…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.

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…

They place a black stocking over their head and act the fool. Or, at least that’s what my Grandmother used to say. Vern, you’re my chosen Dad. Stop acting like a goon and forcing me and Lu to walk two paces ahead o’ you at all times…showin’ up on the ten o’ clock news ‘n shit…Love you. Dork and all.

Here’s me and Lu. In the nosebleed section of our semi-season-ticketed seats. The very first quarter, before Hines got Ward-er.

 We spent the SunDAY cooking. Foraging through recipes.  Slurping and drooling over clear miso broths, brussells sprouts braised with a small little cross. Roasted veg and thinly sliced shallots. Lu picked out a fancy-shmancy, pear salad. I didn’t get to go cook on this night. I was busy it seems with making things right. I wasn’t successful as I head off to bed…but fuck it, I say, there’s still room for bread. Off on the highway, I’ll leave in the morning, don’t tell me y’all, I didn’t give you no warning…Peace out to you, I hope there’s no bull.. . Lu said my lasagna left y’all full.

See you on Sunday, when I figure it out. Meantime, I’ll drive and ponder and pout…

But the good news is this… La Caretta, is bliss. Bistec empanizado, plantain fritos y mojo. Pastalitos con guava y queso etc…yum. David’s Cafe on East Collin’s Ave. The South Beach hotties I can wake up and just…have.

 It’ll be all good, ‘cuz it’s what I do. See y’all there in spirit or two…

…What does; “patriotism” mean, Mama?

 “I’m not sure, darling. Perhaps it means an inherent love of country too deep to explain its devotion…”

So here’s another secret about me; One of my most favorite things about having season tickets to the Jacksonville Jaguar games is this; the National Anthem. Yes, it’s true. Even though I have to admit that I don’t fully understand the lyrics. (I had to Google, “rampart,” y’all). I absolutely LOVE watching us all stand, remove our hats, and place our hand over our hearts. Ok, so I forget that part sometimes. But geez! I spent most of my youth saving the damn Queen and… “standing on guard for thee…” Canada style.

But here’s where cool comes in with a vibrating boom…there’s always a fly-over from U.S. jets after the anthem du jour. This last game vs. the Buffalo Chips- oops, I meant to say, Bills, I was seriously concerned that our pilots had gone haywire. The National Anthem had ended and yet I was staring into the sun with the sinking heart of a child when she finds out that Santa just isn’t able to stop by this year. “Maybe they’re coming at half-time,” said I. But no, the zoomy-boomy-looming planes were merely lining up for the right formation. To see and hear them approach y’all? It is an amazing feeling. I hate war. I hate that our jets go to war. I hate that our countrymen have to fight anywhere and anything.  But dammit! I sure LOVE to watch our Air Force fly so close to me that I can feel them, so close that I feel safety because of them. I love this land o’ the free. I don’t give a shit what you think about the politics of our country-as long as you think about the women and men who are in it, flying it, facing it, living and dying it. I don’t salute Mr. Bush. But I WILL stand up, remove my hat and place my right (right, not left, Dee!), hand over my heart. Because I have one. I have a heart and that’s what makes me grateful this day, to be free. WAHOOOO AMERICA! Did you hear me shouting for you at the top of my lungs? Did you hear me?

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…

Eleven gold medals behind China. But, we’re ranked number one overall in medal count. I was wondering where Canada stood this night.

(You know, after my Jaguars got horrifically massacred by the 1 and 15 Dolphins tonight. The Miami mammals with the worst NFL record last year). I was crying in my sushi.

Canada, you ask? Medal count? Geez. Get this…We’re tied for 25th with Indonesia! Indonesia? WTF? Summer games just aren’t our forte, folks.

Just wait ’til Whistler, y’all. Twenty ten and shit. I’ve already begun compiling my commemorative pins, too! Canada’s gonna put the smackdown on all you, fo’ sho’.

And we’ll just see how your toboggan slides then, beeotch!

PS- Nice going, Phelps! You’ve made us so proud.

Barack Obama.

If you’re a part of the Georgepublican-loop, it’ll be three words; Barack Obama Bin Laden. (Didya notice that our dear George miscounted?) I knew that you did-educated bunch, you are!

Did you also catch his inappropriate smiling during Bob Costas’ interview in Beijing? I for one, was embarrassed for our country. Imagine a leader, (look it up- it doesn’t mean war monger) smiling when asked about agendas. “I don’t need the olympics to advance America’s agenda.” And then there’s this;  “I don’t see America as having problems…”

I do. I see us as having BIG fucking problems, Georgie-poo. We’re not leaders anymore.

If we can’t vote this right, I’m moving left.

Peace out y’all.

Wow. If only God woulda let me have a kid…

But he let me mentor some amazing young folks instead.

I get lost for words at times like this (no really, I do).

There was a random boy applicant one day back in 2006…

He came in for an interview on September the something….  He fidgeted and looked down at imaginary things. He complained about shopping carts and missed expectations. He managed to get through despite self deprecation. I doubted a bit, though I felt something stir…I hired him then and the days since are a blur…

I’ve been in the;  “biznezz”,  for a few 24 hours now. But geez. No single employee has EVER asked; “The question.”

Until Benji.

I love this kid. I’ve written it before. But now, well…God, I love this kid. How can I explain?

He asked me the question. You know-the one. The one that I, Dee Fortin, asked Mr. CEO back in 2001. Las Vegas, it was. My very first encounter with all things corporate-ish.

I was terribly green back then. Nervous to meet our CEO. Did I belong? Did I have any skills at all to succeed in a world I couldn’t even comprehend? I could only muster two questions; “What do I need to learn?”  And…”Do you have any advice for me?”

Mr. CEO replied;  “Participate. Ask questions. Give answers.”
I don’t remember if I even heeded that advice. All I know is that
I tried to tow the line and listen to the folks who were smarter than me (it paid many dividends years later, not simply monetary ones, either).

Allow me to tell you that in my tenure here at the “company”, not one employee has been so forthright, so genuine as this kid. No person has been so much like me. No one as curious and as eager to figure the shit out, recognizes opportunity and grabs all he can…

He gets it. He gets me; my vision for our shop. He gets the “we” of this company.

Alas…here’s the news: He’s gonna leave. As well it should be, I reluctantly admit.

College doth steal our dependent finest. He’ll add and subtract and plus and minus. 

He’s wants to be a Gator. We joke and jest, make fun of the “haters.” 

Benji’s a great kid, I wish you could know. You probably will, stick around for the show…(he may be your attorney, your counsel when heeded. He might be your doctor, when life-saving is needed. He might just be #28’s agent, directing the Jag’s and all of their wages. Whatever he chooses, it will impact this space. It will take away shadows and lighten the place.)

He told me this the other day, in a grown-up, direct and factual way. He said; “You know Dee, I was just another aimless teenager until I started working here. I have learned so much in my two years, I have a plan for my life now. I go to college on time and I come to work and I do the right thing…”

I look up to him now, in more ways than one. (I must be shrinking back down to the earth, no way he could be growing so tall, so fast).

I listen to him now, not just hear him, (smarter than me already? No friggin’ way!)

“What can I improve upon, Dee?”

Your improvement is obvious, this is a fact.

You are all the ways and means that I lacked.

P.S. Whitney, my demon child, graduated and is going to college in the fall. What a ride this life gives us, eh?