In Memory... (12/9/2007)

any memories we had were dulled by the morphine I slid under your tongue
it wasn't the pillows 
or the light yelling into my skin that woke me
or even the liquid crystal mosquito flying in
out
and around my ears


it was you

rattling out of your skin 
stumbling over breathing tubes and catheters
hurdling your corpse and slamming into walls 
unable to find the light switch

- Gina - 

 It's been three years ago today since I woke up, went to check on my comatose father and found him dead.

Me, the one who he hadn't talked to in 20+ years;  me, the one who wasn't his favorite (I know, because he told the neighbor so... and they felt the need to share); me, who wasn't good enough to love, but was good enough to clean his puke from the bathroom floor after his night of prowling and before my day at school.

I stood in the doorway that morning...for who knows how long. My eyes darting back and forth between his chest and his half opened eyes. Waiting ... just in case.

Nothing happened.

"God DAMN IT!... don't you fucking move!" It's all I could think of to say as I walked closer to him.

 I guess I was going to check his pulse ... to REALLY REALLY make sure.  All I could think of was those TV shows where people walked up to what they thought was a dead body, and it moved.

"God DAMN IT!... don't you fucking move!"

 He didn't.

It was quick really. I got the phone call from him in October, Columbus Day.  Two months later he was gone.  It was enough time to tell me he was dying,  enough time to tell me I was the executor of his in-debt "estate", enough time to see the only grandchild he would ever know - a boy, finally he got a boy, enough time for me to remember how much he had once meant to me...But not enough time to ever say he loved me. The coma saved him from that nasty chore.

I'm not sure if I believe that people can still here you ... even if they are in a coma.... but I had to take the chance that they could.  I had to believe that he had to listen to what I had to say to him... whether or not he could respond.  "Ok Dad, here's the deal..." and that was all he allowed me to say.

His body that had been writhing for hours, stopped.

I gave him the morphine just like the hospice nurse had shown me.  I dipped the lollipop sponge in water and ran it across his dry and cracking lips.  I kissed him on the forehead and went to lay on the couch, to stand ready for the next dose.

I fell asleep and so did he.

Forever.

You cant have just one (12/11/2007)

Talk to just about anyone who has one and I'll bet they'll tell you the same thing; Tattoos are kind of like potato chips, you can't have just one.  

This one was my first tattoo.  I got it on the same day that I sat myself down and said, "Gina, You're a Lesbian."  Not that it was really news to me... it was just the first time I let myself say it aloud.  I was 27 and it was the first time in my life that I felt I had any power, that I had control.  Somehow that translated into the need for a tattoo. Maybe because as taboo as getting inked still was then... it was still better than being Gay. Only sailors and Hell's Angels and "different" people had tattoos.  At last... I finally identified myself with a group... those who were "different", and it just felt right. 

I walked into the first tattoo parlor I could find, determined, proud, and excited.   Excited until the tattoo "artist" appeared from behind the curtain of cigarette smoke that separated the front of the establishment from the back.  Her sandpaper voice coated with tequila wasn't exactly reassuring.  As it turned out, she was one of the nicest people I ever met. She was the first to acknowledge my "different-ness"... she was the first to accept it.  

The parrot  that ended up on my shoulder blade has no significance whatsoever. It was just the first drawing in all of their "portfolios" that didn't involve skulls, knives or snakes. I wasn't leaving until I had ink in my skin...until I was really "different".

My second tattoo is a wizard. It commemorates my sister finding her own power.  For whatever her reasons were, a tattoo would signify the power for her too.  I took her to a much better place, it was clean, and tattoos were just becoming "fashionable".  I paid, she insisted I get another, she picked the wizard, and I grinned.. a big sister grin as my sister and I reclaimed our power in blood and ink.  

It's been 4 or 5 years, since my last tattoo.   I have since then, found another power within me... one that has survived 14 years of emotional abuse, one that has stopped the abuse, one that is determined (as hard and painful as it is)... to be me... to be different ... still.  

The want for another tattoo is growing.  I just don't know yet what it will be.  But it will be different... like me.

Just a few more minutes

 God(dess) I could almost kill for a couple of hours of sleep.  

The skin under my eyes feel like 5lb. weights are pulling it to the floor, my eyes themselves burn, and my brain, well... I don't know where it's hiding.  

I could try blaming it on a magnetically reversed, high-latitude sunspot that emerged on the surface of the sun at the end of last week, but that would then only account for several days of sleeplessness,  not weeks.  

Endless hours of infomercial watching and delirium in the wee hours of the morning has resulted in me finding a trial version of Proactive and a set of Hercules Hooks in my mailbox this afternoon.  Guess I'll be zit free while looking for heavy stuff to hang on my wall. 

I've tried reading the driest of material in hopes of boring myself to sleep, only to learn that the reason I wasn't getting any sound out of my speakers when I put in a cd was because, according to the schematics... I had the damn thing plugged into the wrong port on my receiver.  I should really try reading stereo instructions *before* attempting to hook things up. Who wouldda thunk? 

The house is usually in a certain state of disarray... organized clutter if you will.  But not these days. Vacuuming... there's something almost enchanting about waltzing at midnight with your hoover. 

My poor animals are wondering why I have created this new schedule for them. Their sleepy eyes blinking at me in wonder as I wake them to go outside to "go potty".  I know I heard Dexter whisper to Sachi on the way out the door.... 

"Aren't *we* the one's who are supposed to wake *her* up when we have to go?"

Sachi warned him to just do his business and be thankful I didn't have the ball in hand.  

When sleep does finally decide to tease me... it's usually at 4:45.  The alarm goes off at 5:00.  

*whine*... oh god(dess) just a couple more minutes...

Techno-love

I'm in love with my new Motorola Surfboard Broadband Cable Modem! It's like an old lover back in my hands. 

You see, I knew this modem very, very well. I also had affairs with Linksys , 3Com, RCA and too many others to count, but the  Surfboard... that was my baby. 

In another life, this now Jill of All Trades-Mistress of None... was part of the Research and Development team of AT&T Cable...now Comcast.  I spent many days and nights writing specs and testing modems readying them for their debut on the network. I made sure they could carry the loads that would be asked of them. I taught them to release their IP addresses when asked to, not just when they felt like it and I always made sure they were powerful.  

Some did not perform, could not perform.  Others were way too eager to download.  It was a delicate dance between me, the modems, and executives that pimped them. A word from me could keep them from ever riding the internet highway.  

Temperamental executives could cause political uneasiness, modems too naive would make the customers angry.  A fine dance it was.  

My Surfboards never let me down. They were loyal, quick, and sleek. The perfect fit in my hand and on my network. It was true love.  

That was several years ago, but as I sit gazing at my new love found again.... it's pc/activity light winking flirtatiously at me, I feel a small tingle in my hard drive just fantasizing where it will take me.

That Night...

(CAUTION: Violent content)

That night and that place weren't that different from any other college campus around the country. 

Oingo Boingo greeted us as we walked into the frat house...

"It's a dead man's party
Who could ask for more
Everybody's comin', leave your body at the door
Leave your body and soul at the door . . . "  they sang.

I had arrived on campus the night before. Debbie and Vandy ended up being room mates at the School of Mines after high school. Both of them wanted to be engineers. I wanted to be a teacher, so I stayed in Greeley attending the university there.  

It was a beautiful drive to their dorm. The road wound against the bottom of the foothills.  It was fall, we were young and we lived in dorms. What could be better?  

Debbie, always the bubbly one was grinning ear to ear and immediately looking around to find someone she knew. Vandy, the self proclaimed black witch and Stevie Nicks fan stood there a minute biting her already red cuticles before she started off for the keg. I stood there in my jeans, pink shirt and hot pink tie hoping everyone knew that Annie Hall had recently made it ok.  

The rooms were filling up quickly with jocks, and geeks, and girls. Giggly girls. Cute girls.  The kind of girls the jocks and geeks liked.  I could smell the beer that had already been spilled on the floor in several places and the faint smell of clove cigarettes from the lips of a beatnik-wannabe in the dining room.  

Vandy came back with an extra beer and an invitation to go out back.  

"There's more people out there.  And hot tubs!" she giggled.  

Oh god... I knew Vandy would end up naked in the hot tub with some guy by the end of the evening. But, it only took her an hour. 

Debbie had found the people she was looking for, and they sat on bean bags off to the side of the living room discussing the physics of fluids and how that would apply their budding careers.  

My tie and I took up residence leaning on the side of the pool table, just watching all that was going on around us.  

"Hi, my name is Scott. Do you go to school here?"  His voice and breath were too close to my ear for me to turn without breaking his nose, so I had to step forward to turn around.  

"Hi...umm, Gina, and no, I don't"  I said.

We shook hands and engaged in the kind of talk that takes place in situations like that; nervous, meaningless, flirty.  The kind of talk that seems like comfort for two, or too, lonely people. 

He liked the tie and I liked that he had touched my hand. Not because I wanted a boy... but because I wanted a human connection, because I wondered what it would feel like to kiss someone, because I had had one too many beers.  

The night crept on about as slowly as his hand crept up my leg. He was very attentive to my drinks... always making sure I had plenty, and I felt lucky that I wasn't being slobbered on by him like some of the giggly girls were now being slobbered on by the geeks and jocks. 

At some point ,  I don't really remember when, he wanted to show me his high school year book.  We weaved our way through bodies and beer bottles to his room.  The room was blue, not dark blue, but light blue, the color of icebergs in the ocean and it made me shiver.  There were two beds, his and his room mates. The latter of which, I was a bit shocked to see, was occupied by a couple who didn't know or care that we had just walked in.  

Scott took my arm and pulled me to the back where there was a  sort of room within a room  with bookshelves, a desk, and a chair.  He reached into one of the bookshelves and pulled down a black bound book with silver lettering and then flipped the pages till he found the one he wanted.  I took the book from him and brought it closer, trying to find him among the other players.  I was just about to point him out, when I was thrown to the ground. 

The carpet smelled like dirty socks and McDonald's french fries. It was blue too, dark blue.  His hand went to the back of my head and clinched my hair, clothes being pulled and stretched, and hands... everywhere hands...and I remember thinking.. "how did he end up inside of me so quickly?", but he did.. and I felt myself rip. 

I thought I heard someone whisper "stop, please stop".  

Why where they whispering?  

"Yell at him.. SCREAM at him, please, make him stop."  

I tried to look back.. but saw no one.  

He thrust so hard...I swear I could feel him in my throat, but really it was the screams that were stuck there.  I tried to focus on a cobweb in the corner, on the ceiling, but his body kept getting in the way... so instead, I tried to look through him.  

I was squinting.. the dark was so fucking bright.  Why did it have to be so bright? My head hit the desk leg as he finished. 

"Tell anyone, and I'll deny it... "  he threatened.

I laid there... for minutes...or hours, it was hard to say. I turned my head to the right and I saw a hand clutching my tie... it's knuckles where white and bulging and it wore my class ring. That same hand ran between my legs to wipe away the blood that had been painted there, and then along with another, dressed me.  

As I sat there... finally able to bring the cobweb into focus... it occurred to me that someone was playing that tape again...  

"...leave your body at the door
Leave your body and soul at the door . . . "

Part of the Posse

Wow! Ever have one of those times where words just don't fit?  For those of us who write, it's kind of an odd feeling.  But, that's how I feel this morning.  I woke up  to indulge myself in reading all my favorite blogs and see that I have been added to Margo Moon and Starr Ann's Posse over at the Starr Ann Chronicles!

I've watched Margo and Starr Ann over the fences for awhile, and always see the flickerglow in the their window, but being a little shy, hadn't quite made my way to the stables for a proper hello. 

This past weekend, a mutual friend with a capital F helped me meet Miss Margo, and what a pleasure it was. So to wake up this morning.... with me and my horse Bolero, as members of the posse... overwhelming.  So much so that Bolero and I went for a morning ride, just to reflect on the new year, new friends, new beginnings.  

We rode out, not to far... and we weren't going to be long...so I didn't even bother with a saddle or a bit... I just used his halter and lead rope as a makeshift headstall and reigns.  Bolero's walking gait is always smooth. Long, slow strides that just rock you into the center of yourself and your surroundings. I just let my head bob, and back sway in unison with his as we walked to his favorite spot.

It's a spot... just on the edge of town, where the city fades away to the north and prairies open to the south.  With the morning sun rising in the East, he turns... to face West... stops... throws his head back and snorts... white billowing breath like a steam engines release from his nostrils... horse-speak for  "We're Here".  

He shifts his weight to the left and so do I.  We just sit there in the quiet... looking across the barren, frosted field to the mountains dipped in snow.  

We let the rising sun warm our backs while a chilly wind tickled my nose and played in Bolero's mane.  

"I'm happy...", I whispered to Bolero. 

His head came back to the side and he gently tapped my leg with his nose... as if to say... 

"Let's RIDE!"

It's All Relative

There's a blonde haired, six year old. We share the recessive gene for blue eyes and a middle name.  We share a mom... kind-of... he thinks of her as a grandma, she's not... but he *is* a grandson.

He only see's his grandfather once in awhile and when he does, he says that his breath smells like beer.  He won't know, at least for awhile, that his grandmother smelled of beer too, the day they pulled her dead body from the wreckage. 

He won't know, at least for awhile...that same grandma touched his father as a lover when he was his age and that maybe that has something to do with the fact that he can't see daddy any more. Lawyers, judges and jail cells say so.  

He cries sometimes when he starts thinking too much about his mom. He doesn't understand the light bulb that burned his head 4 years ago, the one that cooked her meth, was the one that took her and has her hidden only miles from him.

He doesn't know that the man and woman he lives with are his great-aunt and uncle.  He just just calls them mom and dad.  My mom... his paternal great-aunt... is Bonnie to him... and he loves her he does know that.  He knows too that she  loves him. He gets to visit once a month or so. 

When he visits he gets to see Nana... my grandmother, his great grandmother, mother of 5, daughter of two... Nana. He does know that visiting her means cookies and kisses. 

He does know, that when he visits,  people... me and my sister and her boyfriend, travel miles to see him.  He doesn't know that we are second cousins... we are just Bonnie's daughters... or Gina or Shannon and Shawn. The one's who always have gifts for him and tease him and play rockets with him. 

He doesn't know that when we go out with him and people refer to him as my son or that I wish I had adopted him when I had the chance.

So the blonde haired, blue eyed six year old,  as we're sitting in a restaurant, leans over and whispers...  

"Gina, do you have a boyfriend?"

"No", I say.

"So, you're just a girl?" he asks. 

"Yep... I'm just a girl" I say.

He doesn't know... it's all relative.

Connections

In a previous life; yes even before the one where cable modems slid effortlessly upon my testing rack, before the executive babysitting gig, before the graphic artist thing, before the office manager thing, and before another staff babysitting job... before all of those, but after the wal-mart and movie theater popcorn jockey stint... I was an operator. 
A pick up the phone, dial zero and someone on the the other end answers with knowledge of all things telephone kind of operator.  

It's probably one of the most interesting jobs I've ever had. In spite of never having a set schedule, sitting in a call center where we sat lined like chattel going to market and in spite of having to raise a yellow colored card to let the managers know we needed to pee ... in spite of all that... it brought experiences that are too strange to be anything but true. 

The job of an operator, in practice, is rather mindless.  Wait for the beep in your headset, push a button, announce yourself, connect the caller to their number, push another button to disconnect, wait for the beep and repeat. However, every once in awhile, there comes a call that just, well... it just gives you a story to tell forever.  Lucky for me I have many stories to tell. 

One includes dark construction sites in the middle of the night and a gun, one involves the sound of the panic in a foreigners voice, one involves going back in time,  but those are posts for another day, not this one.  This post is about finding common ground. Making that caller's connection possible with nothing more than the ability to speak canine.  

80% of the calls coming to my station were for collect call connections, and a good chunk of those originated in jails and psych wards. Another good chunk of request for collect calls came from pay phones. Random people on the streets with no money trying to find someone who will take their call.  All of these calls were funneled into the room where I sat, headset on and waiting for a beep.  

A caller if he/she tried a collect call more than once, could connect with me one time and my neighboring co-worker the next. It wasn't uncommon for prisoners to call so many times that he could tell you which operators were on duty, and who you were sitting next to.  These type of people were the "regulars".  

The Woofer was a regular.  

At least once per shift, one of the operators would yell out... "The dog is on the loose!", and we knew that sometime within the next couple of hours, several of us would end up blowing our call completion times because we had to deal.. with The Woofer.   

A call from The Woofer went something like this.... 

Beep Beep....  
"U S West, this is Gina, how can I connect your call?" 

"Woof"  he would say, which really, didn't answer my question completely.

"I'm sorry, I'll need a phone number and the manner in which you would like to pay for the call" I would say.

"(Woof Woof Woof)Woof Woof Woof  - Woff Woof Woof Woof"  he would bark in telephone number format. 

"Sir, Are you trying to make a collect call?" I would ask.

"Woof"  he would confirm.

In most cases, this is where the operator would "disconnect"... hang up.  We were timed on how long it took to complete our calls and The Woofer took too much time.  

It was near the end of a very long double shift and nearing 2 o'clock in the morning when The Woofer ended up on my headset. I was tired, I was facing going home to an empty apartment, I was new to a big city.. and did I say I was tired?  

Beep Beep.... 

"U S West, this is Gina, how can I connect your call?" 

"Woof"...

...you remember the conversation;  then it struck me...  

"Thank you sir, that number was (Woof Woof Woof) Woof Woof Woof - Woof Woof Woof Woof. Is that correct?"  

Silence.

"Sir, was that the correct number?" I asked again. 

"Woooof..." he said, with a tone of surprise.

"Fine, Let me connect you."

I had dialed my own home phone number, knowing The Woofer and I would both hear the phone ring, but only I knew that no one would answer.  

"Wait!" came a voice from the other end.

"Sir?" I said.  "Is there something wrong?"  

"I changed my mind." he said. "But Ma'am..."  

"Yes?"  

"Thank You."  

"And thank you, for using U S West.  Have a nice evening Sir."  I said as I disconnected for the evening.

That was the last time the Woofer's call ever came to my station, but I like to think it wasn't the last time there was a connection.

Mornings (12/2007)

click .

"and that was Sarah Mclachlan with Building A Mystery.  Up next Bon Jovi's new one on 97.3FM KBCO at 5:30 am."

(1)  dog kiss on the nose

(2). "Time to get up!, Time to get up! Time to get up!"  ugh... I'm not a morning person. 

(3) "BEEP BEEP BEEP.... BEEP BEEEP BEEEP...."

(4)  coffee is done 
      "Arf! Arf! Arf... it's cold out here let us in"

(5)  Shower, I need a shower. Ahhh.... warm water

(6)  Oh... NOW I have to pee?! 
      WOOF!

(7) 156 pound Mastiff needs morning bone.  "MEOW! NOW!"

(8)  cats want out. 
       "...and now for the weather, it's Kathy Sabin."
       "Thanks Ron, ya... it's going to be a cold one today so don't forget your mittens."

(9)  small dogs running in circles at my feet

(10).... take dogs for a walk. 

Whew...okay... dogs in, cats out, keys....keys.... Where the hell did I put my keys?!!!!!!

Clap! Clap!

(11) "beep, beep"... keys attached to clapper technology. Nice. 

With all these reminders its a wonder I can get myself dressed in the mor.... 

Aww ....Shit!