Not Wise Women, Wise Woman, and it ain’t me.

True story-

Back about a hundred… no I said true story, back about 20 years ago I knew a wise woman. Her name is Judy and she was lovely. Lovely in many ways; she taught me important life lessons about how to act like a woman of integrity and intelligence and kindness, and she deserves a chapter all to herself.

Judy became sick, and only through guidance from other folks was I able to even show up for part of her ordeal. My standard act was to run when pain was within 100 miles of my heart, it never occurred to me that I should’ve put her  above me. Selfish, silly Dee.

It was at a spiritual retreat that we attended when Judy left us to go free…

I fell on my knees and screamed to an unknown God I that hated, quite inconsolable. Exactly what the fuck did He think He was doing? If He loved me at all, how could He allow this to be? Judy was gone. She left me.

Nothing, not a thing, makes me more unwilling to love humans than their impending departures. Too much scar tissue where my heart is supposed to be, I guess. I’m kinda like the Grinch without a Whoville.

Many things still remind me of her. She really, really, really, wanted for me to go to college, but even now, I’m too afraid. She would tell me how much I would love it, and I believed her. She always left her truck door unlocked, if someone wanted something bad enough to break in, she said, then they should have it. She had little sparkles in her blue eyes and I valued every word she spoke to me. I miss her.

So let’s find our way back to present day. The retreat is still an annual event that I’ve not given two shits about since Judy died there. As if I’d ever go back to THAT place. Yeah right. God can piss off. (I have struggled my whole life with God-stuff, so if you’re offended by my language I do apologize, but really, I’ve said worse). Life is about what we do with the dash, right? Like it’ll go: Deedlebug Fortin 1966-????, and life is in the middle of the “born on” and “expiration” dates. This is a fact. Why then, don’t I ever get it right? Why do I need to be 50 years old and a shit-ton of time elapsed before I recognize my self-centeredness? Sometimes, like now, I picture a God in full white beard & robe, poking His head through the clouds and shouting “DUH!” at me. If my God doesn’t have a sense of humour, he’s not allowed over. Fact.

The other day, my conversation with a current mentor/wise woman went something like this;

Me: So is that the same Marywood retreat from 100 years ago?

She: Yeah, I think so.

Me: Well, I’d never go back THERE. My friend died there. Can you believe God had the audacity to take her away from me at a friggin’ spiritual retreat??!!!

A pause as I wait for her to concur…

She: Hmm. Did you ever think that maybe God chose to take Judy then and there because she was surrounded by women who loved her and in such a peaceful setting?

Mic drop.

I’ll leave it right there for you to figure out how puny I felt for never seeing it that way, the right way of course!

I signed up to go back to that retreat at the end of this month. I’m going by myself, without agenda other than to hit my knees and thank a God I don’t even know for the Wise Women, past & present, who continue to tolerate my complete and total foolishness.

…I’ve learned a thing or two, so you little whipper-snappers listen up now. (Somebody called me that once when I was working in one of my stores. She wanted to return a pepper grinder because it didn’t work. I merely pointed out that it wasn’t meant to grind the nutmeg that was in it. She told me it was pepper and that she’d “been grinding pepper longer than you’ve been alive, you little whipper-snapper!” That was one of two times I had something thrown at me during my 21 year reign as know-it-all kitchen-ette). That reminded me of another story I’ll have to tell you about the guy who just had brain surgery…but first I should probably go through this musty ol’ blog to check and see if I’ve already told you that one, at 50 I’ve learned that I forget shit. Haha.

So where was I? Oh yes, the things I’ve learned and a few bonus and random morsels of wisdom. Keep in mind that when I say I have learned things, some may or may not have occured to me yesterday, last week, or last month perhaps. Hey, some lessons take me a long time to learn. Sheesh. Don’t judge.

You know that I took a break from effbook in October, and I haven’t felt the spirit move me back yet. It’s just too damned comfy in this angst-free zone. I felt my head spinning off its axis with all the political hubub and families and friends pitted against one another was making me sick. Soul sick. I miss my peeps though. Effbook truly has worked magic in my life in various stages. Once inauguration season is over, I hope to get back, but this hiatus (and finally getting my old laptop with the REAL keyboard fixed) has made the transition back to writing easier.

At 50 I’ve learned probably one of the most valuable lessons to date, and I poop you not when I tell you that this revelation and all its incarnations has been presented to me many times. I needed to use my own language during the perfect circumstance to have it finally permeate my thick skull. It goes like this: if a situation, event, person, action, or communication doesn’t alter or change the course of my direction, I shut the f— up about it. There have been too many occasions of late that have put my epiphany to the test. I can guarantee you that I will not be succesful every time, but what freedom I can achieve when I realize that my opinion about a situation does not make it factual. I could rail on endlessly at the crudfu–ery of your behaviour, thing, action, belief. How dare she, he, it, they, them! Don’t they know/care how this affects ME? How this makes ME feel? No, Deedle. No they don’t. But it’s ok, 90% of the times I’ve thought people should’ve altered their behaviour or words to protect my fragile ego, they didn’t even know I was breakable. We are all free to do and think and live and act how we please here in Americaland, and I have never asked your permission to do my life my way. Why on earth would I think you should have to ask permission to do the same thing? Exactly. Duh!

At 50 I’ve learned to listen with my whole heart to kids (and by kids I mean humans ages 2-30) who tell me their plans or intentions. Of course I know those plans will likely change (often in the next week or month), but their world is much more in the “now” than mine is these days. When I was 16, I thought that someone who was 20 was old and I don’t think I could even comprehend 40. I spent too much time telling kids not to do this or cautioning them about that, forgetting that I needn’t bother. Life teaches those lessons without my insistence or criticisms. I listen and I nod and I get excited because these are feelings that are happening right now for the kid who has selected me to hear them. My job is to share their enthusiasm, offer my experience (if asked), and be honored that anyone under 30 is willing to share their stuff with me. Seriously. If a young person talks to you, listen. They provide inspiration for me on the regular. The one caveat here is that lower back tattoo thing that I thought was a sound life choice in my 30’s. Sure would’ve appreciated a head’s up about that. Yes indeed.

At 50 I’ve learned that after age 48, topics including regularity and fiber are relevant in waaaaay more conversations than sex.

At 50 I’ve learned that he who has the most tools, has the most responsibility. It took me acquiring some tools before that made any sense to me. I am often compelled to use that as my dogmatic perspective in many familial relationships.

At 50 I’ve learned that there is a measure of peace that comes with financial security and there is a double measure of misery from doing miserable things to gain it.

At 50 I’ve learned that our whole planet is the home I’d like to visit, and my bucket will always have holes. I’m good with letting y’all go to the moon, though. I’ll stay on the ground and wave.

At 50 I’ve learned that when I’m sleepy, I can come back tomorrow and pick up where I left off…

At 50 I have not learned (it’s a battle I fight all the time) that people who don’t live up to my expectations is much of my problem in life. I made little drawings in my head about what human relationships were supposed to look like, and right out of the gate, my pictures often didn’t match up with the reality of any given connection or kinship. What wasn’t written down in my particular handbook was this; just because x y or z wasn’t capable, willing, adept, or even intended to match up to my ideals, didn’t (and still doesn’t) mean that the fault is mine. Some people suck at being who I thought/think they should be, and that isn’t their fault. It’s my fault for churning myself into butter at a futile attempt to be the right person who might transform them into my drawing of a friend/parent/brother/sister/on & on…I must keep reminding myself that some folks don’t have the capability nor the willingness to be what I needed, or need. And that my dears, will just have to do.

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.

It feels weird to be back here. How many times have I said that now?

I left for the ease and comfort and instant gratification of effbook, where I could simply spew out any and all quips, quirks, quandaries, and conundrums. And photographs even! New! Improved! Faster!  I like easy. I like fast. I like likes. But really folks, in here, we have no effbook police to censor language or intent, or even content. It’s all mine, I shout, as I rub my hands together in front of my evil grin. I can talk about anything I’d like, write about any fancy, any random story that pops into my head, and if someone doesn’t like it, or gets offended, guess what? That’s right, they get the eject button. Not that I would purposefully want to offend, you understand. But we mustn’t delay any further.

So now that we have that business all cleared up, I can take a deep breath and begin…

I’m soooo many stories behind, I do hope that I can catch up eventually, but I believe I shall start with my last story first;

Once upon a time in Istanbul…

There’s a provocative commercial making the rounds lately. It’s an AT&T advert, but it’s the music that evokes this one permeating memory. It comes on so strong now, so forceful and bullying. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory’s; Imagination. The voice over asks; “Remember when you were five, and anything seemed possible?”

No. Not really. I have threadbare recollections of my 5th year on planet Earth. But I DO recall year 12, in North Vancouver, when my friends and me were ushered out of doors until at least dinner time. North Van’s geography includes Grouse Mountain. Grouse Mountain includes sprawling evergreens and giant-ass hills. We lived halfway to the summit on Montroyal Blvd. My friends Susanne and Jason Sumpton lived two steep blocks up and four over on Blueridge Rd. We all had fabulous backdrops for childhood. The bike ride or skateboard ride down to Hardy’s, the corner store, filled with scrumptious penny candies was magnificent! 80 degrees steep. The pedal home was treacherous, even then. Even for my young and healthy lungs. Yes, I was 12 that year and was the boastful and teary recipient of a second-hand bicycle. I loved it. Green and sparkly with a banana seat to boot! I rode the shit outta that bike. My brother and father taught me to ride. I rode to Jason and Susanne’s house a lot. One spring day, Susanne and I imagineered a grandiose-but tangible-plan.

The dirt coaster.

Susanne had a cool yard. It angled downward for half a block, sporadically laced with majestic evergreens and thick juniper bushes. But there was this one path, this one path that we saw clearly as the answer to our boredom. We both envisioned a theme park ride. (We’d both only ever been to one theme park in our lives-the PNE). A ride that would go super fast down the trail and eventually slow down into lovers lane. We both had crushes on boys just then, and perhaps this was the REAL purpose behind our plotting…

We had everything SO figured out. The size and shape of the cars that folks would ride in, the speed and thrill everyone would enjoy. We never even thought of charging for our ride, it was enough of a thrill for us to thrill us. And you.

We saw our vision metabolizing in real time and we never questioned whether or not this was a fantasy. It was real. It really was.

I suppose that’s why I can still be stirred to remember it. Even now. Even after a hundred lifetimes.

I still dream in dirt coasters. I sometimes believe I can make things happen just by my own sheer will. I still can see with pristine clarity, our vision for that fantastic ride.

Unfortunately, our dirt coaster never came to fruition. I think Susanne and Jason followed the straighter and narrow trail as I was called to travel down the nefarious path…

Ah, but such as this life. A dirt coaster at every twisty turn…

Who would’ve guessed that some dumb commercial could bring me back to the realism that I once believed in?

The dirt coaster.

I bet it would’ve been so freakin’ fantastic!

Oops, hang on a sec… Dropped my lathe on my foot there, buddy. Ouch. Horizontal axis rotating tools are surely a danger! Ask Lukey. I bet he knows…

There are bits and pieces and portions and parts of my life that I’ve not yet written down here on my “digital journal.” Years and months and ages of pages of me are omitted. No, not because of any lesser significance. Merely because I’m older now, more prone to the release of several measures of youth. Measures that I need to recall, but measures that goeth before my fall. I fell alot, y’all. And took prisoners along my descent. It’s just that I’m so far removed from that era, I forget so easily. I just don’t recognize that Dee anymore. But still-it behooves me to recall, if nothing more than a method by which to keep myself firmly planted in the garden of sense and rooted in the land of justice. Here we go kiddies…

Barb. 1995. What an eff-fest THAT was. I was a carbon-copy of a fiasco, those days.

Then came (anonymous). I saw her at the ball field and there/then was the beginning of my undoing. Schemed, planned, cavorted and manipulated my way to a first date. I tripped and fell into her without once looking ahead. Without ever looking back. Down the rabbit hole, Alice.

It’s been more than a decade since I’ve really put my mind to analysis about those days. But as I press and prod my brain to recall, it all comes readily back to my frontal lobe.

This is another one of those: ‘to be continued posts.’

Bummer. But I’m really weary this week.

I’m feeling beat down a bit and I very much miss my girl in Pa.

Nevertheless, I’ll continue this story. Probably tomorrow, since I have an entire glorious day to enjoy football and my narcissistic self. I have much to say on this very topic. No, silly. Not narcissism, Deeiscoolism!

See y’all then.

Ok, so I didn’t quite fit myself or my words into the aforementioned timetable. I must have needed to sleep because I missed a couple of other engagements too. Oh well. C’est la vie. The story WILL get told. (Without any persuasion from any peanut gallery attendees, either. Ahem!) No worries, I don’t often look backward with disdain. Only “aha” moments and life lessons. Except for that one time during a thunderstorm…

…and I feel better already. Sticking close to home now. Getting duped takes some getting used to. I’ve even managed to downgrade from $700 gifts to $300. Thanks for pointing that out, Ani. YES!  I’ll be laughing again soon, my loves. Soon, I guarantee and certify it. I feel it already, and it’s only been a day. Your resident wise-ass can’t stay down for long. I won’t cheat my Dee-voted public outta any more sarcastic and witty wise-ass barf-o-logues than necessary.

 Promise.

 It’s smooth sailing from here on out…tick tock, time is a gift.

I went to the park

to watch the daisies grow.

How green and strong in springtime light.

I thought of you

and named a daisy Gracie.

As I sat and joined in song

I could’ve sworn the daisy watched me.

I left the park just then

feeling like the world

was pollinating again.

“…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.

Been awhile since I’ve written, eh?

Things (What, exactly, are things?) have been going so very well and I haven’t wanted to jinx them with some melancholy post that usually shows up in my blog.

Work is good. New staff for the new year has carried in their pockets renewed hope.

Family is great. Sis and nieces came for a visit over Christmas, Helen has placed another sibling in the doghouse and I’ve made a connection with my brand new sister in law.

Friends are wonderful. Meeting up with old pals next week, reconnecting with long lost school mates via Facebook and keeping myself aligned with the equilibrium of the necessary rules of such relationships.

Girls are…Girls are…well, girls still haven’t figured much into my daily schemes.

But all in all, I’ll not trade any of my plusses for the inevitable minus.

Girls will simply have to wait their turn…