Thinking!
Thinking!
Thinking!

ME?

THINKING?

A Thinking Award???

Shucks!Me?

Really?
I would like to thank the Academy!
And My Superb, Patient, husband and my Wonderful,Wistful, daughter and my Wee Rascal of a dog...
Ohhhh... Can't think!
And All who were too kind in awarding me this meme...

I have been very blessed out in Bloggerland. I have been given a wonderful,stupendous award, and I have been terribly embarrassed by it. Embarrassed since it is a Thinking Award. A Thinking Award!!!

This Award has been given to me by Lisa,http://mylifeasacliche.blogspot.com/ and MomMa'amME http://mommaamme.typepad.com/,Ruth,http://ruthdynamite.blogspot.com/, Jenster http://did-you-ever-get-the-feeling.blogspot.com/ http://urban-urchin.blogspot.com/ and http://aftertheball.typepad.com/after_the_ball/. and http://steppingoverthejunk.blogspot.com/ I feel like Sally Fields... You like me? You truly like me??? Clutching my heart... You women rock my world!!!!


All of these powerful, smart amazing bloggers. They have given me this award, just mentioning them, makes me feel unworthy. as their posts are so worthy of such an honour. So, if you can dear readers, please visit their sites for truly, inspirational and Thinking blogging.

My entire blogroll should be nominated for this Thinking Award as all are wonderful writers who continually inspire me with your stories and your insight. I love Blog rolls as they are to me like a book shelf, and often when friends come to visit they look at my book shelf and pick up a book and read the cover... This is what blogrolls are to me...Not a clique or a club, but a live and vibrant bookshelf. I often go to one of my favourite bloggers book shelf and try on a blog for size. See if I can find another Blogger to read...
I digress. I am supposed to limit my vibrant bookshelf to five... as a Thinking Blog... But I am doing six... So much for me being a thinking blogger...

So that being said... Drum Roll, Please!!!!!

Moobs http://moobz.com/ his stories and insights can bring you to tears as well as to laughs in his observations of life. He takes you on Marathons which do not happen, he takes you on archaeological digs and he takes you on an incredible journey of trying to conceive. His writings are heartwarming and honest. Many a time you will leave his post but find yourself thinking of him the entire day.


Kim http://ifitwasntthisitwouldbesomethingelse.com/ This blog follows a smart, vibrant woman who has taken the great challenge or relocating her entire family to paradise. She is an honest and true author. She has taken us down the road of a great loss to suicide. She has taken us on the heartbreak of dealing with a child with a drug problem. Her writing is heartfelt and she can have you pondering about life after reading her posts.

Kim Ayres: http://kimayres.blogspot.com/ This blog is a sheer joy to read. He can take you on such a wonderful journey. I suggest making yourself a 'cuppa,' and sit right down and read Kim. His talk of weightloss is poetry. The way he can sum up a piece of cake or how he can make you hear his daughter's laughter will make you think of this bearded rambling man and have you thinking about cake and clothes in a whole new light.

ABlondeBlogger: I have just recently found http://ablondeandherblog.blogspot.com/ Who recently has had a tremendous loss in her family but has taken the time to shared all. It could also be looked upon as a great guide in helping in the stages of bereavement. She is a thoughtful homeschooling mom, who writes from the heart.

Izzy: http://izzymom.com/Now, if you have not read Izzy this is the perfect time. She is a great, great writer and always thought provoking from her take on toys to parenting. She is thoughtful, smart, woman who conveys honesty about child rearing, and imperfections and foibles in a perfect life. She is a mother and a great force out in the bloggosphere. She was one of the first bloggers I latched onto and have not let go of!

Catherine of http://onthebanksoftheriogrande.blogspot.com/ would be my last nominations. She is such an extremely talented writer. She is in the midst of preparing for her first book launch, one of many! You should drop by and take a read. I have loved Catherine's style and finesse with the English language. You will go to her site and not want to leave!

Now, my nominees... Your job is to pass this honour on to five others. I can not wait to read whom you have elected for the lucky recipients...
Oohhh...

I was just told that part of this award is to link by to the originator of this glorious award... So, here it is...Keep the ball a rolling...

http://www.thethinkingblog.com/2007/02/thinking-blogger-awards_11.html

Once again thank you one and all...And enjoy the new blogs...

When you first start dating your great love, there is a great suspended period of time. There is laughter and energy swirling about you and your betroved. You can feel the energy in the air. Life is magnetic, and time stands still. You can create change by the sheer joy within your relationship. You are giddy, your senses are more in tune, your being is a bit more aware: you are invigorated. Everything is new, or revisited in a polished gleaming, light. Everything is clean, everything is a bit manic. Everything is somehow more alive and vivid, tantalizingly, sensational. You are invincable.

So, when your love, your great love, asks for you to go and have a dinner with some of his nearest and dearest friends you may jump with zealousness at the notion of breaking bread and sipping wine with the past. You will share your great fortune, you can share your loves' spark. You can take on the past. You have a cheat sheet, as your love knows his friends and can give you an abbreviation of what they are 'about'. You can cut to the chase and get over the small 'howdy do's' and jump right into a ready made friendships at hand.

But my cheat sheet was intimidating. I was to meet only some of the Friends. Friends who seemed to have gone through some unstated battle together. Somehow living through their twenties and surviving, is some marker for battlescars and friendship. I really had not contemplated what was in store, for a young lass, bonding with men who had such a clasp of sentimentality amongst them.

These men filled to the rim with sentimental claptrap have given themselves a monniker. A monniker which can cause a young damsel, such as myself to take pause, their nickname being 'The Louts'. A monniker which was only revealed as I embarked on our journey.

Now for me, at the time, Louts conjoured up an image of belching old men; farting old men, wearing lumberjack shirts and having cigarettes with ashes, draped from their lips. These Louts in my head, had an image of baggy pants which are soiled by a light sprinkling of ash, and the obligatory cardigan with moth holes and a few missing buttons. Not really part of the young, hip, culture that we, my love and I were a part of.

I was caught up in our work culture, I was caught up in our moments of playing pool, dancing til dawn with my roomates, I was caught up with him and me. The way we were in our immediate surroundings. We would work late and stay out late and then have breakfast at a funky diner together. We did not need rest. We had love. And we had stolen moments as he worked across the hall from me. We had endless moments of spontaneity which left a sense of adventure lurking in the air.

But now We were now going to embark on a road trip to meet his ole Lout friends. We were going to take our love out of the confines of what we knew. We were going to try and fit ourselves in with part of our old worlds, our old friends who knew nothing of this energy. And do the 'old' really respect the young?

We were going to meet his old friends for dinner.The friends who have made an effort through the years to keep in touch. The friends in which spontaneity no longer happens for. The friends whose lives are outside my sphere. The friends who are planning a dinner to get to know their friend's new love. Or maybe it is just another word for interrogation of me? Will permission be granted for me to enter the inner sanctum of Loutdom or the beer pit.

So equipped with a cheat sheet of names and maybe a quick antidote of what summed up the people, the men, at the dinner we picked up our first Lout en route to dinner. He was young? He was handsome? He was tall and fit, he was a charismatic, lawyer who worked for the Crown, his name was Jason. He did not seem like my ideal of what a Lout could be but maybe looks can be deceiving? Maybe he had a cardigan under his jacket? He was happy to see us, and was equally accommodating to having his 6" 2 body stuffed into the back of BoyWonder's 240SX.

The conversation, we had going north was fun and this friend of BoyWonder's had put me at ease with his easy banter. We are all laughing and enjoying the moment of a crisp, new friendship and he is helping me along with my cheatsheet.

When we arrive at our destination I am feeling a bit more at ease after conquoring my first Lout. It did seem like a gauntlet. Three Louts not including my date BoyWonder or Jason. There was Pierre LaRound, who was only called 'Laround' by friends. He was a short, man with large girth with pants pulled up to his armpits, a sight that all had warned me about. He had a booming voice and was the head of the geography department in his high school. And he seemed to use the word 'Fuck' as an adjective, a verb, an adverb, pronoun and a noun sometimes all in the same sentence. I often wondered throughout the evening how he could teach a class without his explanatives. There was LaRound's athletic, quiet girlfriend Jane, a biology teacher at the same high school as Laround, who ran marathons with no difficulty at all. She was athletic, stern, strong and very quiet to the gruff, and extremely loud, LaRound.

Then there was a friend who's knickname was Frog. He was a 'old school', rich boy. He was a tall developer who had a charming Kennedyesk smile in his finest preppy clothes. He had a twin bother whose nickname was Monkey, who was not available for my interrogation as he was living in London. Tatler magazine had just done a writeup on them, these two animal monnikered Louts, as the most diserable, handsome, bachelors at the time. This gave the friends, the Louts, endless fodder for muddslinging as the night carried on.

Last but not least there was a friend named Hydra who was the fastest ,rising, young, star in the United Nations. A man who boasted of his knowledge to always carry extra shirts in a knapsack to parties, as when he danced, he sweat though his clothes. Hydra informed me, that the best party was hosted by my BoyWonder in which Hydra changed his shirt seven times through the course of the night. Apparently that party had become a legend in its own rite.

The night of interrogation was fun and electric. There was endless laughter and great quips back and forth.There was a great sense of the past but even more was a promise of a future. There was talks of foreign policy, there was talk of injustices, just as there were talks of victories and the amazing spirit of the human soul. It was a night of past jokes, and future jibes. But mostly, it was about a commadery of friends/Louts who had seen much together but much more was promised in their future. And a future of introducing me to the other seventeen Louts who could not make the evening due to geography.

And when we left we were feeling elated.

And as we hugged and kissed goodbye we promised to do it again soon.

And then Jason, BoyWonder and I filed into the 240SX. We talked and laughed and sang to The White Album in the rain when 'it' happened.

We were in a rush as we were to go to another party the three of us. Another meeting of the minds...

But 'it 'happened.

My BoyWonder said' Great! An accident.'

It was raining out.

I said 'Oh' with disappointment and turned down the music.

But then, I noticed something after about a minute...

I rolled down the window... and stuck my head out.

Wait a minute.
There are no emergency lights?
There are no cops?
There is no ambulance.

I get out of the car and rush to the accident.

I pass twenty cars until I get to the front.

And there 'it' is; the accident.

A wrecked car and a truck.

I then see two teenagers embedded on the shoulder of the road. I run to both to make certain they are breathing. They are about 6 feet from each other. Neither one is moving. But both are breathing.

I reassure them that everything is going to be okay and I am just going to get help.

I then rush back in a clear voice and say loudly with conviction.

Does anyone have a cellphone?
Can anyone call for help.
Call 911!
Can anyone call for help?
Does anyone know first aid. I am looking for one more person to help.
I address every car on the way back to BoyWonder.

And then I reach our car. I lean in. I know BoyWonder does not know first aide so I say 'there has been an accident and no cops or ambulance yet.'

Jason, do you know first aid?
Yes.
I need your help.
And with that he gets out of the back seat and runs with me to the boys.I explain that one of them is scalped and the other one could have broken his back. I'll take the back victim if you are okay with the blood?

And with that, the two of us attended these teens on the road.

It was raining and I was using my cape to shield the boy I was with. I made certain to block his view of his friend for I feared that shock could take over if he saw him. He was a country boy who had just visited my city. I quickly asked him a barrage of question about the city, what he saw, what he liked: anything but what had just happened.

I talked and talked with this boy. I watched BoyWonder who kept far back so that Jason and I could do our work. I could see him looking at the totalled car and tried to figure out how these boys ended up on the side of the shoulder. I could see him doing the physics when finally help arrived.

The police and the ambulance arrived at the same time. They asked who was the worst off and I pointed over to Jason.

The cops were fantastic.They came over to my victim and asked him his name. And if it would be okay to call his parents. And reaffirmed to him that he was going to be okay.

My sixteen year old guy, Marshall, the boy who had just been to the big city, the boy who went about ninety miles an hour out the back window, and had been so brave, started to cry upon hearing that he could' talk with his Mommy'. I told him that his mom would be waiting for him at the hospital. And it was going to be fine. And with that the second ambulance arrived, taking Marshall away.

Our threesome, piled back into the car and sombrily drove to the next party which we were expected at. We arrived three hours late and left within the hour as we were in no mood after what we just had undertaken.

It took three weeks for the blood to be washed clean from Jason's hands just as long as our scalped victim was in the hospital. Marshall was the worst off as he did not break his back but did shatter his pelvis. He ended up being in hospital for four months. We learned all this through our dinner friends, for as luck would have it, they, Laround and Jane, were their school teachers.

We learned that the driver of the car, was a girlfriend of Marshall's and that she was charged with theft as she stole her sister's car to take her friends to the city. We learned that she and her girlfriend were annoyed that the boys had fallen asleep in the back of the car. We learned that they tried to teach the boys a lesson by playing chicken with a truck. We learned had the boys had worn their seatbelts they would have died as the volocity in which the car hit the truck and the spinning would have snapped them in two with just a lap belt. The boy who was scalped went through the small side window and Marshall through the much larger backwindow.

It was my introduction to Jason and some of the Louts. And it was a story that had us bound together with a noticable battle scar.

17 years later, spontaniety no longer exists in my world. Everything is planned. And I can not remember the last time I really wanted to play pool. But the Louts are still in our lives, wherever in the world they are, as they write me and keep me a breast of their lives. Our home is the beacon for when one returns from an adventure and they all gather to regail in the triumphs of those who were abroad and those who stayed behind. And I am sorry to say that baggy pants, nor a cardigan has yet to appear. But I suppose in time they will.

And as I pause and reflect, I am so glad, that I had the folly of trusting love, my BoyWonder and the cheat sheet. I suppose being young, foolish, and in love does have its bonuses.

A Knight In Shining Armor?


I was on an errand downtown, in a rough part of town.
I was focussed on my tasks at hand. I only was thinking of completing my errands and not taking in my surroundings. My mind was occupied with my agenda, when my inner world was invaded.
My concentrated brain was distracted by an whistle.
A whistle.
A catcalling whistle.
'HooHoo...' the kind of learing whistle of a construction worker trying to impress his coworkers whistle.
'Come on... I am an old, married mother for goodness sake...' thought I. And with that discounted comment my mind revisited my list.
And then I hear it AGAIN!
'HooHoo.'
Maybe my first look of annoyance did not get the point across.
I am a lone woman on an urban street.
I look to see where this, assaulting, whistle is coming from... I turn and give my nasiest, furrowed, don't think of messing with me, punk, scowl.

Wait a minute!
Nahh, It couldn't be?
The only person on the street is a guy leaning out of a hearse.
A hearse?
'Hoohoo' he whistles again... and adds 'Hot stuff, baaaabbbby!' Raising his eyebrows.

I see my assailant hanging out of the window, a broad smile beaming across his face.

I rolled my eyes for good measure.

And finally my thoughts crash with the influction of his voice... he says 'Pennnnnduuuuullummmmmm...Pendullum, don't you recognize me? 'he laughs.' I saw you blocks away. I had to pull a 'uee' to get to you...You haven't changed a bit!'

Whaaa? I know this guy? He knows my name... And I have not the foggiest who he is... I now have to focus on THE face and not THE hearse... But the hearse is downright distracting gleaming and sparkly just as the man who knows my name.

I approach the polished, back empty, hearse with laughing lunatic in the front who seems to know me quite well and is having great fun with this moment.

Billy Sheans! Pendullum, it's me, Billy Sheans!

I can not believe my eyes. And it shows. I am scanning this man for some semblance of a boy I once knew twenty years ago.

Billy Sheans from high school.
Billy Sheans who spent fifth period spare with me in grade thirteen.
Billy Sheans, the guy that used to play tuba(A&W theme song) at the bus stop to keep me entertained as we waited in the cold, cold, dark, winter nights after band/choir practice.
Billy Sheans.
Billy Sheans who hosted the worst permed Afro I have ever seen on a white man.
Billy Sheans who used to streak his hair.
Billy Sheans that used to wear really tight jeans and have a pic in his back pocket.
Billy Sheans who wanted to be a cop.
Billy Sheans who told the absolute best jokes with his 'Marty Feldmanesk' eyes.
Billy Sheans my olde confident.
Billy Sheans who always had an ear for a problem.
Billy Sheans who always had a song on his whistle.
Billy Sheans who always had a thoughtful word.

Ahh, that Billy Sheans?

'Billy Sheans??? How the heck are you?' still looking at the perfectly polished man before me.

'Geez pendullum, I was afraid you were going to throw something at me!' he says as he gets out of the car.

And with that, I laughed, a bit manically, as he does not know how close he came to getting a snowball between the eyes!

He laughs and throws his arms around me in an olde bear hug saved for the very oldest of friends.

And while he talked I found my ole high schoolbuddy, all grownup in the mourning suit. His hair was slicked back. He looked refined. He looked older;dignified. He had an ease of talking. He took off his gloves and just leaned against the hearse as if it were just an old car, a noble steed.

Billy had always dreamed of becoming a cop. He fell in love with the notion long before he met me in grade nine. He had always wanted to be a hero. Someone you could count on. Someone who would be 'there'. And what better than a cop?

And when he met me and discovered that my father was a Staff Sargent of Detectives he had died and gone to heaven. He would often grill me about my dad. He would always ask 'How 'Sarg' was doing.'
He would talk continually about the prepwork to his becoming a cop. He would list off the requirements. He would work on the things he had control over.

And the physical training he put himself through. He worked out everyday at lunchtime, he jogged and he did weights. He was going to be a cop.

Billy Sheans got his driving license on his sixteen birthday to prove that he would have had a clean driving record for many years before he placed his application.

For good measure he would throw in that he loved a good coffee shop, so the cops would have to want him.

And always with a smirk, he would add while nudging me in the ribs, that he, Billy Sheans, being a man in a uniform, 'a boy in blue' would suit him and the colour of his eyes. He would make a fine looking police officer, he would boast.
'It's all in the uniform, 'he would chide.'Chicks love a man in a uniform!'


Geez, when I think of how he would go on and on about it...It can still make me smile.

And as a teen I was slightly jealous, as he knew his path, he had it all mapped out. He had his dream, unlike me. I was so scattered back then. I would listen to him and be in awe of how he 'knew' himself. I would be in awe of the fact that he had a notion of what he wanted to be when he 'grew up'. A man in uniform. Clean,polished, ready to take on the world.

And now here we are grown up.

To find Billy in a suit, a grey and black mourning suit with white gloves and not a blue uniform, well, it did throw me off course. But then I do not know what judgement could be made of me, as I did not wear a noticable uniform and my life is still ever so chaotic and unmarked.

'Billy, I, I, I,ah? I just can not believe it...What are you doing now?' with a wide grinning smile, ignoring the white elephant in the shape of a hearse.

'I am a funeral director/mortician man...'

Wow... Ahh, what happened to becoming a cop?

Well, they said I was way too short, too thin, blahblah blah... I was never going to get any taller... And well, I gave that up...Just couldn't change the system ya know... I know they have their reasons... And I did try to become a firefighter but the same deal...

But Billy,I mean a funeral director... How did you go on that path? I would never have thought....

Nor would I? Who would have thought William Sheans, Funeral Director...

'William... Now that would throw me for a bigger loop... William?'

Nah... Can't change me, that much...Well, actually they call me, 'Bill' around the office...

'Those who can talk, call you Bill...' came my wicked retort.

'Hahaha...' he said.

You're still Billy to me...

And when I left him, I thought he did have the perfect job for Billy. A job in which he could never really have prepared himself in high school. Bill Sheans picked himself up, after a dream had 'failed', exchanged his blue uniform, for one that I would think could require as much courage and fortitude.

I could see his strength for people as they came to him in times, of unmanagable, grief. I could see him guiding them through and helping plan the end of various people's journeys. I could see him help those who are lost. I could see him being strong and brave everyday dealing with other human's sorrow. I do see him being a hero.

And when I think about it, the uniform he wears presently,it does suit his big, expressive, blue eyes quite magnificently.

I guess he's right.

'Chicks love a man in a uniform.'

Oscarina She a won...

Kiss yer mudder kissw yeer fadder...
now lay a fat one on meya!!!!
Doin such a happy dance!!!!
Cryin''

Okay...

My GalPal WON the OSCAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!

Best Animated Short....

The Danish Pooooooooeeetttt!!!!!


Can you hear my gleee????
And tears of happiness????????

If not please read my old entry ...
http://dribblingwitt.blogspot.com/2007/01/road-which-leads-to-oscar-last-week_31.html

Up the street from us live two kids, Sophia and Max.They have known Scooter since she was about three years of age. They live with a mother who is a buyer for a high fashion store and a copywriter for a father. Their dad is the primary caregiver as their Mom has to go into the office and their father has the luxury of working through the house. He is in charge of the endless array of pandamonium that exists, on a daily basis, in his humble home.

Sophia's name does not fit the image of 'a Sophia'. When I think of the name, Sophia, I think of sun dancing on the lake, soft gentle winds rippling the water, a seagull in the distance, I think of meadows filled with butterflies maybe throw a few bunnies hopping along for good measure. This is how I perceive the name Sophia as it dances off the tongue like sweet butter and equally blends with the scenery I have painted .

The Sophia I know does not fit the image of the name I just painted. The Sophia I know is: a tornado. The Sophia, I know, is a hailstorm with a few fallen trees and maybe a car pinned underneath with screaming children for good measure. She is a force. A force to be reckonned with.

Sophia is a rough a tumble type of girl. She excels in most sports, but her favourites are karate, soccer, skateboarding and hockey. Her favourite past times are throwing farts, watching the scariest movies around and retelling the most gruesome parts ver batum to anyone brave enough to listen.

Her mother hoping to have some semblance of a daughter has forced her to have to have long hair but as a concession Sophia may wear it the way she sees fit. And braided and to the sides make it easier for her to place a hockey mask on.She has never worn her hair loose as what would be the point to draw attention to the bain of her existence. She proudly boasts on the fact that she does not own one dress. She will only wear boys clothing. And she will normally tell you this, through 'belch speak' to drive the point home.

Sophia is not 'trapped by the fixings of being a girl'. She swaggers in a room and firmly chest butts her friends. She is loud and gregarious. She can belch like the best of them and at dear age of nine has all the confidence in the world. She always has a group of boys waiting in attendence for an impromptu game of shinney before the bell rings for school and She is always up to telling or listening to a joke about poo or is willing to hear any conversation about other 'nasty' bodily functions.

Her brother Max is the opposite. He being two years younger is unsure of himself. He always has his eyes cast towards the pavement and he is always a few paces behind his sister and father on the walk to school. He never runs and always walks like he is about to discover gold under his father's shoes never casting his head up.

Max has a learning disability which has hindered his ability to communicate and as a result is a pretty solitary boy. He is quiet and extremely shy. His voice is rarely heard in the daily routine of their day. He is blonde and gentle. His hair is long but with the massive amounts of curls he has it gives the impression of a big wig. There is something purely angelic about him. He is like a beautiful, sweet, Cherub.

His sister Sophia has given him all the Barbies that were foolishly bestowed upon her by relatives. (Friends would never have made that mistake as they would fear the pummelling they would get for mistaking Sophia for a girl.) Max loves his Barbies, he loves the gowns, he loves the sequins and he loves their accesories. He can play for hours with his dolls and loves the world of fantasy where everything comes out fine in the end.

My daughter knows the two well. Scooter used to be a classmate of Sophia's and as a result had been over for many a playdate in the past blending between the two personalities. She would be 'Wendy' to Sophia's rough and tumble Peter Pan and then would go and coax Max out of his shell for some quality Barbie time. Scooter was the only friend of Sophia's who paid any kind of attention to Max. And Max coveted the time they had spent together.

Seems like a pretty distant time as the years have fallen away. My daughter no longer attends the same school as Max and Sophia and playdates together are a thing of the distant past. But we do still see them at the local ice cream shop from time to time or on en route to various events.

Valentine's Day was approaching and Max's mother, Jean, thought that she should be the parent to take her son out and purchase some Valentines for him to give out to his classmates. She knows how sensitive her boy is and wanted to take him away from the abrasive Sophia so that he may take his time and pick out the cards to his liking.

When at the store Max protested.

'I do not want to give out Valentine's Day Cards!' he said.

And Jean thought it was due to his shy nature. She tried to talk with her son about it. She tried to tell him how sometimes it is just important to let people know that you 'like' them. 'Just a token Max that's all it is.'

And he said he didn't want to do them. There was no one he would wanted to give a Valentine to.

And his mother said that it was fine, but she still had to buy some for Sophia as she wanted to give out her cards to all of her friends. And Jean added that she wanted to get something special for her husband Bob. Because, Valentine's is also about love... And I loooooove your dad Max! and I looooove you too, even if you do not want to give out Valentines.' And with that she kissed he son on the top of the head and headed off to complete her tasks in the card shop.

And as she was looking around Sophia's cards, she found her son walking around the store with the biggest box of chocolates in the shape of a heart. His mother filled with pride as she thought the chocolates were for her. She felt a success in her heart as felt she did jostle out the notion of what Valentine's was about.

'He didn't want to give them out to his friends, he wanted to give it to his ole mom,' she thought and with the notion so firmly planted in her heart, it caused a tear of pride to swell in her heart which lead to a tear to form in her eyes.

'Ah, Max. That's a pretty big box of chocolates. '

And Max agreed. He added, 'They are for someone pretty special. Just like you getting one for Dad!'

And with a bit of presumption she said 'Honey, I do not need a box that big!'

And Max looked at the woman who gave birth to him as though she were a Martian. 'You???They are not for you!' came his indignant retort.

'Ohh? ' trying to hide the dissappointment in her voice.'Are they for your teacher Miss. Douglas. She is a really good teacher'

Well, Miss Douglas is a good teacher but they are not for her.

Well?

Well? What?

Honey, who are these chocolates for?

They are for Scooter.

Scooter? Down the street Scooter? Down the street Scooter who you have not played with in about a year and a half, Scooter?

Yes Scooter.

Right then.

And so he went to the counter and purchased his big box of chocolates for my daughter.

He went home and painstakenly made a heart and a wee note that just said
'Love, Max'.

And then he instructed his mother that he had to give it to Scooter immediately.

And with that, Mother and Son came to our door.

The door bell rings. I hear a thudd, and a scampering, as I go to answer the door.

And there on our outside table is a big box of chocolates with a giant red ribbon and Jean standing in front of me sheepishly smiling.

I look at Jean and she laughs.

'Ahh, Max wanted to drop this off for Scooter'

'How Sweet! Where's Max?

Ahh, he is under your porch?

Under my porch? and I go out in slippers, in the snow and look for him.

Max?And I can see the halo of his hair... He is looking down and refuses to show his face.

Max?

'Yes.' comes a meak voice. through his jacket.

Max? Did you bring this for Scooter?

Yyyyes!

Do you want to see Scooter?

Oooh, Okay...

Just a minute, then


And with that I call up to my daughter who is in the middle of a playdate. She comes bounding down with her friend in tow.

Yes, Momma?

Ahh Honey, Max is here and he kinda brought you something...

What?

It's on the front porch...

And with that she flies out in her stocking feet.

'Ohhh! Wow...' She says and she looks at Jean. 'Ahhh?Where's Max? '

Oh he is under the porch.

Under the porch?

And with that my wee gal calls for Max.

Jean points to where he is.

My daughter bolts down the stairs before I can tell her to take heed with her in her socks.

My daughter kneels down. Max?Max you are so funny! Come out! Thank you for the chocolates? Do you want one? She looks up and sees her girlfiend shyly standing on our porch in her bare feet... Max? This is my friend Jamie. Jamie this is my good friend Max... Ohh, you don't want to come out? Ohhh that's okay. Thanks for coming over Max!

And with that Scooter rustled his hair and rushed up the stairs and into the house with her playdate ...

Jean laughed. She had to recount what lead her to my porch just as I have recounted it to you dear Blogger.

Max did comeout from under my porch and he looked like the King of the World. His head held high and a certain glow to the cheeks which I had not seen before... And Jean even commented on the same...As he took her hand and made her skip back home.

He conquered purchasing the chocolates, he conquered making an extra special Valentine, he conquered our stairs, he conquered having a voice that stood alone and he conquered his first of many hearts.

Love is always bestowed as a gift…

Love is always bestowed as a gift…freely, willingly, and without expectation...We don't love to be loved; we love to love." – Leo Buscaglia

When Ingrid started to speak. I wanted 'it' all to go away. I wanted 'it' to be washed away, for this diagnosis, this prognosis to be a horrible, horrible mistake. I could not hear Stage Four cancer. I could not hear 'it' is in her bones and 'it' is tingling up her spine. And yet, I heard all of it. I can not imagine that we are entering our final act.

I could hear how scared she is. I could hear how she can not leave her children. I could hear how young her kids were and how she would not be remembered. I could hear how she was afraid of vanishing from their lives and from their memory.

But I could not cry in front of her. I could not repeat Stage Four Cancer. I could not repeat the facts of the cancer, I could not utter that it was in her spine. Because then it would filter through to my heart.

'Right then...' was all I could say... 'And I am here... Ohhh, Honey I am here... There, there... I am here...Chemo, I am there... I will hold your hand, I will wipe the tears...'

If I repeated 'Stage Four' it would be true. And my heart, my heart...

And then she jolted me with 'I do not know what I was expecting Pend. Why did I ask him? Why did I need to know so soon? I foolishly thought okay... Radiation; chemo; bring it on and I would kill it. The treatment would kill it and I could move on... He told me initially that the cancer, the cancer probably caused the herniated disk... And that is why my back hurt so much. And well, ha! it wasn't a herniated disk, it was the cancer. It has spread. And you know my mother keeps on saying we can fight this... But Pend it is in my spine... And I look at my kids...'

'Ingrid, you know you do not even look sick.' I try to add.

She laughs.

'I have lost all my hair. Pendullum.'

'Ingrid, you have not. '

And with that she takes off her wig made of human hair dyed to match her own unique colouring. She takes off her wig and I sit beside her and run my fingers through her remaining hair. Hair that used to be a mane. Hair that was so full ;as kids we would make fun of it as being just a blob no matter what she did with it.

'Oh My dear sweet Ingrid. You look like a punk. A bonafide punk mohawk is what you have... A rockin mom! My, sweet, sweet, Ingrid.. The queen of Prep, looks like a punk...Who would have thunk?'

And with that she laughed... and I wiped her tears.

and she kept her wig on her lap.

"We try and keep it light around the house. We do not talk about it. Jim cooks and I play with the kids. He's a really good cook!'

We talk about her family and mine. We talk about how my Scooter looks exactly like me as a child. And we laugh about our cherished, glorious, ever so distant past.

And she left me and we are to have lunch this week. We are to spend precious afternoons together and we are to try and get as much time in before... Before...

My heart is broken.

My heart feels as though I can not make it through.

But I must.

I know. I know what lies ahead. I have gone down this road too many times before.

I can not cry in front of her. I can not make the cancer go away. I can not make the pain go away. I can only be with her. I can only be with her when it hurts and when it is not so bad. I can hold her hand and I will be there. For that is what I need and want to do.

But it hurts.

It hurts so bad that you cry in the shower when no one is around. You cry and you cry a valley of tears. You do not think you have anymore tears and then they start all over again. Your chest aches and your heart is being tugged and it feels as though it will burst out of your chest. And sometimes it catches you when you least expect it, like putting away the groceries or a song that brings you back to a time that was. And you are back to sobs that have to be muffled in case your famly hears as they will try and make the pain go away...
Ans they will be helpless as the pain must stay with you. It will be there slowly, dulling and you will be able to breath again.

I will be able to breath again without the sobs. I have learned this. I have learned that it hurts, the heart aches and then you can exhale without as much pain as the last time. I will be able to draw air in without it causing me to wince. I know this.

And sometimes we look for answers. Look for just a sign on how to get by and it happens...

And today after meeting my daughter for lunch in -30 Celcius weather I began to walk home with my head focused on the white salt stained pavement below my feet. The streets are abandoned, as who would brave such weather? I began to walk alone and in the chill of winter voices tend to carry. And I could hear the voice of a man and a woman talking. I looked up.

The elderly man was walking ahead of his wife. He was walking with a cane a few feet ahead of his wife and he was aggitated. You could see it in the way he held his head and in the stance of his walk. He looked strong and determined and his wife looked frightened.

I could hear him say'So, if I fall I fall. Such is life. I pick myself up, wipe off the snow and carry on. '

I can not hear his wife as she has her mouth muffled by a scarf. But I can see the worry in her eyes. and as they pass me I can hear...

'Wha? So I get hurt! You can not stop me from falling! If I fall; I fall. Please let me walk. And if I hurt myself, I hurt myself. I will still want to walk. You can not stop these things, they happen, and I not going to live my life in fear of what could happen if I fall. I need to live, Love. I need to do this. '

And so it is.

I will carry on. I will walk and I will stumble along the way. And indeed I will hurt myself. But it is so very nice to have all of you there to help wipe away the tears.

Thank you so very much for all your beautiful, beautiful comments. I have cried through each and every one of them. And I know I will revisit them a great deal through all of this....

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

And to all of you on Valentine's Day... My heart has been helped along the way by each and every one of your comments... You have helped pick me up along the way...
I will look up to the stars... the heavens and the blue blue window beyond the stars...
And where I can not change the course... I am so glad that you all have come along .. Love you all!

How Do You Mend A Broken Heart?

I remember Grade Eight and having to go to Guidance Class. Our teacher/instructor tried very hard to reach us. He tried very hard to express that we should understand the concept of what satisfaction was, and what life could be. He tried to tell us to embrace happiness when it came because it is a gift and a blessing not to be overlooked and taken for granted. He was faced by our jaded group; our group of hormone-infested tweens; tweens who were practicing our best scowls, while slouching in our chairs, looking through our Farrah Fawcett/Peter Frampton hair. We already knew it all.

He would try and reach us by asking through questions as a forum. He would ask 'what is satisfaction?'. And he would receive the giddy response in return. He would roll his eyes and try to bring us out of our infinite knowledge by suggesting that satsifaction could be attained by reaching the bathroom when you really needed to go. He suggested that satisfaction could come in the form of a really great candy bar if you were really hungry or a great cold glass of water on a very hot day. He tried to suggest that satisfaction could be found in a sunrise after a very rough storm. Or in a good belly laugh after a really good cry. He tried to stress that satisfaction could be attained with small things as well as the big things in life. And if we embraced certain sensations, certain moments they could encapsolate a wonderful moment or at least a better time when things were rough. A moment of satisfaction or happiness should never be overlooked.

He continued on with our class, once a week, trying to guide us along the slippery road into teendom. He tried to help us pick our schools of choice and tried to help us realize that we could all reach our true potential. 'We could be anything. Just think of the possibilities. The world was our oyster.' He would exclaim with an earnest zealousness as we filled out our forms with hopes of admission to a high school of our choice.

But it was not all rose coloured glasses when he dealt us with. He told us to look around the classroom, as a great deal of us, may not make it to our 40th birthday. He told us by the age of twenty-five at least one of us would be dead. And this was greeted by the obligatory 'As if' And 'Pahshaw" that often comes with youth. The doubt of us, not living forever, was not part of our venacular. He was written off with any crediblity after such a remark.

Ingrid and I sat beside each other in all of this. We were never really the vocal girls. If fact we were quiet and I suppose square. We never drank, we didn't smoke, we didn't 'put out'. We sang in the choir, we played musical instruments, we read. We got by and even though we were not the loud girls somehow we were popular. I suppose it was something in the way we wore our lumberjackets and sassoon jeans. Maybe the way Ingrid's braces reflected in the summer sun, or my perms were a thing of beauty to behold. We were never without. We had each other and the attentions of others.

We went through the years together. Heck, we knew each other since we were four years of age. We had countless sleepovers. We were welcomed and lived in each other's homes often preferring the other person's life. We had gone through all our classes together. We knew how each other's thoughts and had a great love of sarcasm and our past was safely embedded in the countless letters that Ingrid had kept safely stored in bankerboxes underneath her bed through out the years. Her parents lived the straight and narrow always safe, with the ever calm presence of Ingrid's father playing the piano. There was a calm pressence there.

My House by contrast was a bit unruly, with boarders and shift work. There were four kids and there were always playdates which filled th house with a certain rauccousness. My father was a cop and the possibility of his demise was always on the surface of our family's day to day life as it could be a part of his job. Life at my house could be a bit unsettling. But full of loud fun.

The reality of the unexpected did strike us after the guidance speeches as Ingrid's father died in a plane crash the following summer. We went through a pretty hard time. As her father died just after dropping her family off at their family cottage and was just returning across the lake to pick up their luggage. A heart attack on the way to pick up the luggage. A heart attack which saw him crash into the lake 25 miles from shore.

We were given our first lesson of mortality happening at a pretty young age. Her father was a young 48 year old man. A man who would always be remembered for playing the piano and engaging us in witty, intellectual, conversation. He would be remembered for building his airplane in the backyard, his love of the English language and the University in which he taught it in, and most importantly he would be remembered for his infinite love of his family. It was so hard not to have him in our lives. The sanctity of reliability was shaken from our very core.

A young broken heart. And as the years have gone on I have attended a great deal of funerals for my friends from my school. I have lost two to suicide. An old boyfriend of mine took his life. I have lost three friends to car accidents. And the irony resonates to my heart whenever I attend a funeral, that maybe our bitter, guidance teacher did have something in his lessons.

He never did teach how to find the words of comfort for the widows, the husbands or the mothers of the children left behind. He never taught how to comfort the broken hearted.

I have had a great deal of things that I have 'satisfaction' with. I have known a great deal of happiness. I have never had a problem with seizing the day, and enjoying my 'moments' of satisfaction for indeed sometimes they do sustain you and carry you through the roughest of times.

But I have known much sadness. I have lost too, too many friends, to cancer and other tragic maladies. I have lost them before the age of forty and a great deal of me is bitter about it. I am so sad that I can not call my lost friends and talk with them. I am sad that I will not have the chance to have a glass of wine and watch our children play and grow up together. I am so sad that my friends' children will not truly have a memory of their departed mothers and fathers, or as me as their auntie. I am so sad some moments were taken for granted.

And today, Ingrid unexpectantly came to my door.

Ingrid rang my doorbell.

And I answered the door. I looked at her in surprise.

And she cried. And I hugged her on my doorstep with the cold chilling wind on her back and in my chest she wept and I was waiting for her to get her breath, waiting to hear what was so terribly wrong in her world.

She said as she sobbed...

'Ohhhhhh Pendullum. I am so very scared. I am so very, very, scared. I have cancer. I have cancer, Pendullum. I need you.'

And dear reader....

I am so very scared.

I am so very, very, sad to what road lies ahead.

And I do not know how to mend this broken heart.

No one gave me that important life's lesson...

The Road Which Leads to Oscar

Last week the nominees were announced for the 79 Academy Awards. And I have to painstakenly admit I do not take notice as I did before the birth of Scooter. I think there is something about having a kid and only seeing the films in the 'animated feature' category that truly takes the zing out of the Oscars.

The Oscars resonnate a past life when I was part of the adult culutre. I would have seen all the films in all the categories. I would understand all the in jokes about the various films broadcast over the live feed. I would have been part of the Oscar club. I would have my bets on who should win and who would win.I would stay upuntilthe last category was won.

But now, I find, I turn on the television the day of the event. I still watch the parade of glamourous stars wearing their beautiful designer dresses, who have hired sylists to ensure that they do not make a fashion faux pas for the glorious day. There is not a hair clip out of place and all dresses could be swapped for the next there are no mistakes or true mishaps to be had.And their PR people can get them the best seats in the house, as well as the best commentary from Joan Rivers and her daughter. I do not have a vested interest. And I feel as though the event as been orchestrated so perfectly ; the drama and entrensic theatre have been drawn out of the Oscar experience.

So when the nominations were announced, they went unnoticed by myself in my tattered blue jeans and black turtleneck sweater with silver hooped earings.

That is, until my husband called upstairs as I was putting Scooter to bed. He called up with urgency and with a great deal of excitement in his voice... He called up to say our friend had been nominated for an Oscar.

Now, when you hear that your friend has been nominated for this prestigious award you can become giddy. You get all excited. You get to where your heart grows a moment, it swells in your chest, you palpatate with pride and then you go down memory lane ... You go down the road to when you first knew your friend and the incredible voyage which leads to an Academy Award Nomination.

I met my gal pal Oscarina, (how can you tell I make up all my friends names to protect them) through my husband. She worked with him and while WonderBoy and I were dating, we all hung out together. We went to films, we shot pool, we ate at 3am, we worked across the hall from each other so when the deadlines were long we would quickly share take-out in our perspective boardrooms and work to the wee hours of the morning often sharing cabs.

Oscarina was married. And she was putting her husband Chris through Chiropractic college. He 'studied' hard and was never home. He was always working on that degree. That is until Oscarina went looking for her extra wool socks one particularly cold day and found a whole pile of explicit, spine tingling letters to Chris from one of his classmates. As luck would have it Oscarina found these letters two days before Chris' graduation from Chiropractic college. His gift to her was the knowledge that he did not love her anymore and was going to his graduation with the author of the letters she had found.

Now Oscarina is a very noble woman. She is not prone to sentimental claptrap. She is more of the 'jaded European type'. A Garbo in our midst not wearing emotions on her sleeve, not standing on a soapbox announcing how her man did her wrong... Not talking about 'how could this happen?' Would she have changed herself? Could she have changed the course? Would she have changed her faith in herself because of someone elses' deceit? Her head held high she moved on, as what else was there to do?

About a year later, Oscarina developed a love interest with an old friend of hers. They quickly developed into a long distance love affair. But Oscarina was not happy. Oscarina's new love interest, Fred suggested that maybe they should take there relationship to a new level by her moving to his city and starting anew. She agreed and so our young heroine took her architectural degree to another city in hopes of happiness with her new love.

Oscarina was happy in her new city, happy with her new love. But terribly unhappy in her chosen career. She had a degree and felt chained to it. She did not like the work and was terribly, unhappy.

Fred, being a smart man, a learned man, suggested maybe another path. A Path not taken. He suggested that she should think about what would truly make her happy and go for it. She was smart, she was keen and she had not financial restraints. He had a good paying job and could support her. Take her time and find her true path.

And with that, Oscarina dared to put her head out into the skies and dared to dream of what she really wanted to be but was too fearful that it would be ridiculed. But she knew she could not live with regret. So, she dared. She dared to take on something new. To take a chance and not be bound by a past but to see a true future for herself.

Oscarina had a vision, she knew what she wanted to be when she grewup. And with the persistance and willingness to learn she worked towards her new goal. A goal that would sustain her into the future. She went back to school. She went back at an older age. She went back in her late thirties. She went back to start a new career of her choice.

And I could fill in the middle with all the challenges that faced our heroine. And there were many. But none that were not met with a a degree of discouragement as she truly could see her path. The blocks we just obstacles which took her on many various tours to her fate. Her true calling.

And I will not tell you what she is nominated for, as she can be emblematic for all those faceless beings in the theatre. The ones who have made the journey, the voyage of a dream. Where no camera will focus on her arrival, none will be focussed on her expectant face in the theatre but a heart will be pounding just the same. Just as my faceless being will be rivetted to my television set, just to hear my friend's name and I can scream 'YES, for she is happy whether she takes home Oscar or not, as she is still on a journey, a voyage and I am so glad that I have been taken along for a true Oscar ride. The path does not stop there.It continues as does life. But for a moment, a brief moment, we stop and hear our hearts pounding in anticipation for a name being called out in a theatre and celebrate the voyage to getting there.

Santa is Alive and Well and Lives In California?

I am going to share with you my Dearbloggerfriend my great life reaffirming holiday story.

My daughter has become a great Beatles fan. She absolutely loves them. It started innocently enough when she was about three years of age when she first saw The Yellow Submarine. She loved it. And through her nine years on this earth, she has been continually inundated with music from the Beatles.

And last year something really hit a chord with my dear Scooter as she sat and watched A Hard Days Night. She sat mesmerized by these young boys from Liverpool, with their charming smiles, cute hairdos and close fraternity of the band that the film displayed. She loved the humour and the quirkiness of each band member. We have since followed it up with Help! and my daughter's love of Mr. Ringo Starr has been sealed. Sealed so solidly that I have been told that her first born son will be named Richard Starkey. I had always wondered what my first born grandson would be named and now I know.

She has also declared that she knows that someday she will meet Mr. Starr. She just knows she will. All of her friends are given wee antidotes about the Beatles and know how great of a drummer Ringo was. She knows of all the folklore and can pinpoint who is singing what. She can tell you all of the Beatle wives as well. All of her stuffed animals are given names of the Beatles and their crew.

So, for Christmas, when I saw on Ebay the Ringo Starr 'classic', Caveman, I knew I had a perfect stocking stuffer for my wee lass. I placed my bid and awaited the news of my winning the product.

And lo and behold I won!

I do not know if any of you have ever made a purchase through e-bay. It is pretty straight forward, you place your bid, you win or you lose and then you arrange for shipment costs and normally you pay for all through Paypal... Absolutely brilliant! No fuss, no muss and you did not have to leave your home for your purchase, it comes home to you.

Well, my dear seller, does not want his payment through the easy 'no fuss no muss' method of Paypal. He wants his payment through money order. It may seem simple enough for some, but in my neighbourhood, at Christmastime, proves to be a big hassle. A big hassle as people in my neighbourhood are from the olde country. People from my neighbourhood, live, live, for line-ups as it brings them back to the ways of the olde country. It brings them back to their beloved Poland. They are true vetrans of the waiting in line-ups. They bring sustenance.They have thermos' filled with tea and they have sausages. They know of a full day commitment when it comes to government and they expect it. They do not come to the post office for a small piddly package. They come to the post office with bundle buggies full of packages. And they pay for all these packages with bags of coins. Not rolled, as what are they paying the goverment for?

And of course, the post office employee takes all of this in good stride. She is a government employee. She will not be intimidated by huffy people in line. In fact, if there seems to be any rebellion in the ranks, it causes her to work at an even slower pace, seeming to crawl along in her tasks of the day. And all the while she speaks in Polish and moves in such a way, that her breathing causes irritation to a woman, who has to pick up her kid from school in two hours and a half and fears that she has not allowed enough time for this adventure.

Now, I am a perfectly reasonable person. I am a person who is patient and kind. But my neighbourhood post office truly sends me over the deep end. And the fact that I am there five weeks before Christmas and dealing with the crowds displays a love that is indeed great for my daughter. And to be told when I get to the front of the line that they do not take interact, to be told after waiting a lifetime, watching endless pennies being counted at the counter, to hearing all the gossip of various rhumnetoid remedies, to be told when I get to the front of the line that they do not take interact, can cause a perfectly reasonable person to go insane. Or dare I use the phrase 'POSTAL??"

But why do you not take interact? You took it two weeks ago?

Nih,

What do you mean Nih? You did!

Nih Panyha. Zat was den, dis is now. Too buzy for dis interaaaact?

But you are not too busy to count out pennies? I am such a novice when it comes to line ups, such an upstart, such a whippersnapper.And with her 'Nih, and Nexxct!!!!" supended in the air she dismisses me and looks to the next prepared customer, Miss Fussy Pants, or Miss Pissy Pants aka me, turns and leaves, grumbling my displeasure for all the rest of my 'line up buddies' proletariat amusement.

I am so discouraged, well, that truly is not the word, I am so angry , yes, angry, furious even, that to go to my bank, and then go back to the post office takes more energy than I can expend. And since my gasket in brimming to explosion I decide to avoid my rage and storm home sputting and spewing about the injustice of it all.

A week passes and my mind has been preoccupied with all the other holiday festivities that have taken up my mind and brain limited activity. So much so, that I had utterly and completely forgotten about my purchase, my lack of payment or and the postal payment. That is until I get the phone call from my Ebay Buddy.

Ohhh my Gawd.i am so sorry... And I explain my mental obstacle problem with the post. And that I am truly embaressed for my tardiness/forgetfulness. I tell him all about my post office experience, and promise to battle it head on the following day.

I then tell him about my daughter and how much this is going to make her Christmas. I then go into the history of my daughter's love. How often does a kid sit through the entire Beatles Anthology. My daughter can imitate the way George versus John hold their perspective guitars, this poor man was given the whole 'Why Scooter loves the Beatles Speech' and all he was calling for was payment.

I get to the post office, I make my payment, I request Prioity Post and e-mail my E-Bay buddy the particulars. A week and a half later my payment arrives.Nothing like Priority Post! And with that he informs me that the package has been sent.

I write him a thank you note and another sincere apology for my tardiness. And to my surprise he writes me back.
He writes me back with a great story. He, too, loves the Beatles. He, too, can not get enough of them. He understands my family's love of the Beatles. He goes on in his story to tell me about a good friend of his and how she was given the opportunity to play on Sir Paul's latest album. He tells a story of how his good friend was read the riot act through the record label and told that she may not address SirPaul, may not talk about the Beatles or anything for that matter. He tells me how he made his dear friend feels rotten. As he tried guilting her into allowing him to at least drive her to the recording studio for this may be his only opportunity to get a glimpse of one of the fab four.She tells him no, but it huants her. It haunts her all the way through the drive to the studio and up to the kitchen where all the other musicians are making their tea. She then tells all the musician how over wrought with guilt she it and that her friend is such a huge fan and she let him down.
She then decides to prove her point by calling his answering machine and making the various musicians listen to his out going message which is The Beatles and Paul's voice screaming ONE TWO THREE FOOAAHHH!!!

And with that Sir Paul enters the room.The musicians point beyond this young woman's shoulders and she turns... And there she is with Sir Paul. There she is with the man she is supposed to not address, not allowed to talk to, and definitely not allowed to mention The Beatles with.

And it is more than she can bare, she screams' Sir Paul, Sir Paul, I know we are not allowed to talk about The Beatles, I know we are not allowed to talk to you, But Sir Paul, Sir Paul, I would be a horrible, horrible, friend if I did not ask you to listen to my friend's answering machine message!!!Please!!!'

And with that he took the phone from the young woman and pressed redial. He listened to my EBay buddy's outgoing message and left one of his very own Sir Paul greeting on my Ebay Buddy's machine.

Now, this story certainly warmed my heart at Christmas.It was such a sweet story. A story of friendship and it really did make me feel all warm and cozy inside. So, I wrote my e-bay buddy to tell him just that...I also let him know that the Caveman movie arrived and it was perfect.(In truth I forgot how truly bad it was but we fast forwarded the questionable parts.)

Well, My Ebay Buddy then emails me back saying that he has something special for my family. And with that he sent the message from SirPaul as well as bloopers of Beatles recording sessions from around the world. It should receive arrive for Christmas. And Merry Christmas to you and yours.

The CD arrived and I placed it in my husband's stocking along with the new CD called LOVE... But the CD of the Bloopers is what was the coveted gift over the holidays. It was played non stop. John trying to get Paul to laugh, Paul screaming 'Bloody Hell,' and George making up words to a song... Endless moments for the fans in my home.

I wrote my dear Ebay Buddy another thank you note to let him know how truly appreciated his gift was.... How utterly selfless and I will remember him always for it. As through a simple ebay purchase I got a bit of Christmas back. For Santa is alive and well and lives in California.

And you know....
When he opened my e-mail. He felt so very special. He did feel like Santa Claus. But he also added that he felt very surreal for as he opened his blackberry to my e-mail he was in Ringo Starr's home. He was asked to help his friend with a contract of decorating his home. He was in Ringo's house...

And Mr. Starr was on the phone in front of him and on the coffee table there was a Variety Book with Icons of the 21st century with the Beatles on the cover. And through his email he gave me wee tastes of what the home looked like for me to tell my daughter so that she may relive his moment.

He wrote me a wonderful note back saying that he would find a way to get a fan letter from my Scooter to Mr. Starr.

Now, Dear-BloggerFriend , it does not end there, as I have told this story of goodwill to all who were willing to listen. And I told this story to my friends at a big party I had over the holidays...

And one of the dad's at my party, gives me this mischievious smile and says that 'we are all elves.... And not only does Santa live in California but he can live in Canada too... 'And with that he has my attention...

His sister's best friend is married to Zachary Starkey. Ringo's son.

And so the beat goes on... Now, if only I could get my daughter into Thom Yorke!

Elvis Presley - Baby What You Want Me To Do ('68 Comeback)


They the powers that be at You Tube took off 'One Night' from their line up...and you really need the true Elvis Visual for the post... As I do not want you to thinkof anything other than the man clad in leather, jammin'!
So It may not be' One Night' But it is at least a pretty distant second but I gotta do what I gotta do!
So please read the next post...as this is just a quick wee eye candy visual and/or the music as a backdrop to the following post... My husband loves me me very much....

One Night



My husband loves me very much. My husband adores me. He would go to the sun and moon and back again for me... or at least he would take me to Graceland.

He loves me so much that he knew what I felt for Elvis since I was a young girl. He knew I experienced the King's magic in the 68 Comeback special. He knew what an out of body experience it was like for me. He knew the King could make me swoon. And my Beloved was okay with it.

So when we were courting he knew that he 'had' me when he suggested that we go on a road trip. He knew that I was in love. For who else could or would, want to share the true Elvis Experience with me?

We went to Graceland,Memphis, Tennessee. The home of the King. We went singing a Blue Christmas and Heartbreak Hotel at the top of our lungs while eating peanut butter sandwiches. We went to Graceland saying'Tank ya, Tank ya very muuuuch'

I loved the camp of Elvis. And as fate would have it we descended upon Graceland on Elvis' Birthday, January 8th, in 1991. There were Elvis impersonators everywhere. There were young Elvis' old Elvis', there were Chinese Elvis' there were Rasta Elvis'. There were women with their best Pricilla bee hive hairdo's , there were old and young alike. They were coming to pay their respects to the King. And me not even knowing it was the King's Birthday...

We stayed across the street from the home of Elvis in the Memory Lane Inn and our room came equipped with the twenty four hour Elvis channel. The swimming pool was in the shape of a guitar and the 'art' on the walls were old album covers that were nailed into the veneer. Our 'consierge' at the front desk looked as though he were Elvis had he lived to age 65 with jet black hair still greased back, weighing a modest three hundred pounds, with gold rings on each finger and a sneer that followed. He walked with his head held on a slant, wearing black high heeled boots coupled with black polyester pants, a ELVIS belt buckle and a shirt unbuttoned to show off his lightening bolt TCB gold necklace. I was living the moment.

'Will you be staying for the continental breakfast?' he asks in the great Tennesee drawl looking at me through his eyebrows.
What is in the continental breakfast? I ask politely.
'Ahhh, doughnuts popcorn, coke and a coffee...'
'Sounds like a breakfast fit for a king! Count us in!'

And with that we checked in and hankered down to watch the Elvis station, where we learned from Elvis' cousin twice removed that Elvis was/is not dead, He informed us at 1 am that "He knows Elvis and that was not Elvis in the coffin that he saw.' We watched bad films, other relatives with various speculations on where Elvis may be living but there was no 68 Comeback Special to be had.

I do not know what I had expected about Elvis' home, collection of Cadillacs, airplane or bus. I do not know if I wanted some sense of connection to this man who reached me over the televison and through records. I do not know if I thought if I perused his home I may have that tingly sensation of his presence.

But Graceland does not give you this. It is just a home, a suburban home that has tour guides who give out scripted antitdotes about Elvis, through an ex-wife's voice. The furniture has all been covered in plastic just as his afterlife seemed to be. The feeling of Elvis had indeed left this building. There was no sense of Elvis ever being in da' building. But I suppose his house does not really have a soul or for that matter his sweat. The sweat has already been tweeked out of all his clothing and has been sold in the officially sanctioned Elvis store across the way.

That is until we walked downstairs into his costume area. And there were all his famous outfits. There it was the leather suit. There is was, and I felt 'tingly'. It brought me right back to being a girl and watching his Comeback Special as a rerun. It brought me back to my parents wreckroom,me lying on the floor,for I certainly could not get up. With the song 'One Night' I thought, this is the man, this man with that voice, the man with the sneer that belts his guitar on his chest, this man in clad in leather,this IS the man I am going to marry. And as I stared gleaming I just kept hearing 'One Night' in my head...

And when we came to his wedding tuxedo. Ohhhh how I just stared.
I remember turning to the Man Who Brought me to Graceland and saying' A brown paisley tux... How utterly cool is that??? Brown Paisley!!! And he just nodded in agreement.
'Did I ever tell you, I thought I was going to marry Elvis?' I inquire, not really to him, but more to the manequin that sported the brown paisley tuxedo behind the bullet proof sheilding.

I should have stayed in that section and not meandered over to the Las Vegas suits but that was also part of his being. And part of his style. And if anything, Elvis had his own type of style. I preferred to remember him always in the 68 Special but acknowledge that the movies and the Vegas years did happen.

But the tour did not seem right, even with all the camp all around us.

I had a good laugh at the King size bed in the Lisa Marie Airplane with the seat belt across the middle for when Elvis had long flights. Sure I had a giggle seeing the eternal flame right beside the swimming pool. And I had a good laugh knowing that Elvis' great Aunt was still living upstairs while we toured her nephew's home. But it left me feeling pretty void. How everyone was cashing in on Elvis. How they were cashing in on his being instead of his music. In Graceland there is no music to be had.

But we decided to get off the tour and explore Memphis ourselves. And in the rain we came upon Sun Studios.
We found Elvis and he was in the building. It was just a small recording studio where Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins and Elvis first got their start.

The recording engineers who purchased the studio had a real love of music, a real love for the sound that came out of Memphis. They saved the studio as it had been made into a autobody repair shop. They painstakenly brought back the tiles and refurbished the studio back to its grandeur of when Sam Phillips had a vision. These sound engineers brought the Elvis and the other hometown boys home for the tourists and they knew we were all looking for them.

We were given an audio tour. We stood transfixed in the centre of the studio as they played the tapes they had recovered. We heard all of the good takes and the bad. We heard the banter, and we heard them jam with each other. We heard them. We heard them while they were still struggling, or in some cases rising up. There was laughter and artistry in those walls. We heard Elvis come in and interrupt Carl Perkins recording to show off his new Cadillac, we also hear him leave as he curses the kids who were playing on the hood of his new car. We heard Johnny Cash enter from Christmas shopping and wanted to wish Elvis a Merry Christmas as he just saw the Cadillac parked out front.We heard Jerry Lee, enter to find out where his song was on the charts and was startled to meet Mr. Presley. It would known later as the Million Dollar recording session. And we get to hear how these men heard music in the Delta and re-interpretate it for the masses. We heard them jam. And we heard an interpretation of rock and roll history and the sounds of some of the bars in the South. We heard a part of America.

And at the end of the audio there was a sense of satisfaction with all in the room. We took in all that the walls had witnessed and produced with the Memphis rains pouring in the back ground.

And as we stood in the centre of the room, the engineers pointed as an afterthought to the various instruments and props around the studio ' Dat dere is de piano dat Jerry Lee Lewis recorded Great Balls of Fire, and dat dere is the guitar of Mr. Johnny Cash And over dere, dat dere is the microphone dat Elvis is holding in dat dere photograph.'

And to my utter amazement as the sound engineers let us have our moment, a group of elderly women who were with us on the audio tour, the ones with their white hair held high in their bee hive lids, these respectable grannies, these women, these women, looked around to make certain that no one was looking and then they grabbed the microphone and licked it.... I could not believe my eyes... But indeed Elvis was in the building and maybe they could just taste a bit of his saliva.

My Graceland companion gasped and I howled.

And through the years I have met various people who knew Elvis.I have met people that have jammed with Elvis and were given the Elvis trademark TCB lightning bolt necklace instead of the Cadillac. And they could bring Elvis into the building with their stories and their songs.

And in 1994 when I wore a giant merrangue dress, with a veil. for the man I truly love, I found that he, my soul mate, my road companion for life, had worn a brown paisley suit.

And all I could do as I swooned at the alter was to say "Oh baby, for me?'

And I know I am a bit late... with all due respect, Baby,may I call you Baby? Mr. Elvis Aaron Presley... Thank ya Thank ya very much...And Happy Birthday... From your adoring fan # 15,675,393.

Donny Osmond- Puppy Love


A Gift That Keeps On Giving

When Jill called twelve years ago and asked me to go and see an Andrew Lloyd Webber Musical I was taken aback.

I have known Jill for years and she is one, tough cookie. She has worked in construction for the past ten years and prior to that she was a bar maid at a very popular tough, blues bar. Famous blues artists knew her by name, greats like Buddy Guy, Mac Guitar Murphy or Stevie Ray Vaughn would dedicate songs in their set to Jill. She could balance a tray of beers, handle change, take a bow all in good grace with a cigarette dangling from her lips.

She was a no nonsense type of woman that was used to smokey caverns and to be asked to go to a musical with her was if anything out from the character I thought I knew.

'Ahh, come on Pendullum! You love musicals! It will be fun!' she begged....

'But, its Andrew Lloyd Webber and I am not a big fan,' and huffily add 'He still has a alot answer for with that 'musical' Cats!'

Ohhh,Come on Pend...Donny Osmond is in it!!

Donny Osmond? Are you kidding? No! No, I mean, even MORE of a reason NOT to go...

Come on, it will be great...she implored.

'I would not put Donny and Andrew Lloyd Weber together and come up with 'Great' Jill...Really!'

'Oh,Pend,My friend Ginger is part of the chorus and really wants to me to go... Please?'

'Oh, Jill...All right, but this is for your friend...'

So my dear, rocking, 'gal pal' drove into the mean city so that we could have lunch get caught up. I did not really see her excitement in the moment. I just though she was excited to see me as it had been a while. I thought the speed in which she talked was due to getting all the information out before we had to sit in the darkened theatre. I thought that when she paid our bill while I was using the loo was just her being generous and thanking me for going to the musical. I did not register the urgency or that she was rushing me out of the restaurant.

How little did I know.

We entered the theatre and were surprised as we were fourth row centre. I was not too taken up with our seats, as I was of the fully grown Donny Osmond fans behind us. These two women were decked out in their purple socks and old Donny Osmond hats and they brought their ten year old daughters to educate them on how great Donny was/is. They were living for this Donny moment all of their lives.

I barely had time to register all of what was around me when the orchestra started to play and the curtain opened and Donny made his appearance. The women behind me went crazy. They screamed as Donny floated above us.

'Fall on me!!!!! Donny!!!!! Fall on me, Do what you want with ME!!!! Donny!!!' they belted in hysteria.

I just simply could not believe this 'Donny experience'. I was in awe that such adoration. Apparently if you love Donny it could last what appears to be a lifetime of unrequitted puppy love.
As the women screamed 'He is the gift that just keeps on giving!!!' I had to smirk.

The fans realized that their screams of want and desire, were being muted by the orchestra and the entire cast belting out the showtunes.They decided to save their voices for the end of the show when Donny would come out for his bow and then their voices would maybe carry to their hearthrob for the last twenty years.

For all my skeptism I was impressed with the show. I dare say it was good. I was entertained and enjoyed the ride of the musical.

And at the end of the show my girlfriend Jill was gloating that I did enjoy the musical. It went unnoticed on my radar when she requested, with the demonic smile, that we go back stage to congratulate Ginger on the show's success. I did not notice that she grabbed me and tugged me along leaving no room for escape.

We had to exit the theatre and go in through the back stage doors. And to my surprise there were our neighbouring seatmates, the mothers from hell in their purple socks with their Donny Osmond records and their embarassed,daughters who had not felt the wonder on Donny. There were waiting at the stage door in hopes of having another Donny moment. I looked at them and looked at my girlfriend. I did not recognize/ register that they were wearing the same crazed expression. As Jill just kept on talking about the show and aparently did not notice these wacky fans. I wish I looked into Jill's eyes at that time. But hindsight is twenty twenty.

My girlfriend gave our name and we were lead into the inner corridors of the theatre. We were told to wait in the green room for Ginger. And while we waited I looked at the portraits on the wall and kept myself amused. I talked about the various publicity shots and my girlfriend responded to each of these comments cohearantly with the odd 'aha'.

When Ginger walked in I gushed and 'oo'ed over her performance. She was pretty happy we came and marvelled at how well received the show was. She then said that she really wanted us to meet Donny. She said that he was a pure joy to work with. He was wholesome and kind. He was considerate to all in the cast and there really was not a bad word you could say about him. In fact, he was going to drop in before he head home.

And almost on cue, Donny entered stage left. He had showered and was wearing grey dress pants and a black shirt as he was due to go to church. He looked good. He still had that boyish, country, wholesome, smile with those great Osmond teeth. He came into the room congratulated Ginger by name, on an excellent performance and then turned his attention to us. Ginger introduced me first.

Hi, Don Osmond.

Hi, I am Pendullum. Boy, that was a really great performance you guys gave. I really liked it a lot. REALLY.Surprised as I did not think I would.

Geez thanks. No,I really do have a great cast. It has been a lot of fun. I really like it here.

And we talked as if we were at a cocktail party. And then Ginger introduced Jill.She was beaming from ear to ear and then I recognized the expression. I recognized the expression as it was the same as the derranged mothers.I was not with my friend Jill. I was with a crazed Donny Osmond fan.

She stood up to greet Donny. She reached out with both her hands and grabbed Donny's hand. She grabbed him with both hands and just stared. A vacant stare with this smile that encompassed her entire face.

Her eyes were fixated on Donny's and she was not blinking.

She opened her mouth to speak.

She was trying to say something.

"annanmmana' came out of her lips.

I looked over at my friend. She was shaking Don's hand with such urgency that Donny's body looked as though it were vibrating.

'Amamannnabanna, ahhhhh, ohhhhh, anananman Jill, amanana loooooooove, amaman Jill, loooooove, ahhh,yyyyyyoouuuu, ahhhhh DDDDDDonny' came out of my drooling friend's mouth.

Donny is looking to me for help as Ginger is thinking this is indeed an out of body experience.

I reach over and try to pry Jill's hands off Mr. Osmond while she still spoke in the forked tongue of love.

I tried as best I could to translate for my friend.

'Ahh, what she is meaning to say Donny, I mean Don, is that her name is Jill and she is a big fan. Is this right Jill?'

'AAAHkkkk ahhkkkke yyyyeaahhh'

And as I pried her hands off of him and he being the pro, with these 'types' of Donny moments kept eye contact with her and nodded and thanked her.

'And I think she is also trying to say that she liked the show? Am I right here, Jill?'

'Ahhhhhhaaaa. wwwove aiiit wwwove Iiiiii wwwwoooovee'

'Well thanks again...' Don says with humble pride.

And when I finally pry his hand free he thanks her for coming and backs out of the green room nice and slow.

And with the essence o Donny still in the room, my girlfriend returns to the land of the living as quickly as she exited.

I look at her in disbelief.

Pendullum, Pendullum! I just shook hands with DONNY OSMOND! DONNY OSMOND!!!!
Ohhh, My Gawd, he is beautiful.I handled that okay. Don't you think? I mean I didn't try and kiss him or anything...

Yeah, you're right! You did not exactly speak English!You kinda spoke Donny Osmondese...

'Ohh, Pendullum,' she sobbed, 'He is just a gift that keeps giving!'

And twelve years later, Jill is so right. Whenever we chat or reminice, we speak 'Donny Osmondese' and laugh and laugh at a 'moment' that just keeps on giving!

And from the bottom of my blogger heart, I wish all of you endless 'Donny Osmondese' moments... as it truly is the gift that keeps on giving!

Love to all of you in 2007!

Much Love,
Pendullum!

Seasons of Love - Rent (Music Video)


Today is the Anniversary of My Best Friend's Passing

My Best Friend died this day 2001 at 4:45pm.

My Best Friend Died Alone in a hospital bed while I frantically tried to figure out how to get back to New York to climb into his hospital bed and whisper from the inner depths of my heart and soul that 'I love you madly!!! 'I truly Love you!!!'

And while my husband said it was so fitting that he died before the darkest day of the year so that I may mourn him...It gave me no solace...

But years later, I still mourn him on this day... For what I lost. For what the world lost.

But most importantly I celebrate him.

I celebrate the friendship.

I celebrate the moments he gave me...and they will be cherished my entire life.

He gave me wonders...

And he wished wonders for me and my family...

And to all of you from the bottom of my heart...

I wish you all wonders on this holiday season...

Lift up your hearts, behold the lights, embrace the stars and give lots of love, for in the end, isn't that how the season and life should be measured?

Art is in the Eye of the Beholder

Loralei is a wonderful human being.

Her parents named her well. She fits the name perfectly. Or did she grow into it?
Loralei is a slight woman, she has twinkly eyes that envelop you in love and humour. She always looks like she is up to mischief or is at the gate to give a melodious laugh to accentuate the end of your witty story. She has a good nature. She is always doing good for the less fortunate and never talks about it. She would never think to boost her self importance up when she helped someone who was down. She really is the Florence Nightingale of our time. She has wiped many a brow, she has brought forth so much to our world that I am blessed to call her my friend.

So, when Loralei's husband called to say he wanted to throw a party to mark her 50 years on earth, there was an overwelming response as a hundred and fifty people drove from far and wide to celebrate her marvellous life with youthful abandon. People came from as far as Dubai, people came from her hometown and we rented a car, and travelled four hours by car as we could not miss such an opportunity to celebrate Loralei's life.


It was a grand fabulous party .There was a band in her dining room that was playing some great old tunes that Loralei loved. There was dancing, there was laughter, there was endless food and long, lost, friends gathered together. We all had a few more laugh lines and a few tear stains for those who were not with us but it truly felt like an intimate family function with 150 of your most closest of friends .

Our Pied Piper was Laralei and the lilt of her laughter have us all transfixed and unified in our love of her.

With the party winding down, Loralei looked at me and said that she was so genuinely, glad that I came to her party as she had something for me.

This is so typical of Loralei, her birthday and yet she has something for me.

She took my hand and brought me into the dining room where the band had just cleared up their geer, people were still milling about and I could not figure out what she had for me. Then she pointed to a picture on the wall. It was a 40 by 46 painting.

Now, please bare with me, as I have not told you dear reader about Loralei's 'hobby'.
I LOVE Loralei, I adore Loralei, she is one of the finest people I know on this earth, I would never want to hurt Loralei, but I have a deep, dark, secret, dear reader...

A secret about Loralei.

Loralei paints pictures.

Her technique is amazing. She has the strokes right down patt.She has mastered shadows, mastered colour, she is a fine technical painter. She paints so close to the object,in such fine strokes you can not see the beginning or end of her brush.

All that being said, she never stands back to look at what she has painted.

So, all her paintings of humans are ... off... there is something not right, the faces tend to be slightly escue, the eyes off balance or ever so slightly cross eyed, or maybe the lips do not line up with the nose, or it may be something that you can not put your finger on what is wrong with the painting per say...Some how most of her subjects look a bit? A bit? Derranged.

So,when she lead me to this 40 by 46 painting. I was in shock.

'This is for you... 'she says.

I was flabbergasted... I could not tear my eyes away from it. What is it???

'Why Loralei that is just too nice, Thank you... It's it's beautiful...'

'Pendullum, I've worked on this for years, It's Scooter when she was a baby. Remember that picture you took? and I told you how much I loved it..and then you gave me a copy... Remember???' she says as she alooks at me, she has those beautiful sparkly eyes imploring me to take another look at the painting further.

It was hard to focus on the magnitude of this painting.

This portrait of a sleeping alien, with the huge bublous head and the long eyebrow was supposed to be my baby?

This 40 by 46 picture is, Scooter???

Quick Pendullum, recover, recover!!!! Loralei is still looking at me and not the painting. Waiting for me to recognize my off spring in her work.

My mind is quickly scanning through every photograph I have ever taken of my daughter trying to find something familiar something to bring me to the recognition of my daughter being the sleeping alien in front of me... And then I remember... Thank goodness! I remember!

'Ohhh, now I rememberrrrr..... New York???? Scooter was a year,,, yes! yes! Loralei that was so long ago. She is nine now. You have floored me. Brought me back!!! Yes, I am sooooo not used to thinking of her as a baby anymore.'I can now announce with confidence.

I then add,'Oh Loralei is it is far too generous. Ohhh, my gawd, it was so long ago when she was that size... I 'm overwelmed. It is so beautiful. Thank you...'

BoyWonder happens to be walking by, on his way to the kitchen to replenish his beer supply and joins us. I can not give him the low down. I do not have the chance prepare him for this. I have no time to monitor what will come out of his tadd tipsy lips....

'BoyWonder, ahhh look!!!' As I point to the alien painting. 'Loralei has giving us this beautiful painting...' I say with a manic, ,high pitched shrill of a voice so that he knows this is no joke.

Ohhhh??? And then he follows me finger pointing to the larger than life painting. He looked as though he just came upon a train wreck... A horror in the eyes, a mouth slightly agape, he could not pull your eyes away from the painting.

'Why Loalei. it is beautiful but we can not take this' he flatly states.

But you must... I insist...It is my absolute favourite picture of a baby sleeping...' exclaims Loralei.

'Well, then you must keep it!' he eagerly retorts.'We can not take something that is so generous!'

'But, ' protests Loralei, 'It's Scooter, I painted it for you guys... It's the blue matt isn't it? Too much? I knew that blue matt seemed too extreme.'

'SCOOTER?' BoyWonder says a bit louder than needed and now he turns from the portrait and is looking at me for guidance.'No Loralei, the blue matt is great! Scooter?'

'Yes, Honey, It's Scooter... It was so long ago, she's nine now but think back...' I say manically nodding at him.
"Are you sure? Are you sure it's, Scooter?' he inquires.

'Honey, it is.' I say louder than normal with a great deal of frantic enthusiasm on my face. ' Loralei painted it from a picture I took years ago... Look at the hands, Scooter still holds her hands that way when she sleeps...'

BoyWonder looks at me again like I am crazy and realizes that he better save grace. He now begins to search the painting for some semblence of our daughter. 'Ohhhh yes,' he says while nodding 'It is Scooter?'

And then Loralei's husband walks in with his martini... He, too has been a bit overserved. He walks over to us and follows our horrified stares to the painting.
He looks at the painting and states 'Isn't that the UGLIEST baby you have ever laid your eyes on?'
Loralei just looks at him
'I mean, the parents of this alien may have taken to eating thier young. Geez, that is one UUUUUUHHHHGLLLLY kid!'
'Bill?'
'Yes Loralei.'
'That's Scooter?'
'Who?'
'Scooooooter?' as she nods our way.
'Who the hell, is Scooter??? Besides the UUUGGGGLLLLIIIEST baby alive... Talking about SPAWN! Loralei WHAT?'
'Scooter is Pendullum and BoyWonder's baby.' Loralei now adopting the manic high pitched shrill of me.
'Whaaat???'
He looks at me, he looks at BoyWonder, looks at the painting...

We, BoyWonder and I, have not been able to take our eyes off the painting.

'You guys, you guys, know I was joking, Right? I mean she doesn't look like this now... I mean she is a cute kid... Right? Or does she still look like Zoltar? I mean not that this painting looks like Zoltar or anything like that.'

And for the rest of the night Bill followed us around letting us know that he was tipsy and that upon looking closer to the picture she really was a cute baby.

We were saddened the following day when we returned to the home of Lorali and Bill to find no one had yet risen and we can not pick up the painting.

We know the picture will come back to our house, as we know that we will see Loralei over the holidays and there will definitely be the great unveiling of the portrait. Probably with a great deal of pomp and circumstance from Bill.

And the alien will reside in our home in a place of honour. How oftencan one feel so much love with a gift? And when I look at it, I know that I will think of that night of friendship. And when I look at the painting, I guarantee I will see my husband's look of horror and I will see Bill with a Martini in hand,and I will see Loralei's bright, shining face above all else.I will be sent on a journey. And sometimes with art, it can take you to different places with just one image. Sometimes art just does that. It all depends on how you look at it.