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!"
Friday, July 3, 2015
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.
Thursday, July 2, 2015
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.
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!
"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!
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
The Preciousness of Being Gullible
Ah, my shaved headed little friend, your haughty smile made me giggle. A child playing with an empty box thinking it's the best thing ever, too gullible to realize the toys that belonged inside are being enjoyed by another. A little sad, but precious just the same.
Look around little one...
Look around little one...
Monday, July 29, 2013
unguarded ....part 2
I have been unguarded at how I simply can not find the words to finish unguarded part one. But really, it only boils down to only one word...Betrayal. Of course this single word trails into others, infidelity, lies, deceit etc., but one can wrap them all up with a big bow in a box called "Betrayal". A trait beyond redemption, though the betrayer has even deceived themselves into thinking otherwise.
After returning the u-haul, I opened the door to what I know now, was not the beginnings of betrayal, but the middle of it. It began with the first email two years before....and I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.
It was a rouse well played. I know now, I should have expected nothing more.
If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, no matter how far it runs, or how much it thinks it's a swan, and more importantly, no matter how much it claims to be a swan, ...it's still a duck.
And already, it has been proven so....several times over...and will continue on still.
Unguarded...no, not any more.
And that was my lesson.
The upside....I still get to fall in love for the first time! Falling in love with someone who really doesn't exist except in lies and deceit...gets you an automatic reset :-)
After returning the u-haul, I opened the door to what I know now, was not the beginnings of betrayal, but the middle of it. It began with the first email two years before....and I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.
It was a rouse well played. I know now, I should have expected nothing more.
If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, no matter how far it runs, or how much it thinks it's a swan, and more importantly, no matter how much it claims to be a swan, ...it's still a duck.
And already, it has been proven so....several times over...and will continue on still.
Unguarded...no, not any more.
And that was my lesson.
The upside....I still get to fall in love for the first time! Falling in love with someone who really doesn't exist except in lies and deceit...gets you an automatic reset :-)
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Unguarded... part 1
It's been years now...long enough for me not to remember when I actually moved here, but short enough that I should. I'm just not sure if I can still count the years on one hand, or if I need to enlist a digit from my other.
I don't remember the pictures of just before I came here. I remember the feelings. At 41 (or was it 42), I had fallen in love for the first time and as of yet the only time. I never believed the wishy-washy sing-songy tales of love in books, or movies or as described in first person by friends of acquaintances. As far as I was concerned, love was just an urban legend... like God.
An entire year, maybe a little more, had slipped in and out of my consciousness before I closed the heavy sliding door on that moving van. And two more before that until I was able to even call Her into my realm of possibility.Love doesn't happen quickly. It walks on every breath, every mistake, every dream and every thought you have from the moment you are born until the moment it finds you, unguarded.
Even as I laughed at her request to shove a paving stone she had taken a liking to into the only remaining space in the U-Haul, I didn't really believe. I didn't necessarily DIS-believe by that point either, after all, I had asked her to marry me several months before. It just didn't punch me in the stomach until a little while later, that belief that I had un-mythed the myth and that love did exist.
Before the 1,092 mile drive through Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, and southern Idaho, before we finally pulled the U-Haul in front of her Cory Barton home, we courted. We courted in an unconventional, technology ridden, airport hopping, dinner over the phone with a candle in each state kind of way; but we courted none-the-less. It was almost worthy of a Harlequin novel but with the steamy heat more tailored to a behind-counter-magazine. It was being bit by a love-bug on steroids.
There were endless hours of hellos and talk-about-nothing entwined with 'I want you now' and 'only 9 more days' floating on radio frequency signals that bounced between cell-phone towers and days worth of email messages that traveled in tiny data packets across the internet that were too small to hold what we had to say. As the 'only 9 more days' turned into 8, then 7, then 6 and 5...4...3...2...and finally "one more sleep" our chests collapsed until the plane finally landed and still, until we caught sight of each other amongst weaving travelers and spinning baggage carousels before we could gasp for air.
Time together seemed like Mercury seconds compared to the Pluto hours apart and we quickly learned that love making and story telling took priority over trips to Albertsons for food let alone to the Maverick for gas to get to Albertsons. We would have eaten bread crumbs and toothpaste if we had to in the short half-times when our minds finally stop hmmm-ing from what our bodies did for hours, but we didn't have to; the hmmming never stopped. But it most have stopped intermittently, because sidewalks got shoveled, I built a deck, and She created artwork and brought home tests from school that had been graded, a marriage proposal was given and accepted, and children had stolen my heart. None of that could have been accomplished while hmmmm-ing was going on.
The courtship lasted for so much longer than we wanted it to, or could stand it to. This made clear by her ever more common 'You're not coming are you?' sighs over the phone and 'If you loved me you would come now!' texts. Plans were made, a For Sale sign put in my front yard and a well paying job given two-weeks notice. No more planetary time zone jet lag. I was going home with her and staying there. Right after I unloaded and returned the U-Haul.
I don't remember the pictures of just before I came here. I remember the feelings. At 41 (or was it 42), I had fallen in love for the first time and as of yet the only time. I never believed the wishy-washy sing-songy tales of love in books, or movies or as described in first person by friends of acquaintances. As far as I was concerned, love was just an urban legend... like God.
An entire year, maybe a little more, had slipped in and out of my consciousness before I closed the heavy sliding door on that moving van. And two more before that until I was able to even call Her into my realm of possibility.Love doesn't happen quickly. It walks on every breath, every mistake, every dream and every thought you have from the moment you are born until the moment it finds you, unguarded.
Even as I laughed at her request to shove a paving stone she had taken a liking to into the only remaining space in the U-Haul, I didn't really believe. I didn't necessarily DIS-believe by that point either, after all, I had asked her to marry me several months before. It just didn't punch me in the stomach until a little while later, that belief that I had un-mythed the myth and that love did exist.
Before the 1,092 mile drive through Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, and southern Idaho, before we finally pulled the U-Haul in front of her Cory Barton home, we courted. We courted in an unconventional, technology ridden, airport hopping, dinner over the phone with a candle in each state kind of way; but we courted none-the-less. It was almost worthy of a Harlequin novel but with the steamy heat more tailored to a behind-counter-magazine. It was being bit by a love-bug on steroids.
There were endless hours of hellos and talk-about-nothing entwined with 'I want you now' and 'only 9 more days' floating on radio frequency signals that bounced between cell-phone towers and days worth of email messages that traveled in tiny data packets across the internet that were too small to hold what we had to say. As the 'only 9 more days' turned into 8, then 7, then 6 and 5...4...3...2...and finally "one more sleep" our chests collapsed until the plane finally landed and still, until we caught sight of each other amongst weaving travelers and spinning baggage carousels before we could gasp for air.
Time together seemed like Mercury seconds compared to the Pluto hours apart and we quickly learned that love making and story telling took priority over trips to Albertsons for food let alone to the Maverick for gas to get to Albertsons. We would have eaten bread crumbs and toothpaste if we had to in the short half-times when our minds finally stop hmmm-ing from what our bodies did for hours, but we didn't have to; the hmmming never stopped. But it most have stopped intermittently, because sidewalks got shoveled, I built a deck, and She created artwork and brought home tests from school that had been graded, a marriage proposal was given and accepted, and children had stolen my heart. None of that could have been accomplished while hmmmm-ing was going on.
The courtship lasted for so much longer than we wanted it to, or could stand it to. This made clear by her ever more common 'You're not coming are you?' sighs over the phone and 'If you loved me you would come now!' texts. Plans were made, a For Sale sign put in my front yard and a well paying job given two-weeks notice. No more planetary time zone jet lag. I was going home with her and staying there. Right after I unloaded and returned the U-Haul.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)