Give me an "F"

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No, this is not me singing "Fish Cheer," or flipping someone off, this is an honest look at what it’s like to be Fifty.  See how I try to lure you in.  I'm tricky that way.  Don't worry, the first thing I did was increase the font size.  You shouldn't have to "strain" to read.

***

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My hair stylist, a crazy styleless, 60 something German women, suggested I try honey as a night time facial moisturizer. I woke the next morning to the cat, licking the side of my face. The other side was stuck to my pillow case.

I should know better than to own a cat. I've seen Gray Gardens - the musical, the documentary AND the HBO special. Gray Gardens shows you just how easy it is to go from a sought after socialite, to a crazy ass cat lady. A cat will suck away your need for human interaction. A dog would never do that.  If it weren’t for my ying-yang balance of cat and dog, I might never leave the house.

I go for weekly manicures because I love the free massage. If I’m lucky, my masseuse will wear deodorant and his fingers will be long enough so that they almost touch the rise of my breasts.

I tried Botox for the furrows above and between my eyes. The result - my eyes drooped, I looked exhausted, and my 2 skin cancer forehead scars became more pronounced.  Botox instantly transforming me into a tired, expressionless, beaten up, old woman – I’ll be damned if I’ll pay money for that!

My ass used to be my no#1 physical asset.  Now it’s my ankles, or more appropriately, my lack of cankles.

My love of spanx has replaced my longing for thongs.

Forget about finding jeans that make my ass look good. Finding jeans that don’t create “muffin top” is now my top priority.

The thought of wearing elastic waist jeans is repulsive yet I have no problem wearing sweat pants.

I have not walked away from my husband, naked, for almost 7 years. I now do this adorable, back stepping glide – my dark side version of a moon walk.

I took my car in for servicing the other day. Even with the seat warmer set on “0” the temperature was way too hot. The technician explained that my fuse had blown and the seat warmer no longer worked.  I told him that was impossible. He told me to ask my gynecologist for a second opinion.

My daughter will whip out the “M” word anytime our conversations turn heated. “You’re so emotional now that you’re menopausal” she’ll tell me.  My reply, “hey, I’m still fertile and I’ll prove it if I have to.” The visual alone is enough to silence her.

I long for the days when strangers referred to me as “MISS.” Being called “Maam” makes me want to start slapping people.

To celebrate my 50^th birthday I did a wine induced cartwheel. Half way through, I felt a snap – apparently this is the sound discs make when they snap out of place. Sadly, my cartwheel days are over.

My oasis of a bedroom was instantly transformed into a hospital room when my zero gravity, relax the back, chair arrived.

I am being hounded, bullied and pressured into joining this sick, twisted, frail gang called "AARP." 

I developed a brief crush on my chiropractor when he convinced me I’d be able to run pain free. He lied. We broke up. I walked away.

Sipping wine in bed has replaced bar hoping.

I go to more funerals than weddings.

I have a friend who has a trampoline. I can no longer jump on her trampoline without wetting myself.

I keep my elbow glued to my waist when I wave and if anyone needs some extra skin, I’ve got 6 folds on the back of each elbow.

My vision decline is synced perfectly with the growth of my ears. I'm told I look better, now that I'm older, with short hair.  I now try to keep my hair short enough so that I look "better" but long enough to cover my monkey ears.

I recently took my 86 year old father to see the movie “Avatar.” In an attempt to get as close to the theater entrance as possible, I outmaneuvered a twenty year old for a pristine parking space.  Not only was she not sympathetic to the sight of my father hobbling - one hand on his cane the other hooked onto my arm - she called me an “old cow.”  Afterwards, I asked my father if he liked the movie.   “It was okay” he answered.   “What was your favorite part?” I questioned.  His reply, “Hearing that girl call you an Old Cow!”

I’ve figured out a solution to my fifty year old woes (and no, it doesn’t involve Preparation H).  I’ve decided to have fun with it -  to flaunt it, to laugh out loud - especially at myself.

       

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

***

OKAY, this time I mean it.... "GIVE ME AN F"   

(CLICK ON THE LINK)  

NO, NOT THE PICTURE   

CLICK ON "OKAY, this time I mean it..."GIVE ME AN F"  

 

For all of you 50 something's - remember when we were too young to go to Woodstock? 

Fancy Pants

***

I’m not into labels, unless we’re talking about the inside tag of an "oh so soft" undergarment.  My favorite line of intimate apparel is a brand called Natori.  They are not, by any means, the most expensive line of lingerie.  That would be a tie between Wolford and Hanro. Back in my days of frivolous, pamper me purchases, I’ve been known to acquire a pair or two.  The average cost of a Hanro pantie is $58.00.  A Wolford will run you anywhere from $60 to $120.00. That’s one hundred and twenty dollars for two panels, and a crotch.  Sure, they’re comfortable, and oh so alluring, but unless we’re talking mink or a fine grade of Italian leather, I can no longer justify the cost.  Imagine if you accidentally soiled a pair, or your pup ate the crotch (pugs will do that).

I stopped buying them the day I calculated how long I had to work to buy a pair of those fancy pants.  I’ve tried the brand known as Hanky Panky, they were HUGE last year. Great name, fun colors, but they don’t hold up well in the wash - even if they never see the inside of a dryer.  Mine only averaged 6 and a half delicate cycles before the seams starts to unravel.

My favorite style of panties is a low-rise, boy-cut brief, in a silky spandex blend with a soft-touch laced waistband.  Pretty, sexy, in an understated sort of way.  They fit my 50 year old frame and my personality.  Typically, I wear a shade called “champagne” (a fancy way of saying beige).  I have a hard time buying only one pair.  “I‘ll take a bottle” I told the sales associate. She quickly shot back with, “don’t you mean a case.”  I hate being out humored while shopping.

I lost my desire for the hot pink and chartreuse print panties somewhere in my late 30s.  If I’m feeling wild, I’ll wear black.  I own one, well fitted black bra, and 2 matching panties.  Lets just say, that my “special occasion” days are limited.

I still have the slate blue sheer laced thong I wore on my wedding day - my “something blue.”  Pretty to look at, but by far the most uncomfortable undergarment imaginable. They gave me a rash! (enough said)  Note to the manufacturer…stiff ruffed lace on delicate skin is NEVER a good idea.  When I hold them up, I can’t believe they once caressed both my legs and my waist.  I suppose cheese and wine, and thong, don’t mix.  I know I somehow, shimmied them past my thighs because I distinctly remember the uncomfortable ride.

I never understood the appeal of a “thong.”  I don’t even like the word THONG.  Which reminds me, my second husbands last name was Fong.  Did I wear thongs back when I was a Fong?  I doubt it.  Too poetic for my taste.

Oh, and here is a secret for my male readers (if you’re out there) don’t think you’re doing your lady any favors when you shop at Victoria Secret. Lets just face it - its not for her, its for YOU.  You want her to look just like those stiff, plastic manikins in the storefront window.  You know the type - tall thin, never ending legs, long flowing hair and a mouth that doesn’t move.

If I want to shop locally for intimate apparel, I only have a few choices.  Saks, Victoria Secret (not a chance) and a chic little boutique that is so welcoming even Mark (the husband) will walk in.  The owner is, of all things, a MAN.  Something I never, in my life, would have thought was a good idea.  He’s knowledgeable in a way that doesn’t make sense, and not at all intimidating.  He is an expert at woman's body’s.  He knows what style of panties will fit you best, and, with both hands tied behind his back, will size you up for the perfecting fitting bra.

Sadly, I have been informed that he is no longer carrying the Natori brand.  Something about a manufacturing meltdown.  Out of sheer desperation I drove out of town in search of my favorite panties.  The cold, cruel reality is that they are now, officially, extinct.  Once again, I have fall in love and completely dependent upon an item that is discontinued.

I came home and googled Natori, hoping to find a close out discount website like Zappo’s or Direct Buy, for panties.  I came up empty.  I decided my only choice was to give up wearing panties all together.  Its winter, so its easy to transition from panties to cotton crotch tights.  But what do I do come spring?

Spanx tights are flattering, but when combine with dry, wintry skin, the comfort component is removed.  Perhaps if I found the perfect moisturizer. Something that will allow the spandex to glide over my not so silky smooth legs.  And again, for you men who are wonder what a “Spanx” is - sorry, I can’t tell you (and no, its not what you‘re thinking).  It’s a middle aged woman’s best kept secret. Forget I mentioned it.

It was there, beside the ultra hydrating Lubriderm, and moisture masking Eucerin, that I spotted the drug store pantyhose.  Did you know they still sell L’eggs but they’re no longer packaged in eggs?  When exactly did that happen?  Did the popularity of Spanx overcome the egg?

I studied the hosiery items - reading the fine print and inspecting the packaging as though I was standing in the mystery section at Barns and Nobel.  There, next to the L’eggs, were the “not so fancy panties”  - Hanes cotton briefs.  They were labeled as being “soft, comfortable, underwear that feels good all day, every day with a superb fit, wash after wash.”  As appealing as this sounded, I was completely turned off by the price tag.  Three  pairs for $6.75, that’s $2.25 per pair - a dollar per panel with a .25 cent crotch.  There is no way I’m going to buy these, my ass is way too spoiled for practical panties!

Under further inspection I uncovered the “will stay in place or your money back” guarantee. Not sure what side of me found that appealing - probably the side that wished I had applied myself more and become a lawyer.  However, as much as I enjoy a healthy debate, what would I do if they didn’t stay in place? Repackage them (after/before washing?) and ship them back to the manufacturer?  After much deliberation, I decided I was up for the challenge.  I casually tossed them in my basket, then hid them under a pile of moisturizers.

Two days passed before I decided to give them a try.  I wore them under my “Not Your Daughters Jeans” (denim blended with spandex - a true miracle) sat in them at my desk, for almost 6 hours straight.  Came home and  recovered them with well worn sweats and ran (walked, trotted) in them for one and a half miles.

I’m here to report that these not so fancy pants are true to form.  Comfortable, non- binding, AND they know their place better than any pantie I have ever owned.

I went back the next day and bought 3 more packs, this time in a crazy array of patterns and colors.  If I am going to be fiscally sensible, I am going to need to step up my style! 

Please don’t judge me by my practical panties, underneath, I am still an adventurous, free spirited, 50 year old - comforted by the soft touch of cotton.

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

 ***

The Domino Effect of Giving

“I get along well with those who know tragedy, and grow from it.  It expands a persons view.  While most see the straight growth of the stem, we understand the struggle of the roots and the triumph of the flowers."      Jesse Fowler

***

Yesterday, I had an early morning eye exam. It was snowing, hailing, and sleeting. I was 12 minutes late (I am often late). The receptionist greeted me like a mother would greet a spoiled teenager who missed her curfew.

“YOU’RE LATE!” she scolded.
“I am aware of THAT!” I replied.

In the spirit of a defiant, unruly adolescent, I explained that my delay was due to inclement weather (not true). She then handed me my punishment. I was told that I would have to wait for AWHILE, and that next time I should call if I know I am going to be late.

I was totally annoyed. I thought about leaning across the counter and slapping her - instead, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that this was about her, not me, and I didn’t have to react to it.

"Best if I reschedule," I told her, "I call you when the weather warms up," (translation - when hell freezes over).  I’m down to 3 days worth of disposable contact, so it wasn’t the best move on my part.

Regardless of what I told myself, I was clearly aggravated. I drove to the drugstore and picked up some contact solution. While waiting in the check-out line, I overheard the man next to me ask the cashier for directions to the bus stop. Without eye contact, she brusquely answered, “I don’t know.”

As he walked out the door, I noticed he was carrying a plastic Greenwich Hospital bag - a clear sign that he had just been discharged.  I thought about offering him a ride, after all, it was snowing, hailing and sleeting - but he was a man, and he was wearing a hood, and he looked sort of creepy (not really).  What if he was a mental patient or, what if he was a recovering drug addict?  What if her robbed me, or killed me, or worse - snatched my sweet little shihtzu, Lucy that patiently waited in the car?

I watched him walk out the front door, and I exited through the back.  I sat in my car, took a deep breath and asked myself, out loud, “What Do I Do?” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I remembered a recent request I made in a blog posts...

Please take the time to reach out to those who may be suffering. To listen, validate, comfort, and be present with them. Allow them to be vulnerable, honest, and awake; and engage them with hope.

I turned the corner just as he was heading down the Avenue. I pulled over and asked him if he’d like a lift. I explained to him that I had been standing in line next to him, and I apologized for not offering him a ride immediately.  He hesitated, just for a moment, before accepting my offer.

Lucy greeting him warmly and he smiled at the sight of a 5 lbs dog wearing fur.

Neither of us knew where the bus stop was so, instead, I took him to the train. We sat outside the station and I listened as he explained that he had been in dialysis all week and that his younger sister has been going through dialysis for 7 years now, and how difficult it all was.  He told me his legs felt very weak and how grateful he was for the ride. When he was done talking, he thanked me and went on his way, this time with a smile.

When I told this story to a dear friend, she commented,  “It’s the domino effect.  What would the poor man had done if you didn’t miss your eye appointment.”

Yes, its the domino effect. The Domino Effect of Giving - a linked sequence of events that are rooted in emotion, and grow from the heart.

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

***

another example of the Domino Effect of Giving

:::

Over the Rainbow

Just because he isn't here, doesn't mean he's gone

The first time I openly shared something I wrote, was when I read my son's eulogy.

Kerry continues to guide and inspire me.

He is everywhere...

in the strong, steady warmth of the sun
in the gentle guidance of the moon
in the bend and ripple of the river
in the glistening sting of pure, white snow
in the breath of song birds and
in the fresh, sweet buds of spring


Kerry is everywhere.

 what an old soul looks like at birth

Dear Kerry,

February 16, 1979 - your Dad and I watched you take your first breath. One year later, we enrolled you in a aqua-baby's, tossed you in a pool of blue water and watched you swim.

At four - after reciting the alphabet, identifying all the colors in a rainbow and drawling a picture of yourself... smiling - you were awarded your preschool certificate.

That summer, with your fathers gentle push, you learned to ride your bike. From then on there was no stopping you. T-ball, tennis, karate - you even wiggled your way into first place at a break dance contest.

At Julian Curtis elementary school, you set the record by completing 22 pull ups.  The record stood for over 10 years.

From then on it was a steady stream of sports.  Swimming, basketball, football, wrestling - and then of course there was baseball, baseball, baseball.

On the sidelines was your biggest fan...your sister Lindsay.  She cheered you on every step of the way.  In return, you supported her with gentle love and kindness.  Through her you learned to nurture, protect, cherish and adore.

At Central Middle School you began studying the viola and we were thrilled to see your musical side.  Years later you confessed that your strings never touched the bow.  Your only motivation was to accompany the orchestra on their year end field trip to Great Adventure Amusement Park.  

Throughout the years we watched you learn and grow, and mostly...we watched you laugh.  And when you laughed it was deep and hardy... from the belly of your soul.   

When you found Mary, life was sweet. Jackson's arrival brought an endless flood of joy to you and all those lucky enough to be near.  And again, we watched you nurture, protect, cherish and adore.

What we didn't hear or see was your pain.  Your pain was never spoken, only written and never shared. You were intuitive and intelligent enough to hide your sorrow and deliver only what everyone wanted to hear. You gave people what they needed.  You gave everything, every ounce of your existence.  You gave too much. 

For those who say they don't understand, know that depression is a disease.  The conscious experience becomes an endless stream of distressing thoughts and emotions.  Sadly, creative people are vulnerable to depression.

From the childhood tales of the Velveteen Rabbit, to James Joyce's cryptic language in Finnegan's Wake, you loved to read. You were a deep thinker, a writer, a poet.  Through writing you were able to escape. 

May 27, 2002 your daily scheduled, e-mail Horoscope read:

Aquarius - be brave, be adventurous and boldly go where no man has gone before.  Your ideas for heightening the joy quotient in you life should be taken seriously.  You gave at the office.  You've been a terrific contributor to others existences, but now you should shift the focus to that which floats your cork.

Kerry, know that all we see in you is...now, forever, always... good. 

               All my love,
                            Ma

Kerry Ryan Magann 

In the background is my father - a long distance runner - cheering on his grandson as he joyfully passes a boy 2+ years older, and wins his division.  His prize....a chocolate foot.  My prize...this picture.  Love that his feet are off the ground.  

...for if you always think of me,
I will have never gone

FATHER AND SON 

Terry and Kerry

FATHER AND SON

Kerry and Jackson

...the dreams that you dare to dream...why, oh why, can't I

The first time I heard IZ sing "Over the Rainbow - Wonderful World" was a few days before Kerry died. 


It felt heavy and I cried.

"...someday I'll wish upon a star, wake up where the clouds are far behind me. where trouble melts like lemon drops high above the chimney tops thats where - you'll find me..."

it played in my head - loud and heavy - the day that I found him, dead.

We played it at Kerry's wake.

Now, when it plays...it soothes me. 

because the bond between a mother and child is eternal

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

Dear Valentine

 ***

One year, Mark gave me flowers for Valentines day. They were from Stop and Shop. The price tag was still on the cellophane wrapping. Later that night, I picked a fight with him and in the middle of it, I told him that I hated the "half dead, Stop and Shop flowers!"

The following year, Mark gave me flowers for Valentines day. This time they were from Whole Foods. The cellophane wrapper was removed, and I had no idea how much they cost. They were fresh and bright. Later that night, I picked a fight with him and in the middle of it I said, "flowers from a grocery store DON'T COUNT!!!"

The following year, Mark gave me flowers for Valentines day. Red Tulips. They were delivered to me at the office. All day long I complained about the flowers. After all..."who gets tulips for Valentines Day!!!" Later that night, I picked a fight with him and in the middle of it I yelled "I hate TULIPS!!!"

The following year, Mark gave me flowers for Valentines day. A HUGE bouquet was delivered to me at the office and all I could think of was how difficult it was going to be to carry them home.

Later that night I asked Mark not to buy me any more flowers.

The following year, when no flowers arrived, I was disappointed....

Today, I got flowers...from Pro Flowers. com. They were delivered to me by mistake. Together Mark and I walked them to their rightful owner.

I'm home now. Mark just made me lunch. Grilled cheese with tomato. Yummy!!!! We're watching the Olympics and sipping champagne

and I'm thinking....... relationships are a great opportunity to learn about yourself.

I dated (and married) many different types of men before I married Mark. In the end, I picked the man that shows me he loves me ..... everyday. And that means the world to me.

To all my family and friends..... I wish you great happiness today and always....

Here's to recognizing what means the world to you!


Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

Fancy Pancakes

Eventually the day came, when I no longer wallowed in my pain, and accepted the undertaking of daily tasks - digesting food, dispensing toothpaste, inserting contacts, locating my natural part.  Lured by my 12 year old daughters longing for her brother, and desperate need for her mother, I welcomed the morning light, and stepped into a world that did not include my son.

Shopping is what every girl wants on a sunny Saturday afternoon and so, concealed behind dark tinted ray-bans and a pearly white smile, we push our way through an ebb and flow of vacant faces, pausing long enough to pluck fashion “must haves” and push plastic at the cashier.  Nothing looks right, nothing feels right, but none of this matters.  “Wrap it up, it’s perfect, let’s go,” I affirm, as my daughter scoops up her tangible pleasures. 

Near the bottom of Main Streets shopping, is a teeny tiny French restaurant called Meli-Melo. It is run by a lovely husband and wife duo; who, along with their two small children, relocated from Paris to Greenwich.  We first met when their daughters enrolled in a neighboring dance school and I taught them the basics of ballet. 

It’s always busy here and the seating is uncomfortably tight, but none of this matters because the bright, Parisian atmosphere, coupled with attentive service screams “happy.”

They serve delicious homemade soups, divine crepes, and flavorful sorbets. My favorite is a buckwheat crepe stuffed with ham, gruyere cheese, and asparagus – then topped with mixed greens and a fabulous champagne dressing. “Fancy Pancakes,” Kerry called them.

We are greeted with a genuine smile, a European kiss, and a warm hug.

“Bonjour, Miss Shannon.  Bonjour Mademoiselle Lindsay. Look how you have grown, so beautiful,” marveled Annette, at the sight of my blooming daughter. 

She escorts us to a corner table topped with fresh cut daffodils before adding, “and tell me, how is your son?” 

My daughters relaxed stance stiffens in anticipation of my dark reply.  

“He’s fine, thank you for asking,” I answer.  

With the weight of Kerry’s death lifted, I returned my focus to the child left behind. 

Our mother and daughter date now restored, we joked about my lack of fashion sense, about her obsession with purses, and about our shared love of cheese.

It’s been 7 years since Kerry passed, but at Meli-Melo, he is alive and well.

I try not to give too much detail, only answering the questions put in front of me.

“Yes, he turned 30 this year – amazing how quickly time fly’s.”
“Yes, we still work together.”
“Yes, he is a wonderful father.”

Kerry is thriving at the "Fancy Pancake Place," the place that screams “HAPPY.”

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

Kerry's Wallet

***

I keep Kerry's wallet in a ziplock bag. Seven years later, it still smells of worn leather and stale Marlboro Reds. I can't remember how I got it, but I have it. I think he left it in his unlocked car along with a duffel bag filled with notebooks, newspapers, and dirty clothes.

The first time I opened his billfold, he had $137.00 dollar tucked neatly inside. A one-hundred dollar bill, one ten, two fives, and the rest singles.  Days later, the hundred-dollar bill was gone.  Maybe somebody needed it more than Kerry.  Maybe Kerry owed them money. I don't know why someone took it. It bothered me a lot back then.  I'm sort of numb to it now.

Alongside his cash, are four photo's of his year-old son Jackson, dressed in red. In three of the photo's Jackson is smiling, a big, toothless grin.  In the other, he is peeking out from under a blanket, eyes wide and wonderful.

Kerry saved his ATM receipts. His last withdrawal of $20.00, posted on May 24th, left him a balance of $87.81. Two, double folded metro north train receipts show he and a guest rode from Greenwich to Grand Central - one way, off-peak.

He kept evidence of pensive purchases made in the weeks leading up to his death.  Cashier Marnie noted that it was "A Pleasure to Serve Him" and that cash refunds were with receipt only.

In the center of his top-grain, cowhide wallet, directly behind his driver's license, he kept a Detectives Endowment Association Card issued by the City of New York's Police Department, a Blockbuster rewards card, three bank cards, and a Chinese, "good luck" red envelope with his name written on it.

To the side he tucked a few business cards from notable people or places he had been, along with an original copy of his fiance's, second-trimester sonogram; a first glimpse at his son, in utero, sucking his thumb. 

A drug store receipt proves his intent to obtain over-the-counter sleeping pills.  On May 27th, 2002 - less than two hours before his recorded time of death, he spent $31.77 on two, 32-capsule packages of rapid-release Unisom, and one, 72-capsule package of quick-release Nytol.  

On March 26, 2002, Connecticut held a classic lotto drawing worth 6 million dollars.  Kerry purchased two, $5.00 quick picks - which tells me that, on this day, he had hope.

***

Please take the time to reach out to those who may be suffering. To listen, validate, comfort, and be present with them. Allow them to be vulnerable, honest, and awake; and engage them with hope.

In Honor and In Memory

of

Kerry Ryan Magann

You asked that we tell your son the good things about you.

I promise to tell the world. 

***

-->Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

Into the Light - a Six Sentence Submission

I lie in fresh shade from tall, golden stocks of smooth flowing wheat, its sway quickened by the afternoon breeze, and inhale the tilled pasture that beds me and spreads between my fingers and toes. Above me, a lark weaves dollops of clouds into a searing blue sky and I rest until the distance brings the ring of my mothers cry, channeling me from my demise. Oh let me rest, let me wallow in this nest, but her call is heavy and though my eyes are shut I can see she sits in disbelief, cradled over my open urn. With heavy tears that spew from her cheek into my ash, she picks a chard of bone from my remains, and places it on her tongue.  She swallows hard and cries, “I need a piece of him inside.” She will not let me rest, will not let me wallow in this nest and so, I move, ever so softly, into the light.

Green Monkey Tales © 2007 Shannon E. Kennedy

***

Kerry's Gift

People often ask how I face a day without my son.  I tell them that just because he isn't here, doesn't mean he's gone.  I knew, almost immediately, that his soul lives on. It wasn't enough, but it was all I had, and I was determined never to let it go.

One day, in confirmation, and in glory of this, Kerry gave me flowers.

For me, Valentine’s Day represents the start of my labor. Kerry arrived two days later, on the 16th of February.

This particular Valentine’s Day, my husband Mark and I wander into a neighboring town to catch a matinee of MILK; a powerful movie that instantly motivates me to be more, contribute more, and grow more as a person.

My intention was to watch all the 'Best Picture' nominated films prior to the upcoming Academy Awards so that my opinion would be an educated one.

Before exiting the theater I stop at the bathroom, where the typical ladies room line has formed. In front of me, a stately woman blends free flowing tears with shallow gasps of air, as she rummages through an over sized purse in pursuit of tiny shreds of tissue. Behind me a woman soothingly strokes her tortoise shell glasses, cradled at her heart.  Her gaze is heavy and glazed in sentiment.

"Great movie, so powerful," we concur.
"Makes me want to do more," adds the woman.
"I haven't done enough," says the other.
"I have to write more," I announce.

I often wonder how Kerry would critique current movies. We shared praise for many of his favorites- Rushmore, Girl Interrupted, Almost Famous, among many others. He was a huge fan of Sean Penn; we watched Falcon and the Snowman together several times.  He was opinionated about politics and a supporter of gay rights.  I am quite certain he would push MILK into the top twenty-seven of his all time favorites. 

In lieu of joining hordes of couples crammed into low-lit, high priced restaurants -we opt instead to go to our local Whole Foods market and pick something up that we can  lovingly prepare.

Mark refers to Whole Foods as “the grocery store with no food.”  I, in contrast, shop here regularly.

Tonight Mark is right, nothing looks appealing. I pick up a package of pre-cut broccoli and cauliflower and toss it into the cart. Two loops later and still nothing but vegetables.

Halfway through the frozen food isle I recognized the women that stood ahead of me in the movie theaters bathroom line.

"Great movie," we gaily reconfirm.
"I have got to do more," she adds.
"I have to write more," I tell her.

I circle back to the front of the market where vibrant hues of cascading flowers are corralled. I am drawn to a bouquet of orange tulips and swiftly scoop them up. The site of this, coupled with my bundle of green and white vegetables, looks all so Irish and I smile at the memory of Kerry's leprechaun laughter, the blush of his Irish potato skin and the shade of his Galway Bay blue eyes.

"27.72" declares the cashier.

Awh, the flowers and vegetable florets...my Valentines Day gift from Kerry!


In life Kerry was fixated on the number 27.   In death it reminds me that he is near; and to see it coupled with 72  triggers my belief that life is a self-evolving circle, a continuously enlarging sphere of interconnected and interdependent fields. Ying/Yang, Sun/Moon, Light/Dark, Heaven/Earth- seemingly opposite forces that move in a tandem of synchronized dance.

My eyes swell with satisfaction as I mindfully swipe my debit card and affirm my purchase with my personalized code and valiant signature.

I clutch my gift at the center of my heart as Mark and I enter the neighboring Chinese restaurant. Together we look over the menu before placing our usual take-out order of one "Happy Family" and one "Perfect Match."

While waiting beside a fish tank of orange coral and clown fish, in comes another couple from the movie theater. They sat four rows in front of us and the women held the spot directly behind me in the bathroom line.

"Great movie," the woman and I state in unison.
"I have to do more," adds the woman
"I have to write more," I declare.

I continue to receive subtle messages from Kerry, especially on emotionally driven days and often, I write about them.  It’s easy for some to dispute my “signs” but none of that matters to me. 

As I push my limits of consciousness, Kerry reminders me that we are more than just physical beings, we are spiritual beings with limitless potential.

Kerry’s true gift, is the knowledge that a vast level of consciousness exist, and that it can be found in a simple act or otherwise mundane moment.  When we open our eyes to our surroundings, relating and interacting to ideas, situations and people with love and kindness we are creating mindful bonding.   These connections seed and nurture our spiritual growth and help roll the self-evolving circle forward.

THE SELF-EVOLVING CIRCLE

The key to every man is his thought. Sturdy and defying though he look, he has a helm which he obeys, which is the idea after which all his facts are classified. He can only be reformed by showing him a new idea which commands his own. The life of man is a self-evolving circle, which, from a ring imperceptibly small, rushes on all sides outward to new and larger circles, and that without end. The extent to which this generation of circles, wheel without wheel, will go, depends on the force or truth of the individual soul. For, it is the inert effort of each thought having formed itself into a circular wave of circumstance, as, for instance, an empire, rules of an art, a local usage, a religious rite, to heap itself on that ridge, and to solidify, and hem in the life. But if the soul is quick and strong it bursts over that boundary on all sides, and expands another orbit on the great deep, which also runs up into a high wave, with attempt again to stop and to bind. But the heart refuses to be imprisoned; in its first and narrowest pulses, it already tends outward with a vast force, and to immense and innumerable expansions.

 ~ RALPH WALDO EMERSON

A Ride With My Father

We share the far left corner of the back row, tucked behind a succession of synchronized seventy-something seniors; a line of ladies with lustrously teased hair, forgiving waist bands, and festive holiday sweaters. Each takes a turn, twisting to catch a glimpse, then signals the next in line with a quick elbow jab to the gut, “Look at him go, he’s really something.”

I am to his right, just within reach; his cane is silenced in the lap of a plastic cushioned arm chair accompanied by a mound of down coats, crocheted scarves and unzipped handbags.

“Zumba!” shouts the instructor as she whips her top-knot ponytail counter clockwise, shimmies her well shaped shoulders and steps left. Her zealous performance is contagious and we do our best to keep up.

“Stretch your hands high, and move your hips, now shake, shake, shake to the right!”

Although he’s famous for having 2 left feet, his stooped Parkinson's posture, quick-step shuffle, and rocking horse tremors infuse with the sharp rhythm and strong Latin beat; he is a dancing machine.

Everything about this is new to us; the music, the movement, but mostly, the shared experience. I don’t have many memories of us doing things together, unless you count being in a car. As kids he took us skiing but I don’t remember actually skiing with him. He’d leave me at the top of a mountain and wait for me at the bottom. If I couldn’t find him I’d know to look in the bar.

“You did great Dad,” I assure him.

“I farted,” he admits.

“I thought you crapped your pants?"

“No, just farted,” he assures me.

“Good for you, way to hold back.”


This is NOT my favorite topic of conversation but discussing his bodily functions has become the norm.

I don’t expect him to master a soulful salsa or samba, but I am catching as many memories as I can. Every hardship holds a cryptic message. My father’s Parkinson’s has slowed him down just enough for us to get to know each other.

***

The Animals

My parents divorced when I was two years old, I have no memory of them being together.

When I’d ask my mother “why,” she’d tell me that he had an explosive temper, that he was loud, impatient, and uncouth; and that us kids made him nervous.

Mom liked to invite her girlfriends over to play cards during the day. They’d drink beer, saving some to set their hair; and our pet parakeet would sip the foam from their glass, and pull the bobby pins from their fermented tresses.

She told us that my fathers erratic behavior made us kids nervous; and about the time he came home early, and angry, and how he embarrassed her in front of her friends; and how my sister Colleen climbed into the attic to escape his  fury, screaming that ants were crawling all over her when there were no ants in sight.

We left Greenwich in the dead of night.  Mom packed everything she wanted, including the parakeet and us two kids, into a 1960’s Studebaker she nicknamed Betsy; and headed to Dallas, a small community in northeastern Pennsylvania.

Surrounded in rural simplicity, we settling into an old country farmhouse on a dead end street that butted up to a wooded hillside we kids called "snake mountain."  Our yard included an overgrown apple orchard and a badly weathered barn with an attached, two-car garage.

A few blocks away lived Mom's aunt and uncle, both of her brothers, their happily married wives, and an eclectic click of cousins.   Their outpouring of hospitality added immediate calmness to our disjointed lives, but despite their efforts, it was obvious our brood was not intact and I, the only one with dark hair, stood out amongst them all as a constant reminder of my father.  

“If you wrap a towel around their head you can’t tell them apart,” my mother would say when asked which one of us kids was Colleen, and which was Shannon.  “They’re only 15 months apart - practically Irish twins."

The only other one with hair my shade was Aunt Pauline and Uncle Zibe’s forever roaming mutt; a scottish-rat terrier mix that folks called by his full name, Blacky Martin.  Blacky was infamous for breaking into people’s houses and impregnating their purebreds.  Every dog in the neighborhood looked a little like Blacky.  Their blood line no longer apparent,  they ended up just like me; with sleek dark hair, and a stubborn, fiercely independent, unruly temperament.

I remember passing Blacky as I wandered down the hill to an old Purina feed store in the center of town. In the back of the store was a large barn where they stored bundles of hay.  They would stack them one on top of the other, creating mounds of soft cushion, perfect for jumping.  I would leap from one bail to the next; sometimes I'd jump so high, I was convinced I could fly. Everything about this place made me happy.

Occasionally I would steel salt licks and wads of hay, things I would need for the pony I was destine to have. I even had a name for him, it was "Chester."

After a report card of all "S's," I dialed my father, stretched the kitchen phone cord to the far end of the pantry, cupped the receiver with both hands, and begged for my faithful foal.

I don't know much, but I know I am his favorite.  I'm his "Black Irish," and my pleading is hard to resist.  His YES is no sooner celebrated, than it is squished when mother gets word of the deal; but I was determined not to let her stand in the way of my fathers devotion and so, with my minds eye in full bloom, I envision a life with my imaginary horse Chester.

In my dreams, I sneak Chester down the serpentine trails of snake mountain, and, into our barn in the dead of night. I ride him across open fields, feed him apples, and, watch his long, scratchy tongue lap at the salt licks, as I brush his sleek, dark mane.  Chester was my favorite thing in the world, next to my Dad.

All was well until I started inviting people over to see Chester.

Camille was new to the neighborhood, having moved from Connecticut; the same state my Dad lived in. Her clothes were much cooler than mine and she lived in a new, split level house. I liked her and I wanted her to like me, so I invited her over for a ride on Chester.

"Do you want to come see my pony?" I asked

"Where did he go?" she questioned.

"He must be off gallivanting," I'd tell her.

"Gallivanting" was a term my mother used often when she spoke of my father, and to me it sounded like so much fun.

"Oh well, Chester's not here right now, but here is his stall, he sleeps here- and this is his hay, and these are his salt lick. He really likes his salt lick."

Sometimes, when I missed my Dad the most, I'd sneak out of my bedroom, down the slippery staircase, and, out the back door to the barn. There, I'd snuggle beside the ever growing mounds of hay, and drift off to sleep.

***

Being “Black Irish” only got you so far.  Colleen was clearly, everyone else's favorite.  She was coined, early on as, the pretty one.  The one with the golden curles, a beautiful smile and a sunny disposition.  She was the older one, and in her own words, “she was the boss of me.” She got to stay up 30 minutes later, she was the first to ride the big yellow school bus, and the one who got everything new.  And she got Davy, she always got Davy, and I got Micky. They were the best part of the Monkee’s. The Monkee’s were bigger than Elvis and better than Lassie.  And we were just sisters, and I was little and she was big. They were the reason we raced each other down our staircase, around the pantry corner, to our still black and white TV every Monday night at 7:00.

I was convinced that, if it weren’t for her, I’d have everything I ever wanted. I’d have her side of the room. Davy’s picture would hang right next to my bed. Davey’s face would be the first thing I’d see every morning and the last thing I’d see before mother made us turn out the lights.

If it weren’t for her I’d have those cool, baby blue sheets. I’d have the bigger pillow, the better blanket; and I’d have her “Bummy,” her best friend “Bummy,” her NOT REAL Easter basket bunny rabbit; but I wouldn’t have sucked him till he turned gray. She hugged the pretty pink stuffing out of him, pulled the tickle from his tail.

Everyone knew she loved Bummy more than me.

Why does the yellow brick road have to hang on my side of the room, from my part of the ceiling? That long, dangling, double-sided sticky tape weighted in misguided flies. I can no longer lie on my bed of mismatched sheets, stretch my legs up high and point my toes or I’ll touch it; and I'll never sleep without my blanket pulled way up over my head, because I know, some day, one of those flies will come unstuck, and land right between my eyes.

***