A term that Lu and I have recognized over the years as Vern’s way of announcing that indeed, an incident of collateral damage, or mass proportion has occurred. Like, for example, the time we were loading a moving truck and he fell with one leg between the lift gate, and the other up in the air. Or practically any time he “fixes” or “repairs” something, look out, pain will ensue. Maybe for him, maybe for all of us. You never can tell.
Alas, the outlook was fair skies for my 50th gala birthday celebration to visit my bestie. What could possibly go awry? Hermine, shermine. Bah on hurricanes, says me. You know those ominous warnings we humans get from time to time? On a few occasions, I’ve been lucky, or in tune enough to heed them. Not this time. Nothing was stopping me from going to Turkey. Well, except the first day of flight cancellations. No worries! Soldier on! I’ve dealt with way worse, who cares if I spend my 50th at JFK? When my flight was canceled the second and third time, that’s when I should’ve smartened up. But nope. I’m gonna ram my will down the throats of fate, come hell or high water. Fate rams back, peeps.
My trip to Istanbul was cut major short due to unforeseen circumstances that I should’ve really seen. I’m not sure why I think I’m special, or different, or exempt from certain outcomes when human flaws present themselves. I have always felt as though I could touch anyone deeply if only I made the attempt.
I left Istanbul after three days. I spent the next several weeks unraveling to my core. I got to the end and am beginning to roll myself up again. The next time fate presents a challenge to my itinerary, perhaps my spidey senses will tingle. Perhaps not. One thing is for certain, that was a bad one boy.
It’ll leave a mark.

“…no, really. I’m not.”

Ah, but the complexities of ignorance do prevail.

So we hired a kid. Nothing unusual there. Her first job, parental control, seventeen and in the 9th grade-you recognize the drill. I am convinced that troubled and deviant kids are God’s way of speaking to my inner ear. “Dee. Hear me now. Who, exactly, were YOU at 16?’ I always assign these kids a 50/50 chance. Fifty percent of them are the perfect blank canvas, fifty percent spin out into oblivion. This girl, was in neither category…

I suppose a few alarm bells rang out in me when both parents dropped her off on the first day of her first job. Yes, I DID give her my standard army issue speech about hiring HER and not her parents. Too many weird and bizarre experiences with parents in my history have forced me to incorporate this line into my hiring dialogue.

Despite my internal notifications, Ie; paying way too much attention to her hair with her right hand and leaning on the counter while listening to our instruction, I left for the night.

Flag, flag, flag.

Flag alerts compel me to phone the store later that night. “Hey, Benji. How’s the new girl doing?”

“Um…well, Dee, I don’t think she’s for us.”

“Really, Ben? Why?”

 So my new assistant who, by the way, just turned 19 last month, proceeds to clue me in.

“I thanked a group of people for coming in, (an important part of our customer service repertoire is thanking folks whether they purchase something or not) and I told [so and so] that we have to exit greet people as part of our job.”

“Ok, Ben. Then what happened?”

“Well, she said that she wasn’t gonna talk to those people. I asked her why because I thought they might have been rude to her or something. She said; ” I don’t like black people. They smell and have greasy hair and they don’t take care of themselves.”

Obviously, I was flabbergasted. How does a 17 year old child living in THIS EFFING CENTURY insouciantly make a statement like that?

I have encountered many people during my 20+ years here in the South that have blown my mind. My first mgr at KCI said he hated gay people. His wife used racial epithets often. I was crushed. But those episodes of idiocy occured 14 years ago. I get that racism is alive and well in this country, especially in the South, but is it spoken out loud with such impunity? Seriously? I thought (wrongly) that cowardly haters kept their mouths shut.

I phoned her parents. (Rule #3-never talk to the parents. But in this case I made an exception). I explained to the Mom why her daughter was starting and ending a job on the same day. She was confused. “But Miss Dee, we’re not racial.”

You’re not WHAT? You’re not racial? Geez, lady. You’re not literate, either.

I had to, I just HAD TO speak with the daughter. “You came in to the store with your best friend the other day to finalize your paperwork. Her grandparents drove y’all up here. Your best friend is black. Please tell me how you think she’d feel knowing what you said tonight.”

“I don’t know, Dee. I guess she would be hurt. But I’m NOT racial.”

There you have it. Those folks are not racial. You heard it here.

It blows my mind to hear this shit STILL. It’s twenty-0-nine people! WTF?

If there is a silver lining in all of this, it’s Benji. He’s only two years older than the; “I’m not racial,” person and he has values and guts that speak to him through injustice. I’m proud of him for feeling uncomfortable. I’m proud of him for growing up in a county (yes, county) that has more than its share of ignorant philosophies and accepting that we all live on this planet together-no better, no worse. He understands equality.

Our company does too. We do not discriminate. Our clever HR folks even snuck the ‘sexual orientation’ clause into our policy. God knows, I’ve heard plenty of gay-hating lingo over the years. Good to know that we work for a company that stands up, and rightly so.

As for so-and-so, the ex-employee… I hope she can one day realize that we are ALL racial, but racists are a dying breed. There is no ‘cool-factor’ involved with blatant ignorance. Not now, not ever.

I’m not certain today, if Gracie is still Earth bound. I do know that she has been straddling the line between here and gone. It’s been hard, as it has always been hard, for me to wrap my mind around death. Death has shown up as several characters in the play of my life. The first of significance was our family dog, Sheba. After that, I remember little of the human or animal departures, aside from flashes in my mind. Until 1990. My friend Ed.

 Death seems to come so fast and furious now. Chalk it up to my aging human form. My Godfather died last month. Len and Rod were partners for almost as long as I’ve been aboard planet Earth. Now he’s gone. Death kills the living, I believe. It kills a piece of me every time.

Gracie, though. I fancied her invincible. She kicked my ass, knocked me down and broke into my soul. I’m not sure if I hate her for that. I’m not sure about love at all, really. I can’t decide why love makes sense. I hate this suffocating, choking state I’m in. Would I trade the loving for the hurting? I can’t answer that just yet.

All I know is that I can’t save Gracie, or her Mom. And this reality angers me into shutting it all down…

I used to get so indignant (ok, still do), when I would hear folks refer to the attack on the World Trade Center Towers as the; 9/11 attack. “Nope, I would think to myself, it isn’t 9/11. I HATE that term. Can’t we spell it out in all its meaning? ” Is it not the least we can do to say the full date? Today it is seven years since seven years ago. Yes, today I shed  my Yankee born tears watching the re-enactment on the History Channel. Yes, I am still afraid. Yes, I still yearn for revenge. Revenge against something, someone, somewhere. But mostly I think, I am done. I am done with Bush and all his branches. I am ready to get over, get on, get going with things American. You know… things brave, things upright, things proud. I will not forget the events of September Eleventh, 2001. But I am SOOO ready to get upward and onward and beyond the stifling velcro of deceipt. I’m ready for difference, deliverance. I’m ready to carry the flag of the UNITED States Of America. Walk with me, please. But, let’s not forget a single thing, ok? Let’s not “Palin” comparison in the face of  “Barack.”

Let’s stay quiet for a moment and just remember those who are not here to give their opinion. Those who gave up their lives, those who had no choice…

You’d think I’d stop writing about my hurts, wouldn’t you?
They seem so repetitive in my blog…

But yeah, I have yet another tale of woe that I must add to the thesaurus of this life Dee-able.

Dork-o’s outta here. Bitten by the love bug. A pest, in my opinion, but what do I know?
Bugs are bugs and people are people and girl on girl love is intense and emotional.

I’m gonna miss her. I’m gonna be lost and sad for a while indeterminable.
Despite my ribbing and jokes.

But like Lu says, be happy for her and just know that I’m gonna fill up the Dork-o void with someone else.
I hope it happens soon. I HATE to be sad.

We all wish her happiness and joy.
But I’m still thinking about myself, as always. And the emptiness I’m already starting to feel.

I’ll get on. I’ll get over. It’s the way this life was created.

But if the recipient on the Pennsylvania end screws her over?
I won’t be playing Mrs. Nice Guy for long.

There are some girls’ hearts you just can’t fuck with in MY world.

I have hopes.
Hopes of becoming a successful business woman.
Hopes of being remembered for something good when I leave.
Hopes of finally getting all my laundry done.
Hopes of eating a hundred dinners at Eh-net’s house.
Hopes of feeling peace when I lay down at night.
Hopes that my family, friends and staff know how much I need them.
Hopes that someone, somewhere, thinks my muscles are huge.
Hopes that I’m living this life right.

I have hopes too, for kids who have walked in and on and out of my pathway.
I have hopes for this one kid in particular.

I went to court today. No, not because of something I did that was anti-law. C’mon, now! That was AGES ago…
Ha.
I went to court for a kid.
I went to court to fight for something I believe in.
Hope.
I got arrested once. It was in Orlando and I was 20. I got arrested with my boyfriend who decided it’d be a good idea to open a beer outside a club downtown. I was incarcerated for 3 hours. The longest 3 hours of my life.
I was so frightened and powerless.
Guess who came to get me?
Nobody.
A misdemeanor city ordinance violation that is long gone from my history. But not gone from my memory.
No one had hope for me.
I had no hope for me.
Fast forward twenty some years…
Hope’s arrested.
But that same feeling of fear came hauntingly back to me. I was scared for her. Twenty years later and I could still feel the fear. Vivid and tangible.
The difference is that I came to get her.
I showed up. I stood up.
She’s me. I’m her.
Kids need hope. Kids need a saviour. Kids need someone to believe in.
And 20 years later, I get to be believed in.
Just a day in this kid’s life to her.
But to me, the chapter can close. It’s come full circle round.
I hope that Hope stays on my path for a long, long time. I hate to miss these kids when they leave.
But it’s all good. Because now when she tells her story, she won’t have to say that nobody cared, that nobody showed up for her.

This is Hope. At its finest, glorious hour.

Nine-nine-two-five-eight.
What the Hell is that, you ask?
It is the mileage on my, (as a pal’s mum likes to call it) shitty little Nissan.
There’s a story here. Like you couldn’t guess, right?

It begins in 1987…With Ed. I lived in Orlando then. Had just moved from my weary trek across the Southern Hemisphere.

Ed was my closest friend in those crazy days. We were best buds. He was a high school math teacher and retired Marine. I was a daycare worker. He was 62 when I met him. His wife suffered with Alzheimer’s disease. Well, we all suffered with it really. Alzheimer’s is like that.

Ed and I just clicked. For two years we were like a father-daughter team. He’d show up at my softball games wearing our team-gay, neon pink shirt, so popular in the 80’s, you know. He’d bring ice-cold watermelon for us. He loved me. No matter what. My first real glimpse at the; no-strings-attached kind of love. We ate, laughed, walked, talked and cried. Together. He would laugh so hard at me when we drove onto the military base. The guard would salute us because of Ed’s rank, and I would salute back. But with my left hand. He thought it was hilarious. I didn’t mean to, it was just my “leftist” nature, I suppose.

His wife eventually had to go away. To a care facility. Ed had a daughter. But she lived in Atlanta and didn’t visit much. He loved her madly.
Like I said, I was working in a daycare facility. For next to nothing pay. I didn’t have two nickels to rub together, let alone a car. I either hitched, bussed or biked to work. Until Ed suggested that I use his daughters car.
A Nissan 200SX. Sporty, for the times, eh?

As in previous posts there is a significant name you must remember. Write it down if need be.
“Reed Nissan, Orlando.” Where Ed bought the car.
Hang on to that name until I continue…

(more…)

It takes me years sometimes to get over and beyond the hurdles of hurt that I suffer. Suffer oftentimes, by my own actions, or lack thereof.
With Saxony, it took three. With Annie, my hurting comes and goes. Depending on the situation or with whom I’m reminiscing. On a professional level, I can chuckle and joke and remember fondly all the days she made us laugh, made me proud. On a personal level though, my wing was not large enough for me to take her under. And this is still ouchy.
We met during my ugly-days, as I like to call them. Wasn’t long before I was shuffled off to Navarre. She, very much my staunch defender. Annie and my sis drove there and back as my escorts of devotion. After Navarre, things were altered. I was altered. The capacity in which we needed to be in each other’s lives hadn’t quite fell into place.
Until…she lost her job. And found one with us. Now listen when I tell you that I really loved Saxony. But it was quite different with Annie. Annie had a spark. Lit up the fires under everyone’s asses, too! She could walk into a room and BAM! Kick it up a notch. Don’t mean to plagiarize you-know-who, but you get the point. She also possessed a kid-like persona that made you just want to make sure she was allright. Take care of her. Protect and nurture. I need those kinds of people in my life. They make up for my lack of child-rearing opportunities. There was/is always someone present like that for me, despite the fact that I never want any of them to leave me completely.
But Annie’s absence still leaves a mark. A scar. We all miss her. Miss her laughter, her good moods, her quickedness in catching on. But I miss her the most, I think. I wanted so much for her to replace me. To follow in the natural order of things on the corporate ladder. But again, I was foiled. I cannot speak for her.
And now I realize that I never could. But the, “What might have been’s,” still echo like a booming cacauphony in my ears. We never know how life turns out. Until it turns out. I won’t ever forget her, though. Whether or not we cast an eye upon one another again in this lifetime.
I can’t forget Annie.
And somehow I know that she can’t forget us either.

The letters.
I went to a treatment facility in Navarre, Fl. Full of fear, remorse and pity. I didn’t know what would become of me. I’d lost my long time pal known as sobriety, and surely the “Company” would leave me also. Couldn’t blame them, really. I’d wasted the gift. I received two letters then. Yes, actual letters. The kind that our children and grandchildren know little of. The kind of letter that takes ink. A desk and chair. Thought and concern. One, from my boss, JVB. A card that expressed heart-felt concern. Handwritten. Sentimental, even. The second, a shock. Our “Company” H.R. lady, Charlotte. A piece of paper, inked with cursive. A story, of sorts. Informing me that life is about getting back up on the horse, not staying down. Not signed formally. Or on the “Company” letterhead, but personally. I broke down, lost it. The kindness was overwhelming me. I wanted to be punished. To be abandoned. It’s what I deserved. But that didn’t happen. Not at all.
They cradled me then, the “Company.” It was during that time that life came back. That saving Dee was important again. I endured that time. Got out, got back into the swing of life. But my guilt permeated every waking moment that I spent doing “Company” things. Like a teeter-totter, were my emotions. Things wouldn’t go how I thought they should, and I’d accredit my relapse for it. After all, I screwed up, I deserved some injustice, right?
Until the day that I stood back up. Yes, people. I stood up again. Held my head level with the faces of those whom I’d felt lower than, less than. They made that possible. They provided the playing field. The “Company.” My saving graces. I hear funny, ironic type things often now. Recruiters that say, “Well, you have been with this company for a decade or so, it may show a reluctance to move forward, to change.” Or, “You’re not making x amount? well you should compare that with other companies who are paying more.”
I listen. Sometimes, I even hear them. But eventually, I laugh.
Because the real meaning of this story is about substance. Fiber. You can sing your songs about this dollar or that amount of time, but it doesn’t matter. My “Company” took my beatings. Was my voice when I couldn’t speak.

I knew for sure I was going to be fired at one point. Just prior to returning from my short-term disabilty. The VP of operations came down from Ohio. This is it, I thought. Game over. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. I couldn’t whip out my get outta jail free card…

Lunch at Sonny’s bbq. He looked at me. Right in the eyes. He said; “Dee, you have been loyal to us for 10 years now. It’s time for us to be loyal to you.”

I guess I’m grateful that God doesn’t afford me the vision to see around corners. I’d have cheated myself every time…

The facts, as they appear to me most often, are these;

1) Piss on the recruiters who say longevity equals fear.
Longevity, my friends, equals far more than the recruiters could comprehend. It equals faith. And hope. And heart and soul.
2) Fall down once.
See where it takes you. See what humility means to you.
3) Don’t be ashamed of mistakes.
You just never know what or where you’ll find yourself without them.
4) Let people love you.
At least until you can love yourself. Without the love of others, I’d not be writing this stuff down.
5) Be loyal.
Give every ounce of every fiber that you can muster. It counts. Really, it does.
6) Teach someone else what you have learned, be a mentor.
Spread your information around. Even the bad stuff. It makes a difference.

The “Company” is still there. And so am I.
I need them, folks. Need them, want them.
But today I can tell you this:
They seem to need me, want me, too.
Thank God.
My “attitude” is so different now. I’ve received promotions for it, not fired because of it.
A gift.
I’ve grown up in this place, and continue ad infinitum…
All the while they stood by me, waited and watched and witnessed.
My “Company.” 13 years ago…

Ok. So where was I?
Oh yes, the personal side of life. The one where you get blindsided by the beauty of another.
Wham! There it is. In your face. Breathless. That’s the day that my sobriety began to eyeball its way south. Little did I know…
I’m a strong woman you know. Was then, too. Or so I thought. It had been eons since romance had tempted me with its rose-colored vases filled with red-colored roses. I fell for it. Fell hard and fast. Fell head over heels and back again. Or did I? Was I simply lured by the the idea of something new, something exciting? No matter. I gave up then, my routine. My meetings, my friends, my course, my on-trackedneness. My world as you knew it. The things that mattered began to seem oh so immaterial to me. Except, of course, the “Company.”
In A.A. they teach us that the order of recovery happens as follows;

1) You put down the bottle.
2) You believe that your mind is out to get you.
3) You begin to have faith that a Power greater than you can restore…

During relapse it happens backwards.

1) You lose contact with the Power.
2) You think: “Hey, maybe I’m not an alcoholic.”
3) You pick up that first drink.

And so I did, dear readers. Pick up. I hadn’t had a drink since I was 23. I wanted passionately to be that glamorous-type you see in the magazines. Pinky out, Cosmopolitan lifted to my lips. Ha ha. I was NEVER an elegant drinker.
I fell to the stereotypical illusuion. They say that alcoholism is a progressive disease. I never believed them. Until I realized that MY disease had been doing push-ups in the parking lot the whole time I was sitting through those hour-long meetings. Getting fit. Getting ready. Waiting…
Then came yet another promotion with the “Company.”
I shall never forget that day…It’s branded into me. Branded into those that love me, too.
My alcoholism prevented me from doing what the “Company” expected of me. Panick, I did. It was in S. Florida that my disease knocked me for one Hell of a loop.
Treatment. The crutch for those not strong enough to see…The mockery I’d made for so damn long.
You’d think by this point that I’d just give up. A 28 day treatment stay for such a vain girl? However could I bear it? However could I face the “Company” and all its history with me? Shame was a word imbedded into my heart. And to this day, it’s hard to re-live.

Until…a letter…a letter from my immediate supervisor and the H.R. lady, Charlotte…

…Stay tuned, if you wish.
More will surely follow.