.  I've been alone now for 4 years and I still wake in the blue moments of morning and reach under the covers for that warm back.  And he would snuggle against me, spooning even as he slept.  I miss cooking dinner and hearing his car pull in the driveway, me feeling a little thrill and peace that he's home. 
Still, there at the end, his car in the drive made me feel like a little girl in trouble.  When daddy got home, I was gonna get a whippin'.  I didn't get a whippin', but I got silence.  A love-less brush of a kiss against my cheek, more out of habit than affection.  So, I suppose, I'm better off.  No, I know I am.
At 56, many younger people may think that people my age don't think about making love, or intimacy, tender touches and that kind of small talk that two people share at the end of the day.  But we do.  It fills a life.  And when it's gone, TV is a cold substitute.  Bedtime is something I dread, but my dreams are vivid home movies of the past; waking up makes me sad.  Another day begins.