Lighting up the Blog-o-sphere one flicker at a time, 2/23/12

Welcome to my weekly adventure to “Occupy the Blog-o-Sphere” each Thursday. I offer this hopefully uplifting and picture and quote to brighten your day and bring something buoyant into your life. As you move through your day with a renewed outlook, may you pass it along.

In Buddhism, there is a practice called Mettā, or Loving Kindness. The focus is to cultivate friendship and peace with all living beings, including yourself. Often done in the form of a meditation, it is really a way of living described by the Buddha in the following Sutta (written collection of Buddha’s teachings).

This is what should be done
By one who is skilled in goodness,
And who knows the path of peace:
… Wishing: In gladness and in safety,
May all beings be at ease.

 

Whatever living beings there may be;
Whether they are weak or strong, omitting none,
The great or the mighty,
medium, short or small,

 

The seen and the unseen,
Those living near and far away,
Those born and to-be-born –
May all beings be at ease!

 

Let none deceive another,
Or despise any being in any state.
Let none through anger or ill-will
Wish harm upon another.

 

Even as a mother protects with her life
Her child, her only child,
So with a boundless heart
Should one cherish all living beings;

 

Radiating kindness over the entire world
Spreading upwards to the skies,
And downwards to the depths;
Outwards and unbounded,
Freed from hatred and ill-will.

 

Whether standing or walking, seated or lying down
Free from drowsiness,
One should sustain this recollection.
This is said to be the sublime abiding…. 

While this may sound divine, it is challenging to practice on a day-to-day basis. I know. I falter often. But I also know that this practice is always there, available for me to befriend myself and others.

I hope the wisdom of this practice of Mettā in the Buddha’s words helps you to be more loving and kind to yourself and others around you.

Click on this link to find out more about joining this cyber-movement and decide if you want to spread the light, too.

For a place to begin learning about a Loving Kindness Meditation Practice, click here.

Peace, my friends.

Blame it on the Bossa Nova

At least Timmy had Lassie when he kept slipping down the well. Scrappy isn't interested in making that kind of effort.

This is the story of my slippery slide into a depressive state complicated by my brain function crapping out. You think I’m kidding, don’t you?

*****

Zumba is fun, right? Enthusiastic testimonials abound from people…women of all ages and weight classes…abilities about how “fantastic,” “hip,” and “groovy” Zumba class is (remember, I said “all ages”). This is direct quote from some people who should know all about Zumba; it’s from a site called Zumba.com: “Are you ready to party yourself into shape? That’s exactly what the Zumba^® program is all about. It’s an exhilarating, effective, easy-to-follow, Latin-inspired, calorie-burning dance fitness-party™ that’s moving millions of people toward joy and health.” (I put it in red to keep the Latin flavor of the quote.)

Exhilarating!

• Am I ready to get in shape? YES!
• Is Zumba worth a try? YES! It’s exhilarating (more so than bird-watching; less so than cliff-diving–perfect), effective (my butt could use a face lift…little toning), easy-to-follow (great, since I’d do better as a “private dancer” than a member of a chorus line), it’s like a dance party (I love to dance), and millions of people are enjoying it (so that must include people like me).

My Wellness Center has several Zumba classes, even one in the pool (which I thought best not to try as a beginner). “Zumba Gold” is offered twice a week for really old and sick…shimmy and skipping challenged people…women. It’s billed as “Zumba Lite.” I decided to give it try. As unfortune would have it, the Zumba Gold class is scheduled right after the one hour Agony Pilates class I take. What possessed me to stay for the class after an hour of gut-wrenching “core work”? I’m currently consulting an Exorcist…a therapist to find out (you can guess what kind: mental health, physical health, sexual health Exorcist… therapist).

Maybe that was my excuse for a heap of bad decisions 30 years ago, but not now.

Here’s what happened as best as I can recall:

Zumba Class is held in the same living-room sized room as the Pilates class with the same instructor. It’s important to note that one long wall is lined with mirrors. Some of the same women who grunted and groaned…exercised their core with grace and discipline with me stayed for Zumba Gold. They are all older and heavier than I am. As the minutes to the class counted down, more middle-aged and older heavy-set women came in, some decked out with be-bangled hip scarves. These women were Hard Core Golden Girl Zumbies. I made sure everyone around me, including Super-Fit 30ish Instructor, knew that I was new to Zumba.

When these 3 came in, I knew I was in trouble.

“Oh, it’s so fun and easy! Just relax and have fun. We repeat the steps so much, you’ll be a pro in no time.” Several of them said this nearly word-for-word. Was this their standard pitch to all old new-comers?

The room was as crowded as a Weight Watcher’s Meeting after the holidays. I stood behind Super-Fit Instructor and tried to clear enough space for some elbow room. With bright fluorescent lights and the loud Latin music, the class began. Before I knew it, I was part of a choppy sea of multi-colored mammals looking as if we too close to shore: kicking, turning around, and flapping about.

I watched Super-Fit Instructor’s feet and her upper body with live-or-die attention. Just when I had the moves down, the song ended; then a new learning curve threw me for a loop. I was also watching the others (selfish safety concerns). I could see them all around me and reflected back at me in the wall of mirrors that amplified everything. I saw me in the mirror, too, which was demoralizing. I’m a way better dancer in my mind’s eye than in my eye’s eye. All this focusing and noticing were taxing my HSP brain.

Mirrors are not my friends; closed eyes are by BFs.

After 45 minutes into the class, my brain put up a “Closed For Business” sign. I couldn’t follow the most dance steps. When I backed away to the door, a woman asked me if I was alright. I just looked at her; I couldn’t answer. After the amount of energy it takes to deliver a closing argument before the Supreme Court, I managed to squeak out, “Um. Whoo. Tired.” She said, “Oh, stay, there’s only 15 minutes left and it’s mostly cooling down.”

I wanted to leave, but I just nodded an “okay.” Arguing with her took brain power–something I didn’t have. I stayed in the back and shuffled around for the next 15 minutes, staying exposed to and absorbing all that movement, those lights, that noise. Some party…

Lights appear to be on, but the screen is frozen.

After the class, I stayed pinned to the wall. Super-Fit-Kind-Instructor asked me how the class was, telling me I did great. I bet she says that to all the spasmodics in her class. At first, I could only talk in one-word sentences. Imagine that. Me. One. Word. Sentences. That’s when I started hyperventilating. And crying. The snappy ad for Zumba didn’t mention anything about crying and panic attacks.

There's no crying in Zumba either...

Super-Fit-Kind-Instructor hugged me and apologized. I apologized for making her feel badly then pulled myself together enough to get out and to my car where I had a regulation melt-down.

*****

I haven’t been quite the same since then (2 weeks ago). When your “central processing unit” crashes, recovery isn’t always just a phone call away. And I certainly can’t replace my 54-year-old computing system with the newest technology.

Is there a "Reset Brain" knob or dial?

So after pretending that everything is fine (Plan A) failed, I need a new plan. I’ll call that Plan 2. Things have to change around here. What things? This post is long enough. You’ll have to stay tuned to find out. (Isn’t that just like me?)

Plan 2 is ready to launch. And it all started with Zumba...Exhilarating, huh?

I’m Here To Tell You…

Lorna is at it again, trying to diffuse more linguistic "tics" before they explode. Is it too late?

Almost a year ago I was foolhardy…courageous…brilliant enough to highlight a few “linguistic tics” I noticed that had wormed their way into everyday discourse. I only pointed out the nonsensical phrases that others used and made malicious…delicious fun of them. It was so easy. I never used those silly aberrations of proper English language.

Because I’ve had too many sleepless nights…I have rich and lively conversations with myself…I continue to practice my keen semantic observational skills, I noticed several “linguistic tics” of my own. Because I’m not a total wreck…recluse…loner, I’ve noticed the same “tics” in others’ speech patterns as well. Did I pick up these varmints from other people or did they pick them up from me? Given that I hear these patterns from people on television and when visiting people as far away as 15 miles from my home, I’m fairly certain that my sphere of linguistic influence isn’t so powerful that I, alone, created these dialectic monsters…bug-a-boos. But I could be wrong; it’s happened before.

I did not really create you. In a funny way, you created me, my sweet, unpredictable little monster. We didn't mean to fool Mother Nature...I mean English...now, did we?

The List

“I’m here to tell you…” I say this when I’m physically present conversing with someone and have already said what I wanted to say. Example:

I saw the 59th Republican Primary Debate last night. The candidates’ ties were awful. I’m here to tell you, those guys need snazzier ties if they want my vote.

Maybe, just, maybe, saying “I’m here to tell you…” is effective at a religious sermon, a political campaign speech or Weight Watchers’ rally. These are occasions when certain ideas bear repeating for maximum motivational, contextual or theatrical impact. I’m usually not called upon to speak at any of those kinds of gatherings. I’m a one-on-one kind of gal.

Scrappy, when we go for walks, you have to poop. I'm here to tell you, walking isn't all about the sniffing and peeing. Pooping is important.

“Yeah, Yeah.” Wasn’t it not so long ago that I was complaining about…pointing out my confusion about people saying “Yeah. No.”? I’ve heard a lot of “Yeah, Yeah-ing” coming out of my mouth and lots of other mouths, too. Each “yeah” is neutral, sounding neither sarcastic nor dismissive. Example:

• Me: I thought George Clooney was superbly divine in The Descendants. Handsome as ever, too.
• Mom: And wasn’t the Hawaiian scenery just beautiful?
• Me: Yeah. Yeah. Very nice scenery. It was set in Hawaii?

Why did I need the two “yeahs”–isn’t one affirmation enough? Three is certainly overkill, unless you’re aiming to recreate a Beatles classic. And the most important question, asked in memory of my grade-school English teacher, what happened to “yes?”

"She Loves You, Yes, Yes, Yes" just wouldn't have been the same. Sorry Grade-School English Teacher. You died poor, but your dying words were spoken in proper English; the same probably can't be said of most British Rock Band Legends.

“Oh, really?” or “Do you really think so?” This one really annoys me. I do it all the time—other do, too. Either phrase has become my reflex  response to nearly every declarative statement aimed in my direction. Examples:

• Friend at Casual Lunch: Yes, she was a wonderful talent, but I think the news is making such a big deal over Whitney Huston’s death because they want to distract people from the complex problems confronting America.
• Me: Do you really think so? Is this a stall tactic, forcing the ball back into my friend’s court while my dilapidated mind shifts from “park” into “first gear?” Sheesh! I just wanted to talk about my blog and have a salad.
• Phil: It looks like it’s going to be a nice day.
• Me: Oh, really? Am I inferring I need more data before I believe him? If “Phil” was also the name of the local meteorologist and he told me the forecast, I would have good cause to be suspicious, but why should I have any reason to disbelieve my beloved Phil? If he says it’s going to be a nice day, he could mean something other than the weather. Yes, really.
• Me: That shirt looks great on you.
• George Clooney: Do you really think so? Might he be showing me his insecurities? I hope his insecurities aren’t the only things that…wait, this was just hypothetical to illustrate that other people say this, too. Phil is the only person I want showing me anything. Yes, really.

How about it, friends? Do these sound familiar? What new “linguistic tics” have you noticed?

Don't be shy. Spill your beans. I did.

The Girls Are Not in the Mood

You're just dying to know what this is all about, aren't you?

I can’t think of any secret I haven’t broadcast on this blog. (Well. Oh yeah… Hmm. Ooh la la… Forget it. I’m taking that one to the grave. Sorry.) Back to my open-book nature…that’s because I’m an idiot a trusting soul. But I have to share this rather embarrassing discovery, more as a public service announcement than anything I want to serve as a lasting memorial after I die or get a real job.

Against my better judgement, which is pathetic on a good day, I decided to try a different form of exercise last weekend. Swimming. My Phil (as opposed to Our Phil, who may swim, but I think he mostly jogs while drinking a nice Shiraz) swims regularly and raves about the physical and stress-relieving benefits of 45 minutes in the pool doing laps. After trying Zumba and experiencing a panic attack (no kidding; story to follow soon) and getting a little too enthusiastic on the elliptical machine (to the point of nearly falling off when Electric Light Orchestra’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” came onto my Shuffle), I was thinking that something safer some other options in my cardio-exercise routine might be worth exploring.

Hint: leave the iPod at home when this is your exercise routine,

Thinking gets me into trouble. Or maybe not thinking things through gets me into trouble. Anywho, I forgot a few fundamental Natural Laws of Lorna:

1. Looking at water is safe; being in water is asking for trouble because of my swimming disability.
2. Physical coordination is conceptual not actual.
3. Bodies in flailing motion tend to sink or fall over.
4. Prevention matters, but doesn’t work.

Why did I go “swimming?”

1. To see my Phil in action.
2. To see how my bathing suit looked on me.
3. To see if I could get a gentle cardio-workout without having a nervous breakdown.

Okay, so maybe I overestimated my noodle-to-sinkage ratio

What was my experience like in the pool?

1. I learned to appreciate the technically sophisticated  flotation assistance of the “noodle.”
2. I learned that most five-year-olds have better mastery of the “noodle” than I have.
3. I prefer my water filtered not heavily chlorinated, especially when I’m going to drink that much of it.
4. I learned not to close my eyes when doing the back float. The edge of the pool is significantly harder than the top of my head.
5. Since I was in the “Old Ladies Who Stand Around and Wave Their Arms and Legs” section of the pool, it didn’t matter that my laps were more like zig-zags. Noodles have a mind of their own.
6. I looked much better in my bathing suit than any one of those old ladies.

Look at the disgust on their faces. You'd think at least they'd show a little compassion for me after I whacked my head on the side of the pool. But no; they were jealous of my Sexy Speedo shape as I sunk.

Après ”Swim” Discovery: I wore regulation water shoes while strutting my stuff walking to and from the pool (which took a major edge off my hotness factor). I stood on a towel while getting dressed. None of this mattered. After showering for real at home and applying lotion, I noticed something on the bottom of my right foot that was heinous…horrifying…revolting….curious. A growth.

I should have known. It's this kind of thing that grows in the water.

My once pure, virginal sole, was assaulted with this, this, this (yes, I used 3 this-es) thing. It was a projectile of skin that wasn’t there the last time I slathered lotion on my tootsies. I did what any self-respecting woman my age would do: I picked at it until it came off. All that was left was the root. But I knew something was afoot with my right foot; she had been deflowered by a, a, a, (yes, I used 3 a’s) plantar wart.

Ignore the socks-flotsam and focus people. This is my once virginal righteous sole. If you think I'm exaggerating, be careful. You may be guilty of Wartism if I get my way.

I’ve never had a wart in my life, certainly not on my foot. I just joined the ranks of between 1.5 and 3.1 million wart-victims in America alone. Oh, the shame and burden I feel along with my fellow Wartsters and the potential Wartism that is just another form of subtle discrimination I don’t need to deal with at this stage in my life. We Wartsters have to suffer the knowledge that we carry the Human papillomavirus, which (in its various forms) can make your V-Jay-Jay, Weinerschnizel, and/or tongue fall off –probably not on the same person, only in extreme cases, and I’m paraphrasing just a little from Wikipedia), but our plight costs a lot of money to treat with sketchy but impressively packaged expensive OTC “remedies,” duct tape and/or major excavation surgery. Aren’t you impressed with the research I’ve done? Wartism isn’t a recognized social problem yet, but I’m going to write to the New York Civil Liberties Union. I bet between 7 to 10% of them have plantar warts and will take my request to have a new protected class of people (Wartsters) recognized.

I’m going to try cryogenics to freeze this alien invader wart out of existence. My foot may no longer be pure and virginal, but she’ll be frigid. That’ll let any lurking virus know to stay away from my feet–the girls are not in the mood for hanky panky.

If the prophylactic booties don't convince you I'm serious, take a good look at my face. I've still got a virginal left foot and she's staying that way.

Lighting up the Blog-o-sphere one flicker at a time, 2/16/12

Welcome to my weekly adventure to “Occupy the Blog-o-Sphere” each Thursday I offer this hopefully uplifting and picture and quote.

“I laugh, I love, I hope, I try.

I hurt, I need, I fear, I cry.

And I know you do the same things, too.

So, we’re really not that different, me and you.”

 ~Colin Raye (American Country Western Singer)

Click on this link to find out more about joining this cyber-movement and decide if you want to spread the light, too.

My First Love, The End

We had no future. Setting aside that he was married to my grandmother, the age difference alone would be too difficult for him to handle once I matured.

All first loves end sooner or later.  Lorna’s ended when she was 13 and he was in his early 60s.

I didn’t mean to break his heart. For a long time, I didn’t even realize I broke it. Something happened to me when I turned 13–something horrible hormonal.

Up to that point, I was curious about males in a “would-you-be-my-father?” way. Sometime during my 13th year, my curiosity about males shifted. They were still a mystery to me, but a tempting one. I wanted them to notice and like me in a way very different from I wanted Pépé to notice and like me. I started paying attention to boys on TV and in school. I hoped the TV and school boys would notice me, too. It was all quite exciting to contemplate.

Hey, Peter Brady! Yeah, you cutie in the blue shirt. Can you see me? I've got my new big girl bra on under this tee shirt...

My “baby fat” began redistributing itself in very interesting ways. I grew taller, so my once pudgy limbs looked longer and more shapely. My one round belly flattened into two perfectly rounded breasts–regulation cleavage-producing breasts. Combined with my blonde hair and blue eyes, I was a hard-on-producing lovely site for boys at school (the boys on TV apparently had poor reception on their end and couldn’t see me). Upper-classmen started hanging around me. The ones who played on sports teams. I went from Nobody to Some Body.

Still, I was shy and unschooled in the ways of boys, so I kept a safe distance. They must have thought I was playing hard-to-get; I was hard-to-get, but I wasn’t playing.

My attentions at home turned to make-up, clothing, watching romantic TV shows and listening to The Monkeys, the best boy-band then. I didn’t care about the dump or hanging out with Pépé. I didn’t want my freshly washed hair to smell all smokey if a real or TV boy dropped by the trailer. Pépé’s fart jokes seemed juvenile to my maturing sensibilities.  Plus, hanging around with an old man just didn’t look good for my “new” image as a “hotty.”

You can see how this would scare away boys my age, can't you?

I never saw anything bother Pépé. He seemed to take everything in stride. How was I supposed to know he would feel hurt when his trusty side-kick dumped him for younger pickings? I never thought about him being lonely; I was too busy thinking about me finding a new kind of side-kick.

I tried to keep my first “boyfriend” a secret from Pépé and Mémé because I figured they wouldn’t approve. He was a junior and I was a virgin freshman. But how could I hide my dreamy eyes from them? They knew. They’d watch at night when I’d get dropped off at the end of the driveway, never daring to let him drive in or get out of the car under their surveillance. I only dated him for a little while when he quit school to join the Navy–he failed a couple of grades, so I knew he wasn’t the quickest bunny in the forest, but that guy could kiss! I wrote him letters everyday that I put in our mailbox at home. For my birthday that year, Pépé and Mémé gave me a cheap letter opener. They always gave nice gifts. That letter opener was a sinister message from the Grandparent Mob. I’m surprised it didn’t have blood on it.

What he was killed with? Letter opener. Why? He was Lorna's boyfriend. Who ordered the hit? Miffed grandparents.

My relationship with Pépé was never the same. Even when I tried to pal around with him for old time’s sake, he rebuffed me. I thought he was in a bad mood or really didn’t need my help. It wasn’t until years later, when I had a few experiences being dumped or betrayed by people who I thought I could count on “forever,” did I finally realize what I did to my precious Pépé. By then, however, it was too late for either of us. He died at the age of 69 of emphysema.

Pépé didn’t believe in hospitals as places for curing; they were places for dying.  He waited until his symptoms were so bad that he could barely breathe and he had to be hospitalized. Thus, his belief became fact. He died in the hospital. I visited him several times during the month or so he was there. Those visits were hard for both of us, but if I had to say who they were harder on, I’d say it was him. He watched me walk away. I got to walk away.

Yeah, sure. He's fine. I've got things under control. I'm just not sure if he's supposed to take this orally or rectally. Then again, it might be part of that gizmo on the bed that hasn't been working right. Don't worry. He's in great hands here at Lord Have Mercy On Us Hospital.

I was surprised to see the funeral home packed with people at his “calling hours.” Most attendees were relatives and friends of Tina’s and my boyfriends, plus some of my father’s relatives. Maybe a few people Pépé knew. If Fat Dump Guy came, I’ve blocked it from my memory. Mémé insisted on an open casket, something I wish she hadn’t. My last memory of my first love is him–this man who loved to laugh and talk with anybody who would spend time with him–with his jaw wired shut, lying stock-still in the corner of a room full of people laughing and talking. The irony of it lingers and weighs heavy on my heart.

His funeral was a much smaller affair–just immediate family. The day was cloudless and unusually still. As the women in his life were standing in a semi-circle around the hole in the ground with his coffin still exposed, and while the priest was reciting his incantations, a strong wind nearly blew us over. Mémé had to hang on to her hat to keep it from blowing off; the priest stopped and held the pages of his Bible. As quickly as the gust of wind materialized, it disappeared and all was still again. We all looked at each other and silently verified that, yes, we all felt it.

Yes, I know this picture is kind of creepy, but you should have been at that grave site. Talk about creepy...

Maybe Pépé got his say…

Lorna’s relationship with Pépé dissolved but her bond with Mémé improved exponentially.

My First Love, Part 2

Being with him was always like the first time...

What did Lorna’s step-grandfather do that made her love him so much?

Pépé was a bit of a rascal when Mémé wasn’t around to squelch him. Maybe I encouraged him by enjoying his dare-devishness, or maybe he was just a natural senior delinquent.

It never came to this. I swear.

Weekends were when we spent the most time together. Saturday mornings began with our trip to the dump. He’d stuff garbage bags and sundry trash into the trunk of his Oldsmobile 98 and off we’d go. The drive to the dump was always slow and leisurely–the beginning of a mini-vacation that lasted one full morning away from the house. He stuffed chewing tobacco into his cheek and spit into his glass jar often. I envied finesse with which he jettisoned that black juice into his jar. Trying my best to emulate him by spitting my own saliva into my glass jar (he always carried a spare), I dribbled like a leaky faucet all over my chin and chest. He spat like champ, hitting his target every time with a pppffiiittt ah. We’d look at each other and laugh. My teeth were whiter but his shirt was drier.

He gave up smoking long before I knew him. He chewed tobacco and smoked a pipe. He let me try the pipe when I was 10 and got a kick out my choking. That's that first and last time I smoked anything.

The dump was a fenced-in marvel of garbage hills. Pépé backed the car up the pile Fat Dump Guy motioned him over to and both men emptied the trunk while they chatted and chuckled. He and Fat Dump Guy had a routine involving me which kept inside the car for fear that one or the other wasn’t just kidding.

Hey Kiddo, Wanna see what else I got fer ya?

“How much for that there kid?” Fat Dump Guy asked Pépé every week.

I watched through the side view mirror as Pépé scratched his head, dislodging his cap. Smirking, he said, “Hmm, don’t know. She’s real smart and cute and I could use the money, but I’d get in a heap of trouble back home with the Missus and her mother. If you know what I mean.”

“Aw. Come on. I’ll make it worth yer while.” Fat Dump Guy grinned and showed the teeth he didn’t have.

“Maybe next week. Whatcha got here that’s worth somethin’?” Off Pépé went, wandering around the dump hills looking for treasures. Fat Dump Guy kept an eye on me.

I kept the windows rolled up because: it stunk, the giant flies were out to get me, and I wanted something more than thick air between Fat Dump Guy and me. Summers were the worst. I roasted waiting for Pépé  to take me away.

Those dump flies had special chubby-blonde-girl-heat-seeking equipment. I swear.

When Pépé returned to the car with something broken that he would turn into something different and fixed, I rolled the window down, smiled and waved at Fat Dump Guy as we left. I asked him about what he found and he told me his plans. He picked up a plastic turquoise washing machine agitator that he transformed into a table lamp. Once he found a wooden chair without a bottom. He said he’d fix it and it would be mine. My heart melted. The chair had to stay outside because it was a “dump chair,” but it was my chair. Until it disintegrated then went back to the dump.

My chair never looked this good or this comfortable, but with a plywood seat, I felt like it was my throne.

Our next stop was the local meat market to pick up lunch meats, as per Mémé’s instructions. Topper beer was never on the list, but it was always in our cart. After that errand was done, the real fun began.

Pépé concocted some other errands he had to run (Watch Repair Man, Spare Parts Do-Dad Dude); it was always a cover for the real thing he had to do, which was drinking some beers while driving around. He could drink one or two beers at home; Mémé allowed that. But more than that was strictly a driving activity. Pépé was a tidy drunk driver. He didn’t like lots of empty beer bottles clanging around the vehicle, so he taught me how to chuck the empty bottles out of the window of a moving car without getting any back-splash on me or the car. Pépé showed me a couple of times how to do it. The first time I tried, beer splattered all over my face and arms. We both laughed so hard he nearly drove off the road–at least I thought it was the laughing that made him swerve. After many attempts, I finally mastered this skill (unlike pro-spitting). Pépé and I were so proud. This was before littering and all those laws about DWIs and “open containers” were invented, so don’t even think about turning me in.

Imagine the chic chandelier he could have made if only he didn't have me chuck all those bottles into the ditch...

Sometimes he really got the devil in him and drove fast, passing cars when other car were coming at us. He like to make that big engine roar, something he couldn’t do with Mémé in the car while going to church. He liked to take turns really fast, too. I think he wanted the car to go on two wheels. It never did. But he tried real hard.

We got always home in time for lunch and without a police escort. Then I helped Pépé with outside chores:  mowing the lawn in perfectly straight rows while he supervised me with his “one” beer by his side or keeping him company while he burned stuff (leaves, grass, or brush). The smoke loved me and always found me. He laughed when I ran helter skelter trying in vain to avoid it.

As a reward, he let me swig some of his beer.  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand like he did when he slugged his beer. He looked at me and laughed.

Whoa! Before you get any ideas that he corrupted me, beer was never my drink of choice. Beer was something I enjoyed only as a pre-teen and only with Pépé.

On Sundays, I sat next to Pépé at church and at our Sunday meal that Mémé always prepared. I laughed at his jokes I’d heard a hundred times before. It was the twinkle in his eyes that made me laugh more than anything else. And that he was trying to make me laugh.

We were a team, like Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis--but not nearly as refined.

And so it went from the time Lorna was about 9 until she was about 13. And then everything changed.

If you have eyes, you’ve got to look at this…

Better hurry. Time waits for no blogger!

Tick-toc. Tick-toc. Time is running out on Dark Globe’s February Shoot-Off. The deadline for photography submissions has expired, but YOU CAN STILL VOTE on your favorite photograph among the many stunningly awesome submissions in this contest. You should vote. It will make you feel exuberant. Okay, maybe not “exuberant,” but it will give you something to do other than staple reports together, do the laundry or make important financial survival decisions.

If he's that flexible, surely he can find time to go vote.

This is just like the Republican Primary, folks. We have a large pool of potential candidates, but only one can emerge as the Conservative’s Choice (or in this case, the Reader’s Choice). It’s up to YOU to use the power of your vote and any Super PAC over which you may have influence to pick a front-runner.

Looks like all you need for a Super PAC is a cover letter, lots of rich friends, and star power. What are you waiting for?

The Judge’s Choices for each category and the one Reader’s Choice Award will be announced on the Dark Globe site on Wednesday February 15, so as not to interfere with any Valentine’s Day hanky-panky hoopla. So procrastination is not an option! Click here NOW, scan the pictures (I don’t mean “scan” as in scan them into your computer–that would be wrong on so many levels–I mean take a close look at each photo), and VOTE.

If your Valentine offers to fill you up (with gas) these days, you know it's serious.

Use your power, influence, and star power to get others you know to go vote, too. These photographs are worth appreciating and these photographers worth noticing.

ANYONE can vote.

Hello, DarkGlobe! I'm phoning in my vote because my hooves are too large for the standard keyboard. I cast my vote for ...

My First Love, Part 1

I'd do anything to look spectacular for my first love. Anything...

Let’s get back to Lorna’s story. We’re nearly finished.

Of course it couldn’t last; we both knew it. The age difference was vast, so vast that I couldn’t count that high. Plus he was married…to Mémé, my grandmother. You’d think my love affair with Pépé would’ve made things awkward in our family, but it didn’t.

There weren't that many people to get upset over my love affair, unless you count some neighbors who loved a good drama.

• Maybe I did a really good job of hiding my pre-adolescence adoration of the one and only man in my life from my grandmother, mother and sisters.
• Maybe Mémé was happy just to have Pépé out of her hair and house.
• Maybe Mom and my sisters just didn’t notice, because, when it came to Pépé, no one but me noticed.
• Or maybe everyone noticed and thought the two of us were just misfits who fit together.

I didn’t care. Pépé was “The Man.” Indeed, he was “The Only Man.” With no father or brothers around when I was growing up, Pépé defined masculinity to me. I didn’t know at the age of 9 that I would be in search of a father figure most of my life, and I sure didn’t know that Pépé was my first catch on Lorna’s-Father-Figure-Hunt, but he was. And I was there for him: the one lone girl in a pool of estrogen who actually loved everything about him.

This hunky rodent was my real first love, but since he was a cartoon and a mouse, I couldn't take him seriously after I turned 6 or 7.

Nothing impure tainted our relationship. Our relationship was more like a dog and her master; not like a sugar daddy and his golden-haired gold-digger. He didn’t have any sugar to give and I wasn’t interested in gold–just all the magical adventures he took me on and the attention he gave me.

No, no, no, no, NO!

That's more like it. I was game for anything. So was he with me as his side-kick.

Before I tell you about our amazing adventures and all the “important” things only he could’ve or would’ve taught me, let me tell you a little about my Pépé.

My first love. Can you blame me?

Pépé resembled the blundering cartoon character, Mr. Magoo. Both old men had noses and ears too big for their too-round heads. Mr. Magoo and Pépé were short in stature and both suffered from poor eyesight. All similarities between Pépé, a three-dimensional ordinary man, and the two-dimensional animated millionaire midget ended with outward appearances.

Mr. Magoo had the good life, even if he couldn't see it.

Mr. Magoo refused to wear eyeglasses, believing his vision was fine. Pépé was a realist who wore thick dark-rimmed spectacles that looked more like goggles than eyeglasses. The cartoon character was independently wealthy and had a staff of people to rescue him from his misadventures; Pépé, a retired plumber whose income was meager, had only me to idolized him and voluntarily keep him company. Mr. Magoo got into trouble by not paying attention to his surroundings; but because of moody, bossy Mémé, Pépé, paid close attention to his surroundings that were often inhospitable. Mr. Magoo acted like he was entitled to behave in any way he wished. Rather than entitled, Pépé was contented—he didn’t ask for much and didn’t get much. Unlike the unsettled but privileged Mr. Magoo, Pépé seemed fine with his simple life. But his life was far from simple.

Pépé was treated more like a hired hand than a member of the family. Like his granddaughters, he was most appreciated by Mémé when seen, not heard. What did the Mémé want to see him doing? Work. Pépé didn’t seem to mind doing any assigned task, from peeling potatoes for Sunday dinner to repairing broken anythings. His “to-do” list was long and penned by any female, each relentless editors. If he received gratitude for a job well done, the appreciation was implied; criticism, however, was broadcast over multiple frequencies.  Still, Pépé actually whistled while he worked—the only character I knew who did this besides the Seven Dwarfs.

To the casual observer, Pépé’s life might have seemed bleak. Mémé’s mood and health set the pace for his day. He was either following her orders or keeping as invisible as possible, depending on what would land him in the smallest heap of trouble. Unlike his granddaughters, he didn’t complain. His strategy for finding contentment in the midst of what appeared to be a dreary life was staying out of trouble. Trouble was complicated, and he liked life to be simple. “Keep yer nose clean so it don’t get raw from havin’ to scrub too hard,” was something he often told me. He graduated from the 6th grade, and at that, probably missed a lot in the formal education department. He was, in every way, a simple man.

Being a fart-joke aficionado, he would've loved this sign.

What he lacked in “proper education,” he made up for in practical application. Pépé was crafty—not in a devious way. Some might have called him a visionary, especially when he indulged in Topper beer. Pépé could turn regular junk into remarkable junk with a propane torch, a little imagination and plenty of beer. He seized the challenge of taking broken stuff and making it less broken with the enthusiasm of a biochemist unraveling the mysteries of the human genome. If allowed, he would spend hours in his damp, but meticulously organized basement and emerge with a Pépé Original. Sometimes it was easy to identify what he created; sometimes it was pure mystery. Whatever it was, though, he was proud of his contraption and found a way to use it (even if it was relegated to the outside shed).

The secret to his creative genius.

I was the only one in our small all-female family that got a season’s pass into his world. And I made good use of it. We both needed somebody to notice us. We became each other’s “somebody.” And, boy, did we have fun. If that’s not true love to a nine-year-old, what is?

Stay tuned to find out what an innocent little girl can learn from her mischievous beer-drinking grandfather…

If I Expose More Of Myself, The Vice Squad Will Become Involved

A girl could get in a lot of trouble for revealing too much. And it looks like I'm in a lot of trouble.

As promised from my prior post, When Does “No” Mean “Thanks?”, about blog awards, I need to fulfill two obligations:

1. reveal captivating and heretofore undisclosed facts about me
2. link you up to 7 of my favorite posts for when you can’t sleep or are bored at work/home

Both of these obligations present me with inconceivable…absurdly impossible…somewhat daunting problems…challenges…issues. Let’s take one at a time, which is the only way I can do anything since multi-tasking is an inconceivable…absurdly impossible… a somewhat daunting problem…challenge…issue for me.

Reveal captivating and heretofore undisclosed facts about me

Lorna’s Voice has blabbed about my entire life story; so, if you’ve read my posts, you know more about me than the CIA, FBI, KJB and my mother (who thankfully doesn’t own a computer) combined. When I make my long-winded…inexhaustible…profound comments on your blog posts, I often reveal even more of myself and my life. What more is there left about me that you:

1. don’t already know?
2. would find in the least bit enchanting?

I’ve pondered this for weeks…days…last night when I should have slept. Here’s what I came up with.

1. Last night I slept a little. I dreamed that I was walking in fancy red shoes with impossibly high heels and a short skirt. My feet were killing me. Just as I was stepping down some stairs trying not sprain anything, I noticed John Lennon standing at the bottom of the stairs admiring my legs. I was glad I had the sexy shoes on. My feet stopped hurting and I wondered where Paul was. I figured he would appreciate my legs, too. Then I woke up thinking this would be a good captivating thing to reveal about myself.
   

   Maybe I'm glad Paul wasn't there to see me...

2. I always wanted to, but never could, raise just one eyebrow in that seductive “Oh really?” look. All I can ever do is raise both eyebrows in that guilty “Huh?” look.
   

   That's what I'm talking about, not...

   

   ...that. To be fair, she only has one brow to raise.

3. Before I went on my anti-inflammatory diet to help boost my immune system, I wore a size 14-16 everything; now I wear a size 4-6 everything. I take up less space, but my immune system is still wacky.
   

   I fell down shortly after this picture was taken. Exhaustion from balancing myself...

4. I have big, wide feet, making the wearing of sexy shoes impossible…improbable…painful…dangerous. On the down-side, my shoe-budget is rather low; on the upside, I am well-grounded to the earth.
   

   All you need to do is try this once and you'll see the wisdom of sensible shoes.

5. Forget DNA tests, you can tell my sisters and I are related by our laugh. We have identical laughs. The rhythm, cadence, and coughing-up-of-phlegm after a laugh-attack is all the same.
6. My Mom taught me well: waste not, want not. I’m frugal to a fault when it comes to toothpaste, toilet paper, electricity, gas (home heating and jet…car fuel), food, you name it. The “5 second rule” applies for me if I can get to the food before Scrappy does.
7. I can speak English in a variety of accents so convincingly that people think I’m from either a foreign country or another part of the U.S. My best accents are: UK (the Queen’s English and Cockney), French, Italian, Irish, General Eastern European, Australian, Jewish Mother, Brooklyn Bimbo, and South Carolinian. People tell me that when I speak “normally” I don’t have any accent–like Walter Cronkite didn’t have an accent. You couldn’t tell where he was from, just where he wasn’t from.
   

   "And that's the way it is...from everywhere U.S.A."

8. I am mildly…moderately…wildly obsessed with both Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana. Yeah, I know, me and how many millions of others? I find them both misunderstood and troubled beautiful women who had more to offer than the world wanted from them.
9. I always liked Madonna–even when she was unpopular. Oh, is she still unpopular? I don’t pay attention.
   

   What's not to love: sexy, blonde, awesome pom-poms?

10. Being grateful for the kindness and recognition of my peers (via awards) while asking them not be so kind and shower me with so much recognition is VERY hard for a Highly Sensitive Middle Child Attention Junkie. But I’m going to give it one more try: Please resist the temptation to honor me with any more awards (unless you happen to be giving out the Pulitzer Prize or the Nobel Prize or the Miss Congeniality Consolation Prize). Please? Pretty Please?
    
    

    You don't often see a cat beg. I hope this leaves an impression on you.

Link you up to 7 of my favorite posts for when you can’t sleep or are bored at work/home

WordPress tells me that over the past 9 months, I’ve written 222 posts. And I’m supposed to pick 7? Gee, I wish I hadn’t drunk so much of the blog-Kool-Aid…been so prolific. Which 7 posts sum up Lorna’s Voice, making my blog the versatile, lovely, inspirational, kreativ, awesome blog that you think it is? I suggest you read all of my posts, but here’s a start:

1. To Be Honest With You is one of my first posts and my only one to get Freshly Pressed. It brought about 3,500 views to my brand new blog.
2. If You Can’t Understand Them, Make Something Up is my attempt at making fun of Net Speak.
3. You Didn’t Tip Her, Did You? is a true story about a very bad experience with an independent”hair technician.”
4. Dirty Little Secret Revealed is the beginning of a three-part series in which I shared real college student bloopers I collected over my years of grading sociology papers and essay exams.
5. It All Began With the Dogs, Part 1 is where I begin telling my life story in chronological order. If you want to read about how my life unfolded, begin with this post and move through the calendar.
6. Imagine the Disappointment is the first in many installments where I lampoon the zany Internet Search Terms that lead people to my blog (Now, it’s the “Dear Divine Ms. L.” series).
7. Child of the Moon is something different. It showcases my fabric art and my serious attempt at writing poetry.

Have fun with these if you haven’t read them!

The resemblance is remarkable, don't you think? Oh, stop your laughing. I can dream.

Thanks to everyone who supports my blog and encourages my shenanigans. I am truly grateful.

Now, Scotty, increase the Award Deflector Shields to Maximum Power. 

She's gunna blow, Cap'tin. We'll have to risk it, Scotty. We can't take on another award.