Purple, Curly, Frizzy

 

Purple, Curly, Frizzy 

  

Silver streaked with light purple, curly, frizzy cloud halo I’d only learned to love post menopause.

Neighborhood kids bullied me as a child, said I looked electrocuted, 

that I’d stuck my cuticle bitten fingers into a light socket, and they called me “poof”.

It was auburn when I was young, tight ringlets, that still make women ask, “Is it natural?” 

I didn’t know they were envious for years to come.

My curly Jew haired family was called “The Bad Hair Club” behind our backs

by a flaxen haired bird-like woman who called herself my friend.

In my forties, I found the ethnic product counter, pommades and goos that tame frizz, 

played up curls; it was incredibly long when it was wet.

When gray and silver took over my head, I experimented with burgundies, and plums, 

and deep royal purples, until finally settling on a wash-in color 

that left a luscious blend of silvery lilac.

Compliments flew everywhere I went, stores, parks, hospitals…

Now, life saving treatments have stolen my sparkly signature coiffure. 

Clumps and matted chunks fall away,

This morning, I chopped it short; I felt angry with the matted mess it became everytime 

I would pin it up or lay my head on my pillow.

Sunday I will learn to love myself bald as I shave the rest.

It took scores of years to find a love for myself, an appreciation for something in my appearance.

My enchanting silvery, purple hair will be gone,  

I will have to love myself without it to survive this.

I reach both hands up to run my fingers through what’s left,

another wistful bunch in each hand slid out easily, with anguish, as my fingers left my scalp.

I swear that it will be beautiful and silvery purple again, 

that it will be as full and gorgeous as Life is.

 

            - Hopefawn Levenson Robertson 

Parched Meant

 

      Parched Meant

Soaked up sun today, like my body had never experienced it before.

I wanted to absorb the rays as they filled my belly with wanton lust 

yet dried my heart as Sahara sands. 

No lotion or pomade will heal the scarred patches of  raw and 

bloody pouches beneath my eyes.

Where the riverbeds are dry and a knowing drought ensues.

No happy crop will grow now, no hopes of harvesting a full

sustaining haul and storing for the lean season. 

The lean season has crept up.

I talk to hear my own  parched voice, I breathe when I remember.

Neither brings bread nor water nor tears anymore.

I need no grave. It is hot and dry and I willingly go to dust.

I need no witness for the winds to scatter ashes.

7/2015

Hopefawn Levenson

Breaking Good: Chop a Block of Famous Poetry

 

                         Breaking Good: Chop a Block of Famous Poetry

Breaking Good: Chop a Block of Famous Poetry

tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, 

creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 

to the last syllable of recorded time; 

and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. 

out, out, brief candle! 

life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, 

that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: 

it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 

signifying nothing.

Grandma Rose’s Chookies

½ C. shortening            ¼ tsp.Cream of Tartar

1 C. sugar                 1 ½ C. flour

1 egg                    pinch of salt

1 tsp. Vanilla            ½ tsp. Baking powder

Sift flour, Baking powder, & cream of tartar. Cream shortening, add sugar gradually, beating until fluffy.  Add eggs. Beat well then gradually add the flour mixture & flavoring Roll into small balls drop 1 inch apart in greased cookie sheet

Flatten sprinkle with sugar & cinnamin

Bake 400 degrees about 6 to 12 minutes.

______________________________________________________________________

Grandma Rose’s sugar cookies

½ C. butter               2 tsp. Baking Powder

1 C. sugar               ¼ tsp. Vanilla

1 egg                   2 C. flour (about)

¼ C. milk                 .

Cream butter & sugar. Beat the egg add to the milk. Sift flour and mix baking powder with 1 cup. Combine mixtures, then add the rest of the flour, and only enough more to handle. Chill in refrigiratore

Roll on floured board ¼ inch thick with sugar, cinnamon choped nuts

Bake in hot oven 375 degreesF 8- 10 minutes or use 2 eggs, Tablesp of milk

THIS is why she's so hard to defend.

Time to Choose Official Trailer 1 (2016) - Environmental Documentary HD

Bernie Sanders LIVE in Gainesville Florida @ A Future to Believe in Rally

This ol' thing.

Raised in kind she lost her mind and believed that she should please

But finding others already there she lost her warm and sunny cheer

And searched her skills and offered thrills for an avenue of release

She clung to her her wounded heart as if to staunch the pain

But nothing seemed to bring relief, she’s off the edge again.

She yearned for a loving gesture and to hold her close

But he was asleep and soundly snoring

And she was sad and hurt with longing

For affection, genuine attention

She knew it was ‘cause she’s boring

and growing ever more morose.

She is the cautionary tale of a life wasted in waiting,

while wrapped up tight and dark in mirror hating,

For her Prince to rescue

For her world to imbue

Her heart with solace delicately laced

Anticipating his spout on her lip or a morphine drip

where he knows she will sip at his love drops forever like a starving dog, like his starving dog,

His bitch ever in heat

because she knows she is just a pet, a trinket, a toy, a distraction

Raped by fear and avoidance of failure and self extraction

Where dreams lay broken, forgotten, intimately abandoned

Like the child inside.

- Hopefawn Levenson 

Wedding Fever

It's the fantastic news we've been waiting for. Garrett and Kate are engaged! Yes, we all expected this and it is very welcome. I absolutely adore Kate and counted her as one of my "adopted" children nearly the instant I met her. I was not expecting was a real date to aspire to. A real ceremony and party to plan for. I was prepared for a long engagement. A very long engagement indeed. Just last week, while we waited for said impending proposal, my daughter said she'd heard Kate say she never cared to get married and when Garrett expressed concern over whether his proposal would be accepted, I could only say, "Then you offer the ring as a symbol of your love and the bond and commitment you share." I, however, did expect her to say, "yes."

In the drudgery of daily life it is invigorating to have an event to look forward to. Something to feel exaggerated zeal and zest for. My eldest daughter, Jackie, called just after 10pm last night to gush and puzzle about her wedding attire. As Best Man, the question now is, does she wear a gown or a tux? And she related to me ideas Kate has about her wedding dress. Suddenly I realized we were in full wedding swing. Rosie and I started sketching ideas for a dress with tuxedo qualities.

I am working up the bubbly here. Just creeping out from under the blanket of flu which has plagued my house since Christmas, and nursing a back injury (which still has unknown sources) happy is tough to muster. But muster I shall, dammit! Inquiring moms want to know details! I don't ask because I don't want to be a space invader. I avoid prying and manipulating. I'm just curious. Very curious. I've been a dead cat before you know. (How many lives do I have left?)

I wonder about what state the wedding may be held in, just how big it is getting and what role can and may I play?

So this morning to satiate the excitement Jackie incised in me, I find myself searching mother of the bride dresses (disappointingly, there's none labeled mother of the groom) and groom's family responsibilities.

Dread and fear and self loathing filled me. Breathe, I told myself. This is a time for convivial merriment! And no fun time to be at poverty level. I know my financially and medically challenged position. Still I expect to afford my family's wedding clothes, transportation if needed, a wedding gift and the rehearsal dinner. I feel exuberant, and even frolicsome at the mere thought of this union. Garrett and Kate are an excellent match. So why do I allow my joy to be tainted because of my inabilities and short comings? How can I not participate in my son's momentously mirthful occasion? How can I be such a broke-ass, ugly, embarrassing troll at my son's wedding?! Someone slap me! BREATHE!

I'm better now. Where's my Prozac? I've been anticipating this event for sometime, and now that it is reality, I am totally unprepared. I remind myself that no matter about me, the wedding will go on, and I can enjoy the ride or drown in my self induced anxiety. I think I'll choose to relish the thrill of this roller coaster. Mother of the Groom. I haven't played that role before. This should be exciting. The price of the ride is giving up my anxiety, insecurity and self absorption. And the prize is my son's happiness.

Daily Withdrawals

I wonder how many days slip by without much notice. We go through the motions of our lives, sometimes blindly. Days are spent like currency, depleting our banks, but there's no saving for a rainy day. When we are out of days, time is up. So now, I hope to ask myself each day, if this were my last day, is this what I'd want to be doing?

Sadly, most days the answer is no. I need to fix this. Why is it so much harder than it sounds? I have not learned to be authentically happy, or to live in the moment, or to take advantage of every day of my life. I comprehend the ideas, but I am subject to inertia, and movement from this very solidified spot is not without great effort. I need a simple machine and some outside muscle for help. Crow bar anyone????

Sleep is elusive for me. I chase it. I wait for it. I want real and true rest so desperately, I feel drunk for the lack of it. Even when I do sleep, it is fitful and filled with strange and often terrible dreams from which I waken, screaming. Sometimes flailing my arms at some would be assailant. Sometimes my cat wakes me, biting my toes in fear because I've been kicking ferociously in his direction.

I don't know when it happened that restful sleep slipped away from my life. I don't know how long it has been since I have slept through the night, even fitfully, without some form of sleep aid. (Although even those often do not keep me asleep.)

I sit awake, in the middle of my queen size bed, with my laptop before me. I watch movies, tv shows, play solitaire, check Facebook, Gaiaonline (which I can blame my 13 year old for getting me started in) ExperienceProject, Stumble! or just news sites. I fall asleep at the word processor. Several rows or pages of "d's" depending upon how long I'd been in that position, always my head bobbing up, trying to shut down the computer, but too tired to see the keys straight.

Is this sleep pattern epidemic? Is it more common in mid-life? I cannot be the only Zombie out there. Does anyone know if normal sleep ever returns? I'd say more, but I'm gonna try to take a nap now.

St. Valentine's Massacre

It is February. The month to celebrate love. Chocolate hearts, lovingly message printed Sweettarts, Filligreed and "ungapatchkid" as my grand mother used to say, Valentines.

I never liked Valentine's Day. Even though I normally love any excuse to have a party, the idea of Valentine's Day stuck like a poppy seed in my gums.
Now here it is again, in the face of my second divorce, where I find that love can go just as it came. No romantic gesture will revive the Eros in this relationship. Once I was wooed with teddy bears and champagne, chocolates and jewelry, weekend trips and romantic dinners, and the most effective, tender loving care lavished upon my young children. But love goes way deeper than that. It means fighting the good fight to be as healthy as you can be for as long as possible and live as full a life as possible with those who want you around. It means being encouraging, not proving how much better you are at anything than anyone including your mate. It means giving up the last chocolate chip cookie.

There is so much it means to me. Funny, I used to believe in True Love. I used to be a hopeless romantic. I used to think I would find a happily ever after thing. Somebody start singing "Memories." Where's the Kleenex? sniff sniff
ok better now. Who the f@#% needs a Valentine anyhow?

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Abortion Clinic

How can I stress enough the disquiet at having to take a girl for a fourth abortion?! I simply cannot. Anger, frustration, disappointment and sadness welled as a congealed concoction which together should have a name, since frequently, they all do come together. As if they all got the same invitation to a party.

"Are you goin' to Hope's stress-fest?"
"Hells yeah, can I catch a ride?"

So I brushed the unwelcome emotions from my heavy shoulders and got my ass out of bed early so I could be greeted by graphic and gory signs depicting abortion horrors. And so the very religious protesters could shout at us and menace us as our car pulled into the very recently fenced-in parking lot.

This fence was so new I thought I could still smell the sap on the wood. In spite of this shining and spectacular diversion, protesters had set up a soap box to loom over the fence with a megaphone. I shit you not. Recollections of my Toys for Tots episode with Prosti-Preacher telling us we were "goin' ta heeeellll, you can't do this alone, you need Jeeezus to help youuuu..." sprung up in my mind. We were jeered, and chastised, berated and pleaded with. And the only emotion they evoked was anger. I wanted to go around the fence and shove the little man off his step ladder. Sadly, the police were watching, supposedly for our protection, although I suspect for the protection of the obnoxious, prostelatizing, ranting protesters as well. I admit that at moment they were in more danger than I. (wink wink) I held a my hand up in a peace sign to the window at the woman approaching the car as we entered the lot.

After our charge was all checked in, G and I went to grab some grub. And to kill some time until it was time to pick her up. I won't explain "Chilly Willy the Madman of South Blvd. McDonald's" cuz G wants to tell that tale. And folks...that one is gonna be good. We should even get a song or a poem out of it. ;)
When we were called to report back to the clinic, I mentioned that the protesters had probably taken a break for lunch since it was after noon now. G snickered. And then we turned the corner. and he was dismayed and saddened at not being able to blast them with Linkin Park's "One Step Closer" out of his windows.
Exactly the song they make ME think of. "Shut up when I'm talking to you!"

How is it that love can turn from electric spark, from buzzing excitement and deep roiling passion, and bright burning embers, to powdery filthy ash? How does beating pulsing heart turn to cold diamonds, cutting our beloved to splinters when we go? How can we cause so much pain to someone we only wanted to hold dear for what seemed would be eternity?

I have no answers. For all of my experience, I am at a loss as to how Eros dies. When even still, I care so deeply and do not wish to cause harm or pain, I know the romance is dead. If only I could erect a kind headstone. A poignant marker for this beautiful thing that did exist.

I have had my mourning. I have grieved. I am closer to acceptance. But he will start at anger. And somehow I have to believe that the anger is not at me but part of his grief.

He has been in denial for a long time. And while I have moved painfully through the anger, bargaining, and depression, he has not. I think I am ready for acceptance now. So I will be the one to make the arrangements. But when I tell him our love has died, and he has to face it and emerge from his fog of denial, he will hate me for bringing the news. For the knell rung out for him to hear.

Inaugeration 2009

This year, we swear in to office a true president of the People. This moment has been coming to us for quite some time. The intense power and dense winds of change are more palpable than ever.

I was in first grade, at P.S. 224 in Brooklyn, NY, during Dr. Martin Luther King Day. The teacher rolled a television set into our classroom for us to view footage to Dr. King delivering his famous "I Believe.." speech. At the age of 6, I was impressed and touched profoundly by that speech and the man who delivered it. I was of a minority demographic, and could relate to much of the injustices dealt minorities in our country.

I grew up believing in an America that year after year seemed to be slipping through our fingers. Perhaps a bit of an idealist, I knew in my heart, that in my lifetime we would see a President of great change. Great as in enormous, as in wonderful, astoundingly impressive even.

Here we are. A man my own age, who grew up with the America I grew up with. A man who I believe wants America to be healthy, respected, deserving, and just, as we always believed her to be in our hearts. America was an underdog, a champion for those who could not stand up for themselves, a champion wielding successes in the name of what is right and true and good.

Barack Obama represents all these things to me. I see the chance for an upswing of positive influence and reactions across the country, and throughout it's people at a time when we need it the most.
This is our chance for prosperity of the heart and redemption.

The Perfunctory New Year Blog

January 3, 2009

The New Year was ushered in at my house without fanfare. Anyone who knows me for any significant period of time (for this purpose, three months) knows this is aberrant behavior for me.

I love a party. I love to play games, throw streamers, have cake fights, blow bubbles, drink the bubbly. Be the bubbly. We are talking partying like it's 1999.
Maybe not 2009.

I have learned a thing or two about ailing lately. It sucks. It blows. It bites. It is a kill joy. It makes joie de verve hard work. I always thought joy and delight came naturally. Hmph.

My wonderful son got me out of the house for the first time since my health took a sharp dive. I am dizzier than Dean. I am as unsteady on my feet as a drunk. Normal endeavors like walking and cooking are laughably challenging instead of part of the functions of life I have taken for granted as second nature. We ventured out and I held on to my surroundings as if I were on a plane in serious turbulence. I appeared to the world tanked. Stewed. Juiced. I was frustrated on the inside. I walked past a store window and caught my reflection in the glass. I looked older than I ever have and as disordered as I felt.
I followed my young, healthy, strapping son as he applied for work around the neighborhood. And I felt helpless, useless, outmoded. Past tense. There are stirrings of desire for grander schemes in my life. There are flashing ideas of what I could do. But I feel incapable, ineffective and inconsolable.

This was written January 3rd, while I was in the throws of severe Cymbalta withdrawal, that saga continues as you shall see....

Toys for Tots 2008

Not many would disagree that it's been a difficult year financially. For those of us already struggling, it has been that much more challenging. Christmas came with dread. Fear of disappointment loomed like a dark threatening sky over picnickers in a field. We tried to pretend it was still sunny. We sang Christmas songs. We reluctantly put up our tree. Our smiles were thin and wan.

We could not afford the joy of giving, which was always the best part of celebrating for me.
My children are not toddlers. They no longer expect Santa to magically pop from the fireplace leaving wrapped gifts beneath the tree. And they understand our family circumstances. I had prepared them for the fact that we had no holiday money this year. They knew we were scrambling for food and rent. I also knew that at eleven, my son still held out hope for a miracle of sorts, to bring him some shiny new plastic that might require batteries.

Two weeks before Christmas, I received a phone call saying Toys for Tots would help. I breathed a sigh of relief. For my older children who were over 18 this made no difference, except that they would feel better for their younger siblings. But my 13 and 11 year old children, would not have to return fearfully from their holiday vacation to school, with children brimming with excitement to share their lists of holiday booty and inquiring, "what did you get?".

I was scheduled to bring my kids to a church to pick up their holiday toys. I hoped they were wrapped, since the kids were coming along. I wanted to put gifts under the tree for Christmas morning. Not an uncommon hope for a mom at the holidays.

I have no car. My dear friends drove us to the church. The kids were a little put off about it's store front appearance. But we soldiered on and in. A smiling woman greeted us into the room
with chairs lined in neat rows, and a podium at the front. Slowly the room filled with others hoping to get their toys from the program promising to cheer Christmas.

A pastor entered to greet the group. We expected the usual sermon of gratitude and holiday spirit. Perhaps a bit of encouragement to the parents who felt set back, down trodden, lost and failed. But pastor Cohn launched into a proselytizing speil, filled with shock and awe such as
George Bush had not imparted these last eight years. My 13 year old was incensed. My 11 year old was traumatized.

"You thought you were just gonna walk in here and walk out with TOYS, didn't you?" pastor Cohn exuded. "Well you're not! You will not leave here without taking the Lord into your hearts!" She boomed at us, "you do not have to depend on your baby-daddies for survival! Look to the Lord for help! If you do not accept Jesus into your hearts you will go to HELL! You are no match for the Devil!" She thundered into my young son's face. I was shell shocked, and torn between not wanting to appear rude, and self preservation. And she tore on, shouting about her experience as a high class prostitute in New York, and then accepting Jesus into her heart. We do not have to live the shameful life she did, she said. My 11 year old son's eyes were wide. He didn't know whether to burst into tears or laughter, and sat there instead looking very confused.

We were rescued by our friends who had been waiting anxiously in their car for over an hour of their Christmas Eve, while we were being bashed over the heads with religion. The pastor was deep into the sermon that would continue for another hour. We had to leave without our toys. I hoped I was escaping with my kid's sanity intact.

"I just wanted a couple of toys," my son whimpered. Yes, I'd just wanted a couple of toys for my two youngest kids. Instead, I'd gotten them assaulted with an unexpected and unwelcome experience they won't soon forget. One I wish I could stop my young son from repeating. He is now prone to suddenly jumping up in the air, knees practically at his ears, screaming, "you're goin' ta heeeellll...."

It may take years of therapy to make it stop. Even then I'm sure he'll dream about it. I know I will. As I understand it, Toys for Tots is a program run by the US Marines. Do they advocate this sort of treatment? I was fortunate enough that my children were old enough to understand that their family is broke, their dad totally disabled, work is hard to find, and their mom not the picture of good health. They were grateful just to escape. Even my son agreed calmly to leave without the toys.

So Christmas came without whistles, it came without bells, it came without packages, and toot tooters and HELL! We played games, and sang songs, we opened our small but meaningful gifts; my youngest son bought at his school store, and the babysitting money my daughter used at Dollar Tree, the family gift my oldest son bestowed, great fun in a box. The dollar slinky from WalMart, a package of tatoos, fun socks. Our gifts were few, some hand made with love. Not much, but still, warm smiles and love. The things that truly make our holidays happy.
The very sort of holiday with the spirit of the season at heart. Family, friends, love and care.

Yet, come time for school, I wonder what my kids will say to others armed with cd's, movies, clothes, toys, name brands brandished and bandied... without a harrowing experience sponsored by Toys for Tots?

Planes, Quatrains and Automobiles...

There are many views to a story. The tale of Garrett's graduation/birthday/holiday travels affected many. Many of us endured and enjoyed the journey with Garrett and Kate, in person or by text.

My story began with my departure from my apartment in Charlotte, December 18th at 2a.m. I needed a ride, and my life long friend happened to be going to the airport to volunteer for the USO. I would arrive at the airport three and a half hours before my scheduled take off. You don't need to be at Charlotte's airport three and a half hours in advance of your flight. This is not downstate New York. Evidenced by the fact that at 3a.m. the airport was EMPTY. A few early travelers waited, sleeping or reading. The entrance to concourses and gate access areas were plexi-glass-gated and locked off. Very closed. Darkened even. I decided to sit and read, but it was sultry warm inside, and I found myself standing outside in the dark not quite chill North Carolina air, happily anticipating the sight of snow in Oswego. I hadn't seen snow it two years! What a reunion I had planned. (Yes planned. There's that word again, Garrett.) Snowball fights, snowmen! Frosty white crystals stuck to my eyelashes and melting on my tongue!

Eventually I got bored. I dragged my bags back inside, and planted myself as first on the line for the still closed ticket counter. I copped a squat on the floor and took out my Sony discman, popped in my earbuds, and opened my notebook to doodle. Beyond the boppy 70's tunes I heard Dee's high pitched voice and Long Island accent echoing from down the wide corridor. I picked my head up to call to her. She informed me that there would be 17,000 troops coming through the terminal in 10 minutes, and she hoped the ticket agents were prepared for it. Ha. Before I knew it, I was standing with my friend and another USO volunteer, talking about helping a few seemingly lost young soldiers. Ironically, three people from West Babylon, New York, trying to get Charlotteans "to get a move on." We decided that if need be, the three New Yorkers could handle anything here. But the counters didn't open till 5a.m. And I got my bag checked and dragged myself through security toward the concourse for a quick breakfast sandwich and coffee before boarding my plane to JFK.

The flight to JFK was unremarkable. I was exhausted. I was uncharacteristically rude. The friendly man in the seat next to me said hello. I smiled thinly and closed my eyes. When we deplaned I found that he was JetBlue personnel. Oooops. I wished him a Happy Holiday without eye contact. I kept an ear out for info on the approaching winter storm with slowly increasing concern about others traveling to Garrett's graduation.
When I landed in Syracuse, I went in search of Garrett's friend Zac who was nice enough to be picking me up. I searched the crowd for a face I only knew through Facebook, or for a shirt with Mu Beta Psi letters.
BINGO! Zac's face and Jenny wearing letters. Great kids! Smart kids! Wonderful kids! I talked nervously the entire way to their house.

And there was SNOW! Wonderful, delicious, beautiful, dangerous and frustrating, snow! I didn't get to play in it. No one else wanted to play. I did get to eat some. And slide in it. Sometimes on purpose.

Everyone but Kate made it into Syracuse. This was horribly sad, because I knew she was the person Garrett wanted there most. He was inconsolable. I didn't even try. I made myself happy with the fact that everyone was safe wherever they were. Then my flight out of Syracuse was delayed. And that meant I would miss my connecting flight back to Charlotte. They put me on the same flight the next day out of JFK. By happy accident, I would wind up on the same flight back to JFK as my sister, Ama. I'd have to spend the night at her house. Yet another unexpected happy gift! More family time!

We hitched a ride to the airport and would spend 5 hours of quality time together waiting for our delayed (please Lord don't be cancelled) flight out. We camped out on the most comfortable couches we could find. Sprawled among our bags, newspaper, books, laptop, water bottles and a bag of Fritos, we seemed like a bad movie montage in my mind. Clip one: we sat side by side, peering into the screen of my laptop. Clip two: Ama sitting crosslegged reading and I stretched out and covered with my cloak, holding USA Today up in the air over my face to read. Clip three: Ama leaned against wall, day-planner on chest and pen in mouth, and I upside down on bench with legs up the wall, disc man on, feet wagging to music. And on we went changing positions, talking, checking the flight board, snapshots in my mind of the two of us. Both of us glad all the children made it out (of Syracuse).

At long last we boarded JetBlue flight 1085 to JFK. I was at the window. Ama sat next to me. And an overly chatty teenager filled with holiday cheer which we did not share was sitting in the aisle seat. Did I mention that on this trip I posessed a heretofore unknown quantity of rudeness and decidedly unfriendliness? Ama and I both smiled at the teen sardonically, and closed our eyes. The plan was to take the train back to Merrick from JFK. But my amazing nephew, Ben rescued us and drove us home by way of lost in Queens. I slept. We arrived at their house and went to bed around 1a.m. Sleep was a valuable and sought after commodity now. I fell alseep. Hard. If it wasn't sleep I fell into, I would have hurt myself.

At 5:30a.m. my drunk ass friends back in Charlotte were still expecting me, because they were too drunk to understand that I wouldn't be home till the next evening at 5p.m. My celly was blowing up and I startled awake, clawing at the air, searching for a sense of my surroundings and my phone. Ama was going to reach through the phone and strangle whomever she grabbed there. Later in the morning Ama informed me that it wasn't the only call during our sleep and that infact I'd been on the phone with JetBlue at approximately 2a.m. I blinked.

I was? I spoke with someone?

Funny, I hadn't been drinking. Yet there was no recollection of this call. Or the fact that my next flight out of New York was now cancelled. Ha! I was stuck in New York for another two days! Lucky for me I was with family where I could get comfy and sleep and be fed. So my vacation was further extended, and I unexpectedly visited with people I missed, and wouldn't see again for sometime. Bonus.
And I made it home for Christmas. In all things there is balance. Some delays cause grief and frustration. Some bring a measure of joy. I was on the lucky end this time. But tragedy bears comedy, and my story isn't nearly as entertaining as Garrett's and Kate's. Poor babies.

I encourage you to read their blogs: http://lifeisapoeticnarrative.blogspot.com/

http://73hgreat.blogspot.com