fly like a Golby

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future

I want to fly like an eagle
To the sea
Fly like an eagle
Let my spirit carry me
I want to fly like an eagle
Till I'm free
Oh, Lord, through the revolution

It appears that our friend Mike Golby, and yes, Mike, I'm left handed too, flew like an eagle and dropped like a stone. Is that really you? Feel better soon Golby--that you dared to is magnificent.

crazy reverb

In a sky full of people only some want to fly
Isn't that crazy
In a world full of people only some want to fly
Isn't that crazy
-seal

What is it, what is it in love in choosing to love
that makes the stars fall down then bounce high
playing jacks with the moon bounce back up into night blue black
and you say to release grief you say unlocking grief is physical
and it is with the body we grieve and so with the body we love
and I say in choosing to love we get to that place
where there is only letting go letting up and receiving
like when my brother showed me how to catch a football
you see I was only six and he told me it is about not resisting
about letting your arms and body give in to a speeding bullet
letting it take you because resisting it burns your gut so bad
rips through you and flies past and hits the ground
but when you give he told me if you give into the ball
when it first touches your skin if you welcome it softly
let it move you that is how to catch a football and
isn't that crazy isn't that a little crazy
and ambiguity in love is like that
is a friend of mine is where I live now.
....

Venturing Out

I went out into the world this week. Several times. A trivial task to some, executed without a whole lot of forethought each day as they drag sleepy eyes and asses onto the highway for the two hour commute. I used to do that. Every single day, twice a day even, at least on those days when I actually got to leave work. But that was then and and this is now. I've been working from home these last five years, and excursions to Midtown Atlanta, let alone the Publix down the road, have become more infrequent, which makes it all the more exciting when I do go out. Did I say exciting? I meant exhausting.

This week I started off by actually going into the office. Don't faint. Take a deep breath. Yes, you heard right. I went to work. (They gasp).

There's something to be said for going to work on a semi-annual basis. Mostly, you feel like a celebrity when you hit the elevator, until you realize you haven't worn pumps in four months and your feet already hurt, so you shift the backpack with the laptop inside to the other shoulder, and walk like a drunk has-been movie starlett to your cube, which you have because you work from home, and even though your position would warrant a less-than-cushy office with doors and windows, there would be mayhem if you had one since you only show up on the third new moon of each millenium.

Ah! A phone message... lemme check. Oh, just a telemarketer. How did they find me here? Oh, right, they didn't find me here.

I run into my old friends. They seem happy to see me.

"Jeneane! How are you? Haven't seen you around here in forever--how long has it been?"

"Forever," I smile.

And the inevitable question: "What brings you in today?"

I tell them the truth. "I saw the email that we were having a party at 3."

They laugh and nod. Tell me it's always loud when I come in. I love them and they love me. Humans are so interesting!

I make the rounds, full well knowing I won't get much done there and I'll have to make up the time later, at home, where I can think. But that's okay. Shooting the breeze with other adults who do what I do for a living is refreshing. I'm wanted. I get to tell lots of stories. Talk about "remember whens." I'm glad I made the trip. Except that the party got postponed until a day when the attendees of honor, hard at work at the client's site, can actually be there.

Even with the extra work waiting for me once I got home to make up for my socializing, I know I did the right thing. I remember missing my work friends as soon as I see them. We've been through a heck of a war the last five years and have lived to tell about it.

Heart doesn't die easy in tech.

My next two adventures were school field trips with Jenna's class. Talk about contact! 20 little 3-6 year olds running mostly amuck from a pumpkin patch at a local YMCA to a Native American demonstration in a huge tepee at a nearby campground. I helped supervise the kids, which mostly meant making sure they didn't escape into a parking lot or down some slick ravine, or at least if they did, that they didn't get killed. I think I did a good job. Everyone lived.

I got that good feeling--just like the one at work--being around the kids. You could tell they thought I was the cool mom. I talk to them like real people--I yell at them just like their own moms when they fight, push, or run off into the nearest nest of copperheads. I took Jenna and her best friend to and from the events in my Escape, turned Earth Wind and Fire up loud, and laughed with them as they danced in their seats...

Searching in the sky one night, while looking for the moon
I viewed a mighty light approching in a zoom
Need was there to tell someone of my discovery
Fifteen seconds later, a light appeared in front of me
To my surprise, there stood a man with age and mystery
His name was Jupiter and came to visit me

The name is Jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come

Keep your eye on Jupiter, such beauty in the sky
We will wait for your return in the by & by
Keep your eye on Jupiter, memories we shall fulfill
Just to view a brighter day, and do a righteous will

Watching and considering my visual state of mind
The flower fragrance help reveal to me the sign
The sigh of love, I had confessed to live and really know
The sign of love which I had failed my fellowman to show

The name is Jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come

The name is Jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come
--Maurice White, Verdine White, Larry Dunn and Philip Bailey

All of this is to say, that there is life out there beyond my Dell Latitude. Who knew? Apparently not me because I was surprised by it all. And every once in a while, I guess, I have to nudge myself to go out and participate in it. Lots of things are waiting, like tree smells and other loud people, some of them very tiny and fast moving, and even good friends that you forget you have unless you make time to stop by and say "Hey" once in a while.

If you haven't been keeping up with Dervala's journey...

go over there and bathe in some great story telling. Man, can she write.

An anti-blogroll

What I want to add to my site is an anti-blogroll. On my very own anti-blogroll I would list all the blogs I recommend avoiding because they spew hate and meaningless muck. There must be a way to develop an anti-blog button that, when clicked, actually removes linkage to these sites rather encouraging links. hmmm... The sum total of assholes on our combined anti-blogrolls could compete daily for a spot on anti-daypop, or--for more sizzle--"daypoop."

I'd stick Gene Expressions on mine. I tripped on this blog today, but don't feel like linking to it. Instead, see the comment from someone called godless capitalist on Anil Dash's post about depression today. I'd rather give Anil the link. His post on mental illness is a good read--I heartily agree with blogging as therapy.

Even for women and people of color. ;-)

Okay, I said I would...

The parts of my dream I remembered from last night were intertwined thinking vingettes. I often have those. I remember what I thought more than I remember what happened or who else was there. This particular dream montage combined thoughts of armegadeon with thoughts about thong underwear. The sense was that the end of the world was pretty near, preparations were taking place, and somehow I ended up at a woman's store looking at thong underwear, a silky red and silver pair in particular, wondering what the appeal was for women--why not just forgo underwear altogether and save on the money and comfort factors? There were some drill-down thoughts here, but they probably belong over at BlogSisters.

Interpretation for Extra credit:

World ending = Approaching end of the world.
Thong underwear = Need to buy new underwear for the whole family.

I guess the Jung fairy skipped me last night.

Tag, you're it.

Elaine Says Meet Her in Her Dreams

Elaine suggests that we bloggers set up a virtual vacation and meet in our dreams. Sure would save on plane fare!

Tom Dreams By Proxy--Puts Rest of Us to Shame

If you were Tom Matrullo's pillow, what would you think?

glub.

Why does he keep putting words in my fish mouth? Glub Glub.

ladies and gentlemen, welcome a new blog...

Letters Never Sent. I don't know who's doing the writing, and don't want to if it would silence her, but this is pretty fricking fantastic. ahhh. new voices. makes it all worthwhile.

Dream On, Part 1: The bloggers hit the road...

Okay, some of my blogger friends bit the dream challenge. FASCINATING. Let's recap, shall we?

My post below started the ball rolling, or the dog shit car rolling, or something. And then blogdom chimed in with dreams from last night...

Turner Takes a Hike

Then Gary relates his dream from September. A snippet here: "We approached a right hand bend in the lane where someone had conveniently left a rubbish skip on the inside lane of the the bend which was causing, what was for a leafy country lane, a massively large volume of small hatchback cars all travelling at very high speed, to swerve around the skip only narrowly missing the equivalently fast oncoming traffic coming the other way round the bend. As we were on foot this presented more than a small challenge in terms of negotiating around the bend without being run over."

Frank Paynter Runs But Can't Hide

Next Frank chimes in with his fitness test dream. A snippet here: "There were some steps to ascend and some to descend. I learned all this as I ran. Other runners preceded me, some were on the course behind me. Since it was a single lane, there was a staggered start. This wasn't a competition and people were generally cordial as we met each other on the course."

Elaine Loses Car, Gains Freedom

In a comment, Elaine relates her recurring dream about losing her car: "I have recurring dreams that I park my car and can't find it. I have concluded that that my car symbolizes my freedom, my ability to be out in the world."

No Pizza for Partington, Just a Crappy Car

George P. relates his dream about being taken for a ride. A snippet: "I was heading uphill, and I needed to get over to the left. I moved left, in front of a truck, which was coming up fast. Typical. So, being a conscientious driver, I applied more gas, trying to speed up, but my car wouldn’t go any faster."

--------------------------------

Okay, is it me, or do we bloggers have a LOT of travel, car, and movement imagery in our dreams at the moment? What's this about? Amazing (to me anyway) that a car appears in everyone's dreams here, except Frank's. Both Gary and Frank are on foot, but in Gary's dream annoying hatchbacks still appear. Though Frank doesn't encounter a car, the lanes are there, the movement is there nonetheless. Only difference is that Frank IS his own vehicle. Hmmmm.

Freud? Jung? Don? Anyone?

Are we really on a journey? What happens when we all get to the red light at once? Who has the right of way?

Dr. Weinberger, we be joining...

A dream motion

I have a motion to put before the fellows of the University of Blogaria. I move that we pick a week--like this one--and we blog our dreams. I am interested in seeing any correlations, permutations, variations or gyrations that our loosely joined unconsciouses are unleashing. Who's in?

I'll start. Last night I dreamed that George and I were driving through Boston, towing our pre-enjoyed-new-to-us dog shit car behind us. Which is wierd because we've never been to Boston together, I've never been there at all, we've never have towed the dog shit car anywhere, never towed any car for that matter, etc. But that's dreams for you. So I turned around and looked out the back window only to see that, while a car that looks like the dog shit car is behind us, that car slows down and turns right, and sure enough there's a driver in that car, and our once-in-tow dog shit car is nowhere to be seen. It's fallen off the hitch or something.

"OH MY GOSH--Honey, the car got lost--it's gone!" I panic. At which point George, who I'm not sure I actually see in my dream--I think he's my left shoulder--turns the car we are driving (that doesn't resemble any of our cars) around and we go through all these crowded narrow one way streets to some sort of city hall, where we alert the authorities that the car we were towing has disappeared, to which they answer, "Don't worry--I'm sure it will show up."

We never find the car in the dream.

The phone rings and I wake up.

My dream symbols represent the following (this is for extra credit):

Dog shit car = panic, unresolved issues, conflict, financial stress, dog shit smell.

Boston = land of therapy, Halley, Terrence Real, David W. I think Boston to me is representative of blogging--or of family perhaps. Connection. Connectivity. George's brother lives there as well.

Authorities = are significant in that they don't really care, i.e., Authority Figures that don't lessen my angst, don't help when I have been violated and am in need.

George = as my left shoulder without a face, I haven't seen him enough in the last six months.

Driver of the car that is not the dog shit car = The person I hope actually buys the dog shit car when we put it up for sale this week.

Stay tuned...

Anyone else dare to share?

anthurian's interviews

Atlanta blogger Anthurian has some good recent interviews with techy types on his blog. My favorite line, which I'm sure I'm the last to hear, but maybe not, is from Debba Doo, a free spirit and ballsy cat lover who both Mr. A. and I worked with at Ketchum. Miss Debba says, "Once you go mac, you never go back." To that, I say, you go, girl.

Mr. A., I'm sorry I never completed my interview. Tell me if there's still time, so I can procrastinate a little longer. ;-)

Me roots, me roots.

Which Triscele am I?

Number one: ponderous, reflective version:


or

Number two: evil motherfucker version:


Answer: you probably don't want to know.

"The head in the center was that of Medusa, whose hair was turned into snakes by the outraged goddess Athene. In their wisdom, the Sicilian parliament replaced the Medusa head with one that is less threatening to the innocent onlooker who, after all, should not be anticipating being turned to stone."

I think perhaps the head should have remained as it was. You can put a mink coat on an alligator, but chances are it's still gonna bite your ass off. What's so bad about threatening anyway? When you're an unassuming shoe of an island, what are you gonna do, put out the welcome mat? Let's get real. You're going to want the ability to turn your enemy to stone. Gaze upon this, mofo.

The moral of the Sicilian flag story, near as I can tell, is this: When you think of Medusa between your legs, its best to think thrice.

That's today's pop culture homeland update from allied!

A Long Overdue Thank You to Dr. Marek J.

I haven't talked to my mother in two months now. Our "normal" relationship ceased about four months ago. We used to talk every day. Or there abouts. Now we don't. Talk. At all. I sent her a letter explaining the reasons why I needed time, space, distance, needed her to back off. She didn't accept that, couldn't accept it really. So I sent a stronger letter. She "got" that one. Among the reasons for time away, I named alcohol, and its effects on me growing up, repercussions I'm just now beginning to understand.

I'm seeing them now because the noise of our relationship has been quieted. Noise, according to Marek J., is defined as anything that isn't "gold," the distracting hum of inner chatter that keeps us from getting to gold. There's noise, and there's gold. Gold you want. Noise is just noise. It interrupts. It is useless and counterproductive in getting to gold.

It is amazing what I've come to see, to realize, as I begin to distinguish noise from gold. Thank you Dr. Marek. Still working on it, you know.

Having spent the majority of the last six months on my own with George away, I've had the quiet that I didn't want--but definitely have needed all my life. Marek was and is right. The more we allow noise to interrupt our search for gold--maybe gold is the "True Self"--the further off the path we wander, the more we end up in prickerbushes, hurt, in pain.

In relationships, Dr Marek's theory of noise vs. gold is a pretty heavy concept. Let noise in, let it disrupt your focus, let it impact how you relate to one another, and any gold you had turns to noise, then potentially, to dust. I think we have a tendency to welcome noise sometimes, to sabbotage ourselves and our loved ones, to feed noise. Why? Why do we feed noise? Do we entertain noise in order to drown out the louder noise we've lived with all our lives? Is noise the negative introject, or at least the negative introject's handiwork? I think so. But Marek doesn't use those fancy terms. He calls it "noise."

I mention this today because the theory of noise vs. gold that Marek shared with me months ago is something I think of almost daily now. I'm sure he doesn't even know that. But when something comes at me and it feels like me undermining myself, I say, "That's just more noise. What's the gold you're looking for here?" And I try to answer. Not always sucessful, but I try. To begin to identify the negative introject as noise, to be able to identify and NAME it when it starts feeding you poison, is a powerful tool for trauma survivors on the road back.

So thanks, Dr Marek, from the Sessums. I'm sure Marek's willing to set up sessions with other Bloggers in crisis--I paid him $13.52, but that was an early bird special. I think the guy's worth at least $100.00 an hour.

Marek, hang out your shingle -- we can't afford to have you not blogging.

Rising the Comments Above

You know, the comments a couple of posts back really got humming with great stuff I don't want to lose. It all started when Tom threw me into a depression by pointing me to Clay Shirkey's article on why blogging won't pay. Now Tom and I and Clay have bantered gonzoite ideas before, and maybe it's my current reflective (read depressed) state, but Clay's saying something here. Let me layout the ensuing conversation by raising the comments up a level for further exploration....

Matrullo Drops the Bomb

Tom said: "J., I know we've had some discussion with Clay Shirky about gonzo issues before. Here's his bit about blogging for dollars - it's worthy of inspiring counter-arguments."

Partington Kicks Corporations in the Ass

Then, George Partington contributes this: "The best way to get paid for blogging is to have people, not corporate entities, pay you. Corporate involvement would just corrupt this thing we got goin on, because, as RB has pointed out, despite the fact that they are comprised of people, they have no body and no heart. Let's cut out corporations and build communities. Not saying I have any answers. Just my two cents."

Mays Wants to Pay AKMA Partington's Two Cents

To which, Jonathon Mays says, "Dang, I just want to make money. Gekko type. How bout AKMA and Frank become my editors (better still, ghost writers). You could write. I could make money. Therefore, keeping everyone's integrity intact? Yes?"

Jeneane Gets Depressed, Talks Too Much

Then I chime in with my big ole mouth here: "Wow. I just read Shirkey's piece. I need to go drive around for a while before I pick up Jenna. I have seen this parallel within the music business--In Boston for example, mom and dad pay for many a college student to attend one of many very fine colleges. Too many of these kids are also amateur musicians, who will likely use their fine degrees one day to do anything but perform music for a living.

"Yet these same passionate (and some even likeable) amateurs play for free--some even pay to play. They clog up club after club, event after event, venue after venue. Some are good, some are not. Most will remain amateurs. They don't need to get paid because their real job is going to college. And they are going to college to not play music professionally one day. But to have a "career" or at least a "fallback."

"It's no secret that you have superstars in the business who make the majority of the money, most not through recordings (where the labels gobble it up) but through touring. Then you have amateurs who play for love and not money. And then you have a whole professional class in the middle who eek out sometimes okay livings from a business not set up to pay them. The world Shirkey could end up just like this. We pay to read the superstars. The up and comers and tech flashers blog for free. And what will become of us in the middle? When will we decide to put down our axes and get a day job? :-( " [i.e., end of jeneane's big mouth]

AKMA's in the House and He's Bringing His Crash

When blogosipher AKMA jumps in with an idea I really liked because it meant something for ME ME ME: "But we wouldn't accuse someone of corruption if she accepted a free Zildjian for her drum set, right?"

[to which I responded with some lame statement about send me stuff. and saying sorry to AKMA about never sending his peanut brittle, and he tells me how Margaret and the kids are doing.]

Partington Loves Courtney

Followed by that smart George Partington responding to AKMA's cymbal analogy with:

"No, not out of hand. But if the drummer's tour was sponsored by Zildjiian, and Zildjiian was part of a company that included big ol X Co. that had lots of nasty practices in the name of profit, our drummer might feel a bit compromised (not to say corrupted, the "thing" is corrupted, the person could be or not, maybe just caught in a not-so-healthy situation), not wanting to write a song about unfair labor practices, for example.

"Courtney Love had some interesting things to say about such a situation. I think it was Pepsi that sponsored one of her tours, and they pressured her to say things in favor of the product, etc. (wanting to get their money's worth). She says they acted as if they owned her and she should be grateful for it. And, she says, she took every opportunity to slam them instead, so she'd never be tempted by another, similar deal. See her rant, Courtney Love does the math, for more.

Frank, Where Have You Been All Day?

At which point Mr. Paynter chimes in with:

"Oops, gone for a full day and the whole thread morphs in a zillion directions... oh well, I like Jonathon's idea of ghost written blogs, but I don't think the business model is right. How about y'all talk to the rich and famous people you know about the new Sandhill ghostblogging service. We (me and my hand picked stable of professional ghostbloggers) will create a unique and authentic voice for you online in a blog of your own! Why waste time writing when someone who enjoys it can do it for you?!?

"And to offset ghostblogging costs, we will hook you up with an ad agency that will create a banner ad revenue stream for you! Drink Coke!!! And for the ad agency, to offset the costs of those banner ads, we will provide 'bots that harvest email addresses from comment streams so you can direct sell those people on Bose radios and organ and glandular enlargement therapies. After this little engine of commerce gets humming, we at Sandhill hope only to exert ourselves endorsing checks to deposit. Cyber Paradise."

Steve "One Pot" Splits Frank's Hairs

To which Steve responds thoughtfully:

"Re: Zildjian and Pepsi, to my mind there's a difference. If Zildjian chooses to give free cymbals to drummer x (would that it were my poor, sold-his-congas-last-week-to-buy-new-traps brother!), it's generally because drummer x is already using the product. Or because the company is developing--a la Eric Clapton--a new product specifically along the lines dictated by the sponsored 'name'. The company does so in hopes that other drummers will see drummer x actually using the product, and note its quality.

"When Pepsi or Budweiser sponsor a tour, they're doing nothing but cash in on something totally unrelated to their own product. It's no different than going to an expensive charity dinner just to have my picture taken with famous people. There's no real connection between us, but I'm implying one for purposes of my own gratification. In other words, whether or not Courtney Love drinks Pepsi means nothing to her concert; the type of guitar she plays does. One allows her to do what she does *ahem* 'better' and more easily, the other doesn't. Maybe I'm splitting hairs unnecessarily, but to me it seems more insidious to sponsor something simply to get your name attached to it gratuitously rather than because it's actually relevant."


And that's where we are. So continue, please. This is too tastey to drop off now.

tuesday ramblings

Hey, stop over to allied--it's the hot place for comments this week, and boy do I love that! Many wonderful side conversations are taking place beneath this surface layer where I type shit in. Everyone should have comments (have I said that before?) They put the groove in groovy. Let's keep that up. Makea da blogger happy.

When you're done commenting here, hop over to george's blog and see what mess the sessums have gotten themselves into this time... does the word dog excrement mean anything to you?

In other news, I'm tired.

Have I mentioned that we may be headed to Florida for some sunshine at the end of the month? Anyone have tips on Clearwater Beach, please use that nifty comment link below and tell me all about it.

Did I mention I'm tired?

Besides our eventual vacation, there doesn't seem to be any good news anywhere this week. Bloggers not making money, bloggers sniping at each other, sniper shooting people left and right, the right edging closer to war, companies not wanting to spend a spare dime on anything, friends and loved ones in varying degrees of anguish. ENOUGH ALREADY!

Then it's time for Jenna to go to bed. I climb in beside her to pat her back while she settles down, drifts off. Her arm drapes over me. I hug her little bottom close and she passes out wrapped around me. I look at that sleeping face--I am so blessed. She is so sweet, so beautiful, so calm. Finally she is still. She is never still, you understand. She is motion. Motion and words. These are things to be thankful for--signs of health, signs of life. But at the end of a long day, I welcome sleep when she is still, and most of all, quiet. As animated as she is awake, she is the oposite asleep. Like a rock. Nothing disturbs her slumber except a rare (thankfully) bad dream.

She had one last night. She cried without easing up until I went into her room at 4 this morning. I held her. I passed out. She finally drifted back to sleep. In the morning she told me about the nightmare.

Daddy and I had gone to a wedding to get her a baby brother, and we didn't take her with us. She was devastated. Crestfallen. How could we?

All of this, Freud doesn't need to tell me, as a result of our "night out" on Saturday when we had the first night as a couple without her in a long, long, long time. She had a blast, went to a festival, rode ponies, had a wonderful time, mind you. I don't think she thought about us once. Well, maybe once.

But then she heard me. It was my tone I guess, since I didn't say anything in particular. I was on the phone telling my friend that we had a good time on Saturday, saw a movie, that I slept until 1:30 in the afternoon the next day.

The relief in my voice must have been evident. I now can tell you that five year olds get "tone." Even subtle "tone."

Where was I when she learned to infer?

I hear her bedroom door slam, hang up the phone, go upstairs to see exactly what the matter is, and there she is weeping in her bed. "You had fun without me! You and Daddy had fun and I wasn't there! Don't ever do that again. It hurts my feelings."

I explain about grown up time, how the movie would have been boring to her, how she had a lot more fun riding ponies than looking for used cars.

Her mind is unchanged. She has already infered that we had fun not as three, but as two. That we were capable of enjoying a moment where she was not the center of it.

How do you explain that it is a different kind of fun? That it isn't the fun fun we have as a family, it is something really boring to little people. How do you explain that you talked about her sixteen times that night? You say it. You say all that, and your child still looks at you with those big brown eyes and says, I wanna come too next time.

And you want to tell her that you want her always, to be right here, right next to you, that if you could you would put her back inside of you and keep her there, safe and sound, as long as forever and ever, that you don't want her to go six inches from your side, that it would be okay with you if the world would disappear and there was no such thing as school and there was no work and there were no responsibilities, no commitments, no money, no world at all.

If you had a say, you would lie just as you do every night, patting her back and racing her to sleep so that you could gaze at perfection forever. That if you could, you'd zip the house up with the three of you inside where no one could get in, no one could say anything hurtful to this family, no one could bring poison in, no one could break through. The sealed up house would be music and games and toys and computers, and melted cheese burritos, and lots of ice cream, forever.

You don't say these things to her though.

You don't say them to anyone.

Because if you did, people might think you're crazy.

oh my gosh, he did it again.

AKMA took the words right out of the back of my brain and organized them just perfectly in this post about bloggers and money, and the lack thereof, and the potiential to make a few coins.

You see? We got the official word from blogging's official honest guy--NOW, LET'S GET PAID!!!

date night

We went to see Formula 51 last night, the latest Samuel Jackson flick that was pretty great, made greater by the fact that we hadn't been to an R rated move in almost two years. Lilo and Stitch can't really match action packed drug dealing, murder and mayhem. Not just a little blood and guts, but worth it. Hint: Bring your umbrella.

My sister kept Jenna over night for the first time in a couple of years. Wow. You parents know what I mean. Wow. So we didn't have to rush home. We actually got onto our street before we looked at one another and said, "Hey, we don't even really have to go home." George turned the car around and we drove to the bar in one of the plazas up the street for a nightcap. Neither of us had ever been to the place before.

And wouldn't you know it was kareokee night, with all the regulars, some very scary-to-me, way-wasted 50-somethings, the guys with polo shirts and a turtleneck sweater or two(L.L. Bean ribbed cotton maybe?), their ladies with big hair, layered makeup, and too-fake smiles. They would have been friendly enough, and they were, but it was that kind of DRUNK FRIENDLY--you know what I mean? I could have passed any one of them in the grocery store the next day and they wouldn't have remembered my face. But last night, they were so glad to have met us, leaning on our shoulders, one burly old fucker trying to massage George's shoulders after making off with his lighter, translated in the language of Wasted as, "I'm Sorry," which, if you knew George, you would know one thing--don't touch his neck.

So burly drunk guy, who apparently is a physical therapist, although I can't imagine, got a little miffed that his massage wasn't appreciated, and showed his displeasure by favoring a lean our way when his drunken sway shifted into full gear. You know, "the lean," the "I can't stand up straight so can I lean on you?" lean. Luckily, this guy had a hard time standing or sitting still, so he left us alone every ten minutes or so to check on his wife.

Mike, the official bar greeter, made sure to stop by and say hello, tell us that the place is a regular hangout for the area, that Friday nights they start early, Saturday a little later, that it's always the same people, that they love one another, swear at one another, sometimes borrow from one another--some swap wives, not Mike of course, but some, he said.

I sipped my rum and coke and wondered about their lives.

Did I mention there was kareoke?

It wasn't really the people or the lame DJ that left me with that shifted feeling. It was realizing that I'm so in between. Gone are the pre-kid days of clubs and hanging out til 3 a.m. and talking with friends over drinks after a gig. My friends are at home doing the same thing I'm usually doing: taking care of the kid, the house, the bills, the cars. that's one side of being in between. The other side of being in between is not yet being a 50-something like most of the free birds at the bar last night were. You could tell, their nests were empty; they were looking for something new, something more, some taste of something they'd lost along the way. Instead, they settle for familiar faces, vodka or gin, and someone else's husband, someone else's wife.

In other words, the movie was better than the bar.

Being able to spend the evening eye to eye with my husband, laughing and holding hands, without the constant interjection that is our love personified, Jenna, was a true gift. A regular baby sitter may just be in our future....

It is highly diggable

Do go dig this.