PUMP Me UP

"Perfection is not possible, but shocking is still on the table."   Jennifer Johnson

***

Amy Winehouse has a song called "F" Me Pumps. I love that song. I love shoes - but sadly, my need for comfort trumps my love of PUMP.

Boots are the exception to the rule. I’ll wear them regardless of how uncomfortable they are. I'll wear them until I bleed. Oddly, my ultra pointy, steel tipped, PINK cowboy boots are the most comfortable, and my favorite. Sadly, there are only so many places you can wear pink cowboy boots.

Sunday, I will be heading to Washington, D.C. - without my boots. I will be marching up and down Capitol Hill, my way of keeping a promise I made to my son - to tell the world that he lived, to show and tell his goodness and his pain.

After agreeing to take part in the conference hosted by The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, I was informed of the "dress code."

I knew my Lycra sweat pants were out of order, but it never occurred to me that I'd need to wear a SUIT.

Back when I deliberately changed the focus of my security company from corporate to residential, I tossed out all my stiff, stuffy suits. So not me, so not what I wanted to pretend to be.

Somehow, one of the suits eluded me - a black, sleeveless dress and waist cropped jacket by Garfield Marks. Not only do I not remember buying it, but apparently I never wore it – evident by the original tags still dangle from both the dress and the jacket.

And where exactly did I think I was going when I bought this mystery suit? As a rule, I hate to shop and will only do so if I’m going somewhere and then, I’ll wait until the last minute. I must have thought I was going to a funeral. Someone must have rallied.

It's been awhile since I looked at a woman’s suit, or focused on women who wear them - so I have no idea what is in style. Do suit styles change?

My number one concern is my mystery suits shoulder pads. They are not over the top - 80's style pads, but they are undeniably there and their purpose remains unclear. Are they for protection, or a visual attempt to balance out the width of my hips?

I decided to go on a fact finding excursion to the local mall (where I purchased the suit in question) to investigate the latest ultra conservative, fashion frenzy.

I went directly to the Petite section, the only alliance I had ever known, and was abruptly told I needed to “move on.” I tried three different sized before I humbly admitted I was better suited in an averagely proportioned department.

Pads were everywhere - softly sculptured, well rounded, minimalistic, shoulder pads!

Now that I knew I didn’t have to invest in a suit, I focused on the proper pumps.

I headed toward the last name brand, semi comfortable shoes I had purchased – Donald Pliner. An attractive, 30 something salesman informed me that “Pliners are not what they used to be.”

Typically, the first thing I notice about a shoe salesman is his shoes, but in this case I couldn't get beyond his wispy, chocolate brown hair, and slate blue eyes. 

I am a women who does not like to be sold or told anything, and yet, I believed him.

He eagerly introduced me to Attilio Giusti Leombruni, an Italian designer who specialized in style and comfort. My initial reaction was FUNKY! Slender, gun metal thin buckle strap across a glossy, patent leather toe with a 2 ¼ inch stacked heel and a elasticized top line. YUMMY!

I watched in wonder as kinky shoe man raised the pump to the point just below his nose, in hailed deeply, inserted his palm into the soft fold of the frame - demonstrating the flex of its construction, and then exhaled as he marveled at the padding of its sole.

I was sold.

When he emerged with my size (7 1/2) , my size plus a half size (8), and a mysterious orange box, I could barely contain myself. “Whats in the other box?” I asked. “Not yet” he told me.

Seconds after I slipped them on, I knew, I was in love with these funky, fuck me pumps.

After confirming that I’d take the size 8's with a “pad” inserted inline with the ball of the foot - I begged, “okay, now show me what’s in box number 3.”

Same shoe - minus the heel.  Same gun metal thin buckles, strapped across a glossy patent leather toe - only in a bold, brazen, pumpkin orange.

I looked up long enough to connect with the delight of Mr. Kinky, who I now realized was sporting an orange tie. “Orange is all the rage!” he assured me.

“I’ll take them” I said, and quickly handed him my card.

I’ve hidden the orange flats in the back of my closet – behind luggage and failed handbags. I’m not hiding them from my husband; I’m hiding them from myself. I need to see if these Capitol Hill Pumps will take me where I want to go with minimal pain before I commit to the orange flats.

To prepare myself for my upcoming journey, I have broken them in at the office, at home and even, when walking the dog. As a precautionary measure, I’ve packed bandaids, liquid skin and a cream labeled “Blister Elixer.” For extra protection I’ve tossed in some “spot pillows” and “cushy comfort sweet spot inserts.”

Apparently, I’m not the only one struggling with pain free fashion footwear.  Damn, we’ve come a long way since Dr. Scholl’s!

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

  

*** 

FLAT is where its AT

 ***

I was recently invited to take part in the "Flat Stanley Project."   For those of you that are out of the elementary school loop, the project is based on a 30 year old children’s book by Jeff Brown. In it, Stanley Lambchop is (((squashed))) by his classrooms bulletin board and his parents react by folding him up and mailing him off to visit friends in California.

What a twisted concept! Somehow it not only caught on, but it took on a life of its own. There are now millions of Flat Stanley traveling to faraway places - meeting fascinating people along the way.

Most recently, Stanleys been photographed at a black tie affair at the Whitehouse (an "invited" guest) with the Obamas by his side, at the halfpipe with Shaun White during the Vancouver Olympics, and high flat-fiving Reggie Bush at the Super Bowl.

YEP, all the places I'll never go. This little man has got it going on!

My Flat Stanley was waiting for me when I returned from a trip to Paris. My initial reaction was to photoshop him into my pictures - but that would have been cheating, right?  If he had arrived ten days earlier our time together could have been educational, besides I was flying solo - it would have been nice to have a companion in the Grand City of Lights.

Together we could have meandered our way through the streets of Saint Germain, tapped our toes to the murky melody at the Rue Des Lombards jazz clubs, and sipped a 40 euro cocktail at the Four Seasons George V hotel bar. He could have joined me for a Friday night stroll at the Louvre, helped me maneuver my way through the metro, and push passed the tourists at The Pantéon.

Instead, he was left behind - sprawled out naked on my kitchen counter, patiently waiting for me to bring him to life.

Together we engaged in a week of mundane tasks – shoveling snow, overcoming overflowing work obstacles, and attending family functions. I buckled him in and chauffeured him to all my favorite haunts - the nail salon, the hardware store, I even took him to therapy. It was interesting to see people’s reaction to Stanley, and to how I interacted with Stanley. Some were noticeably uncomfortable, others were mildly entertained, and a few joined in the fun.

During my time with Stanley I rediscovered the joy of color, and was reminded that the world of Make Believe beats mindless television viewing - hands down.  I made him clothes and tiny little props. I photographed him, videotaped him, wrote about him and then, reluctantly, I returned him.

Yesterday I received an email from my dear friend Steve. My sister and I met Steve one year while attending Burning Man. Steve is the epitome of a free thinker - wild, adventurous, and passionate about his beliefs. Steve was writing to tell me, and a group of his friends, about his time with “Flat Ryan.”  His flat friend was mailed to him by my sisters, son’s school.

Steve embraced this project with incredible kindness. His adventures are so compelling and uplifting that I want to share them with you. Flat Ryan's journeys reflect Steve’s true heart and showcases his genuine, sincere, and abundant love for the island and the people of Hawaii.

Although I have not experienced the magnitude of fascinating people and places that Stanley has encountered, my journeys have allowed me to define and fine tune my character judgment. I am impressed and deeply humbled by the integrity of those of you I am honored to call my friend.

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

***

 FLAT RYAN IN HAWAII

click on the FLAT RYAN IN HAWAII link to be whisked away to the wonders of Hawaii

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