So here’s what I heard on vacation…

… Oops, in trying to relate the sounds of hearing, I heard seven things that belie the truth of what I heard. Because really, I heard this…

…Damn it! I screwed it up again! Hear nothing, is what I’m trying to say. Here is more than-way more than nothing. Ever heard nothing? No. Me either. Until Hornby. Until I got loose of my city vibe, my shitty vibe. Hear ye, here ye. So let’s try again, me. 

Hear this…A cow bird. Gracie whining cuz’ mama’s done gone fo’ a bit. A homeless yet entrepreneurial wasp, chewing the cabin post. A deep inhale of American smoke. The crisp departure of unenamored feet. The sizzle of wings just ready to eat. The buzz of bees so close to the sheets. The cawing of ravens who’re ready for meat.

Do not hear this…Air conditioners and suv’s. Sirens, trains and flat t.v.’s. Sodium lamps and angry squirrels. Feral cats and human perils. 4th of July shenanigan crackers, pops and bangs and homeless wackers.

The noise of San Marco that I most usually tune out, is the antithesis of a cacauphony that Hornby’s without.

Can you hear me now? I sincerely hope not. The silence will unnerve you. But it most surely will  serve you.

Ya heard dat?

Did you ever have to give those sorts of oral or written reports at the beginning of the new school year? I didn’t. So I’ll start now…

Imagine this scenario…

The garbage truck doesn’t show up this week. They don’t come as scheduled on Monday. You think;  “how odd,” and phone WMI to inquire. They say;  “we’re outta business.” You think; “WTF am I supposed to do with all this emm effing garbage on my driveway?”

The planet answers… “figure it out, beeotch!”

And so you do. You phone me up and ask what the hell all those Hornby Islanders do with their disposable disposables. I relay this story…

And this one…

And I ask the recycle guru, Annie, if she has any advice. She says; “Recycling makes me Hornby.”

And I can only reply, “Recycling makes Y’ALL Hornby.” There is no “I” in team, so it must mean that there’s an entire community that separates, divides and conquers their waste material. I saw it done. I had to participate in it. You shoulda seen the ginormous bag of cigarette butts that I accumulated over two weeks time.

So it goes like this, just in case we have to immediately stop being such a throw-away community; One smoke pack is divided into two- the foil and plastic are absolute garbage but the cardboard is a compostable. Milk cartons are now recyclable but please rinse and dry them as they smell foul if left to their own devices. Fruit, vegetable and nut shells are completely recyclable/compostable. However, meat bones should be hurled as far into the back 40 as you can throw, lest they attract vermin. Bacon fat and other middle-of-the road indecipherables should be fed quickly to Dookie before Gracie catches on.

Crossword puzzles that are incomplete should be hidden and immediately scrunched up and labeled as done. Completed crosswords should be placed in full view for an allocated time period before being placed in the compostables pile. Styrofoam is an absolute freak of nature and should be treated as an alien form of nonsense. DO NOT toss in any pile other than absolute garbage. We would prefer that you take styrofoam “off island.”

A word to smokers…it is me, a fellow human being and inhabitant of this Earth that had to clop your thrown away smoke ends. PLEASE, for the love of all things holy, find a fucking receptacle other than the ground we walk upon to toss your butts. Think of me, in an orange monkey suit, picking up your shit. Okay, don’t think of that exactly, but something along those lines. This goes double for Kelly. You know who you are!

So my dear friends, what I did on my summer vacation was learn. I learned how much I take for granted and how much a community can change if they band together. I am working out a plan in my head.

But I’m just not there yet.

Thank you to those Hornby residents who are the true and righteous stewards of our planet. We ALL can learn alot from y’all.

My summer vacation was an exercise in humility. My summer vacation was a gift. My summer vaction continues…

These are significant dates, folks.

The first, my niece goes to senior prom. The second, Benji graduates. The third, Whitney does the same (she did it!). And last, but hell no -not least- I’m outta here. Vacationing. Boy, do I ever need it, too.

I’ve been out again. On the road again. Squared away the Vero again. I’m home momentarily just to do the laundry. Rather unsuccesfully at that. Leaving for Savannah first, then Hilton Head and finally, Darien.

I’m going to be missing Eh-net’s annual grand soiree for Memorial Day. Bummer. I really wanted to see everyone and the new baby Gabs provided. Well, I know I won’t be eating anything half as good as their feast, I’ll have to settle for whatever roadside neon catches my eye.

Gotta get done, gotta get back. These are some important times, folks. Times I don’t wanna miss. The clock hands show no mercy now. But geez, I can’t wait ’til they hurry the Hell up with this shit, even though time’s a flyin’ already.

Except in the case of the first three dates. No kids should ever grow up.

Kids should ALWAYS stay little until their Carter’s wear out. Remember that old commercial?

Back in a flash, y’all. Peace out.

* Roommates of pals who don’t even know you feel sorry for your pitifullness and invite you for a long weekend in another state.

* Your parental unit who likes to keep you all to herself is telling you to get out and meet people.

* Nine or ten hours at the job site seem like a refuge.

* Leaving to bust your balls setting up a new store is like an oasis in the desert.

* You can’t see the forest because you just don’t give a shit about the trees.

* You start believing that the ass-shaped dent in your sofa is uber-chic.

* Your fingernails are the only real nutrition you’ve had in days.

* You depress the Hell outta folks with your woe is me blog entries.

You gotta get up. You gotta. Ok. But only ‘cuz I hafta go to the bathroom. Even dents need time to breathe.

 So yeah. I’m goin’ again. Like me and my sis down the slide at our pool in Hawaii. Or the mummy ride at Universal. Gotta keep going…it’s exhilerating! Even when our bikini tops fly off. Can’t get enough of that.

 Expensive? Hmmm…let’s examine this. Our American economy sucks royal Canuckian ass. Canadian dollar is worth more than ours. Raise=stunk. Bonus=double stunk. Savings=…Savings…Um…Savings? Yeah, uh. Nada. Care factor with regard to these responsible financial decisions?= Zero. (I throw pennies on the ground, too. Oh my!)

 Get it? Got it? Goody. Because it ain’t about the moolah. It ain’t about the dough. It ain’t about the fact that I hadta to sink so low. I had to actually “request” the time off from…yeah. You know who. The woman who shant be named. But that my dears, is par for corporate American rule.

 Too bad. I’m outta here. Nuttin’ gonna stop me. I’m goin’. I’m clopping, I’m cooking, I’m relaxing and forgetting. I’m not gonna hear or see or smell or taste or feel my means of gettin’ there, for two whole weeks. I’m gonna indulge in the silence and be away from the violence, for two whole weeks. I’m gonna play soccer and chef and cool and fool and Saint Aphrodite and Dee almighty, for two whole weeks. Two whole, organic-grass- fed-composting-granola-sniffing-firewood-lifting weeks, kids!

 And when I return, I’ll be refreshed and rejuvenated and returned to my self. I’ll be all that because I was all there. She knows. She knows me. We know we. Really.

 I got me some Karma Yoga-coins, y’all. And I’m spendin’ them with her, not at the mall. I’ll leave that for those who care ’bout those things. It just isn’t me-it just isn’t Dee. I go in through the back and exit the same, it’s been the same route for this 15 year game.

 I’m goin’ back to Utopia, ticket in hand. My heart is my vessel, I’ll leave it unmanned.

 If I’da only had that when I was younger.

 So I went for my first eye exam today. I was definitely apprehensive and tried to conjour up a decent excuse with which to cancel. Like I did the last time. But no, off I went, dilation inevitable, carrying the encouragement of those close to me on my back. (Lu, Yadge and Dork-o, thanks)

 Geez, you’d think I was undergoing some major surgery, eh? I’m a wuss. Simply put. Especially when it comes to my eyes.

 The Doctor QT asks me a series of questions. Some, I thought, rather irrelevant. “I see here that you’re…uh…adopted. That’s ok, no problem.” I think he was more uncomfortable with saying it like that than I have EVER been for being it, despite the fact that having NO family history truly does complicate things like this at times… …Are brown eyes dominant? Or blue eyes? What color does my mother have, I wonder…”Wake up, Theresa! Do you have any hobbies?” Um…sure. You want me to name ’em? “Do you participate in any outdoor activities?” “Does walkin’ up the block to the market for smokes count?” Eliciting a laugh was worth the 10 dollar co-pay.

 When it came time for Dr. QT to put the drops in? Comical. Legs ready to bolt, arms up in defensive mode. I HATE that shit. My dentist, (a funny guy in his own right-Dr. Beaver, no joke) and this guy can surely chuckle together over a glass of chardonnay about the 41 year old dumb ass woman who acts like a child when it comes time to, “lean back and relax.” These guys definitely earn their pay. I don’t do well in offensive postures. Perhaps I have been enslaved and apprehended and subdued through force in numerous lifetimes? Perhaps.

 Anyway, it was like an eyeball obstacle course. Sit in the Darth Vader chair, get drops. Chin in-forehead against. Lights, cameras, action. Move on to round two. More drops. Dilation. Get put in a room for ten minutes for the drops to take affect. I’m thinking this ain’t so bad until I hafta walk to room three. I can’t even read the signs on the wall! Chin on-forehead again. Measuring my eyeballs. I tell her that I’m pretty sure they’re round. “Not necessarily,” says she…

 Then on to the refractor? machine. Look at the pretty balloon in the middle. Then some freakish red carnival-esque spiral lights. Girl- Doc says I’m a trooper. I bow my chest out a bit. Just a bit. Don’t wanna seem too proud, I hardly KNOW these people.

 Back to room one to Dr. QT. Blue light, bright light. Damn, the light sucks. Read this line. Well…e f r s g? no, maybe o.

  I ask him my numbers first off. He laughs. “I’ll tell you,” he says. “Your vision is 20/25” (Crap! I knew I shoulda studied harder!). “We’re not going to fix what isn’t broken. But next year you might find that a prescription will assist with reading the fine print.”

 But, Doc! Aren’t I doing pretty good for a 41 year old? He says, “You’re about where we’d expect you to be.” AVERAGE? WTF? I loathe that word or implication.

 I ask about my floatie things. He says they’re normal. My eyes are great. Blood vessels are perfect, size and shape good. He asks if I ever have dry eyes. I laugh. I say, “Doc, when that happens, I simply watch a Publix commercial.” Big pause. Excruciating silence. Then he gets it. “Yeah, I like the Valentine one with the little boy,” he tells me. “I don’t see any dry areas or redness in your eyes, keep up with the Publix commercials.” If he only knew that soooo many things keep my eyes lubricated these days…

  I ask about one of the issues…my light sensitivity.  Shouldn’t I be LESS sensitive to light since I have brown eyes?

 “Yes, you are. But only in the front of your eyes. The pigmentation in the back of your eyes is less.” “You can see that?”, I ask. He says, “Yup.” He says to think of it as being “blonde” in the back and “brunette” in the front. I smile. Right on, dude. Love me some blondes, yo. {Big sly grin}

  I get these cool Darth Vader glasses to-go and I’m on my way. ” See y’all in a year, ” I say. ” Bye Theresa, ” they say. God, I gotta fix that whole name thing…

 I can’t see shit, my eyes look like those you’d see on an episode of COPS.

  Lu says, ” Just stay in your apartment, Deedle.” I say…you don’t ever need to give me THAT 20/25 advice twice!

 Peace out, y’all. SEE you later.

…So there was no final table. Paula was pissed. Angry that the Viking mixer signed by all the Food Network folks auctioned off for less than 3 grand. Bummer, girl. My sister salted away our chips with the determination of a lion to get to that “final table.” Uh-oh. No final table was to be had. Paula, Deer, was pissy. So she opted for the fine print on our tickets that read, “Talent subject to change without fucking notice, bitches!” CRAP! I just fuckin’ sat thru four g-damned hours of poker and shitty food for this?
Screw Paula. AND her whitening strips. At least her husband shook my hand and recognized our joined boredom.

Fast forward to the brunch honoring Jamie Oliver. It was happening at the Loew’s Hotel. I ran into Emeril. No really. I RAN into Emeril. I was out for a smoke when Ffej texted me that the show was starting. I dashed for the escalator when I smacked into a hefty dude. We simultaneously apologized. I never recognize folks on tv without their chef coats…bam THAT.
We had a blast, me and Ffej. Blast in the moments between here and there. We rode busses and drove my car and sped along the ocean blue, walked and stalked and mocked the natives. We tanned and swam and dreamed of netherlands. We read and ate and laid about. I like food. I like attending the the Wine and Food Fest. I missed Alton though. I loved my sister. I drank her up-all her glory. That’s what Miami Beach is for, right? Honoring the glorious? I love that Ffej had a reprieve. It makes 80 degree winters so hard to leave. Thanks for coming, sis. I love you the most.

I was gonna let Paula off the hook. Was. Not any more. It went down like this…

…Me and Ffej arrived early to the Paris Theater. We took the transit near our hotel. We smelled good. We showered and put on our clean and shiny duds. Hopped off the bus with 1.5 hours to spare. Strolling past the Paris I noticed two women-one smoking a smoke. I commented quietly to Ffej: “I can’t believe that woman is copying Paula Deen. I mean geez! Look at her hair!” Ffej looks. The Paula emulater smiles at her. Crap. I’m an idiot. It is Paula Deen. Smokin’. We are number two in line behind radical Deen fans. They’re frustrated because they feel another is about to budge in line. The gal with the walker begins to take the other to task. “You didn’t wait in line, miss! We’re not gonna allow you to butt in.”

Geez. People get fucked in the head when it comes to pseudo-celebs, eh?

Nevertheless, me and Ffej are second.

Let me explain two pertinent factoids.

1) I didn’t drink the happy juice, just here for the food.

2) I loathe and despise cards, poker, slots, gambling in general.

The jist of the evening is to acquire a seat at the “final table” with Ms. Deen on stage.

I am uncomfortable in crowds unless it involves dancing or jello wrestling-neither of which were on the night’s menu. But Ffej is a shark when it comes to card games.

So she commenced to park herself at one of two poker tables. She was kicking ass and taking chips. I was the food/drink getter for the night. Oh and crowd avoider, too.

I parked my rather large posterior on the stage. Nice. Quiet. Away. Nobody near me. Until…

The food network shmoozers arrive. I can see Ffej in front of me taking the smarty-ass boys to task. Then here comes Paula. She tells a dirty joke but flubs the ending. No one is really interested. Enter an older gent with a British accent near to where I’m parked. He whoops it up. He says; “Hey Paula!” She looks over and introduces Gordon Elliot as her savior. At this point people have taken notice. They bum-rush the stage. I’m frantically waving at Ffej to whip out her camera. She is oblivious to me and the goings-on above her head.

I see Paula and her “handler.” I see Bobby, Guy, Giada and Todd, Cat Cora and Katie Joel. They’re kissing each other’s cheeks and acting as though there’s no one else in the room.

My legs are dangling from the stage and I feel a man between them. I have no idea who it is until I hear Bobby Deen ask where Gina is. The man between my legs is Pat Neely and it’s making me uncomfortable. He returns the question by asking where Jamie is. By this point Bobby is crouched by my shoulder and is fully engaged in a conversation with the latest addition the Food Network family. I’m appalled, yet feel strangely lucky. I mean, there are all these women around vying for the right position to snap a photo. Asking me this question about who was that and who that was and so on. I revelled a bit in the moment. Until…

Mr. Neely goes off on his tear telling Bobby Deen how he told the head of Food network that he, “already had a fuckin’ Lexus and already had sent his fuckin’ daughter to college…” I was mesmerized. Only because I find it rude when total strangers think it’s ok to swear like that. I mean, I wouldn’t swear in front of total strangers, I wouldn’t dream of it. Get to know you though, and look out!

So there I am, sitting on the stage hearing a weird conversation between Pat Neely and Bobby Deen. I notice four things just then. 1) Bobby smells yummy. Whatever cologne he has on is working. 2) He has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. 3) He does not use even one curse word. 4) He knocked me over accidentally at one point but instantly apologized by placing his hand on my shoulder and acting as though I was his sister.

I was impressed by him. Even though he’s a boy and I’m generally anti-boy.

But his Mum? Here’s where the wheel began to take leave of the cart…

So Yeah. Here I am. Home again.

I’ve been gone so long that I had to Mapquest my street address.

But it’s fine, it’s good. I’m here. I’m safe.

HELLOOOOO???? I’m home {Resonating echo}. Lolita has no ears. She, like me, picks up on vibration.

Well.

 It seems that life moves on without my hand in it or on it.

 The photos? Yeah, the photos. Me and Yadge were just bantering over the origin.

I do believe they were taken in 1980-somewhere/thing/time. My mind being the steel trap that it is and all.

It is a poignant and reminiscent reminder of lifetimes gone away/awry.

I’m trying to recall what I made of myself then. I didn’t have a clue. I still don’t, incidentally.

The cable guy was here today. I resigned myself to some package deal. He asked if I was rich. Look at my face. Do I look rich? I guess he thought that anyone who could afford to leave a 700 dollar per month apartment for three months must be rich. The three other tenant’s luxury cars in their respective spots didn’t hurt either, I guess. Um, yeah. Mine’s the Sentra with the bash in the side. He didn’t know that I was residing in a one room Country Inn and Suites all that time away working…

The cable guy. There were no cable guys back when these pics were snapped, no wealth perceived in my circle. I was a semi-infrequently-employed gas jockey and part-time babysitter in the 80’s. In between firings, that is. I was so lost then.

Kinda like I’m lost now. Dinero or not. (Mostly not, low bonus year).

You know, in the EXACT same way we all get lost. From the inside out.

We have Google maps and Wikipedia and Yahoo and E-harmony and search boxes ad infinitum.

But where’s the link, that one search box that bring us back?

Pictures, I guess. Pictures of then. Pictures that link us to our path. Our path that is the way to our inner home.

I’m home again. Nestled in and breathing deep. For now, anyway.

No Cuervo Gold to picture here.

The gold I seek is North and West.  On the left coast. Ha, totally left.

I’m home again. Welcome me.

(Thanks Yadge, for the visual nostalgia.)