Pictures from the patio garden

I took a few shots of the patio garden and a few of the yard in front. Keep in mind that when Marcie and I moved in, the yard was all rocks with a layer of cloth underneath. It's now almost overgrown, cloth be damned. The larger plants on the porch are up for adoption, and I have good cilantro seeds to send out.

Tanya helped me repot most of these plants when Marcie was very ill. We arranged them to give her a nicer outside view from her hospital bed.



Just let me know what you want and such, and I will send it. Those are jalapeño plants, by the way. If they or the tomato plants bear fruit, some will be reserved for seed and I can send some out from that as well. Let's hope they make it.

An Unshared Road

I remember the paths we chose.
We did not always agree.
Sometimes we wandered.
We were never lost.
I joined your soul in long journeys.
We strolled in citadels of the mind,
and hiked the forest of the heart.
We were never lost.
I faced great obstacles with you.
We climbed mountains of tribulation,
took treacherous trails along chasms.
We were never lost.
I never knew where we were going.
We chose anew at each crossroad
and were each others' only guides.
We were never lost.
I don't recognize this place I am in now.
We never wandered in such ruins
and there is no path in the rubble.
I am so very lost.

Delay

Pictures are delayed until I can get some really good shots of the beautiful pink plumeria opening up on our porch... but they will be worth it. Also, I want one of the gardenia buds to open so that it can be part of the slide show.

F.

The Patio

I suppose I should have uploaded the shots of the patio earlier, but I promise to do so tonight. Certain flowers are emerging, some plants that were on their last legs are back and stong, and I have some herbs and other plants thriving, too.

Marcie loved our plants a lot, and tended them very carefully. The people I leave behind here will have a shot at having them for themselves, except for a few I want for me. Write me if you want to reserve one.

F.

Desperately seeking GrandCentral Invite

Months ago, I signed up for the Beta of GrandCentral, which allows the forwarding of cals to a cellular phone without indicating it is a forwarded call at all. I planned to use it to forward to a T-Mobile (adding my GrandCentral number as one of my five "faves"). This would allow me to work from wherever I wanted.

Unfortunately, it seems my application was never approved, or the offer (to let all bloggers on blogspot get in) was rescinded before my number was granted. Invitations, however, are out there.

If you are a Grand Central user, please send me an invitation number at francis(dot)pruett(at)gmail(dot)com.

Thanks, folks.

On The Patio

Our dusk was red and yellow again,
It was every summer sunset you ever knew.
The mist of the hose in the smoggy air
made mud of everything except the plants.
They are still there, all the ones you left
the dragon and the gardenias,
the pink geraniums and the elkhorns,
The things Tanya and I repotted.
There are new ones, too.
A sago palm from a friend,
A more delicate one from your work.
They all thrive oblivious next to
pots of my bitter herbs.
They are new life for old.
They are not equal.
Nor am I.

The Skunk Hunter

Seamus decided the other night that he was tired of the skunk who had made my patio his buffet. Cue malevolent theme music...

I fell asleep with just the screen closed, having attended to some overdue reading of Mother Jones. I woke at 1:18 to Seamus's fight growling.

I look out on the patio for the other cat and ran outside to get Seamus. He was foaming at the mouth and shaking his head, his eyes squinted almost shut.

I reached down to get him and froze. Hiding behind the tall plant was a black shape with a distinct racing stripe of white down the side. I saw it precisely as my adrenalin-enhanced sense of smell was finally tuned in.

A fat little skunk. Its black eyes locked with mine and it walked backwards a bit. Seamus went to dart at it and its tail went up just as I scruffed him and dragged him backward.

The skunk came out from the plant just a little, and its tail went down as I retreated, stinking cat in hand, through the screen.

I took Seamus into the bathroom and closed the door, gather up the bathroom rugs and all the other cloth in the area, and locked him in. I checked the screen and it locked when I tried to close it again. He had smashed through it.

I had no tomato juice, no supplies and no idea where to look at 1:20 AM. I scanned the grocery store websites. Ralph's and Food For Less are apparently 24 hours. Off to Gay Ralph's I went.

I grabbed some hydrogen peroxide, standard shampoo, and baking soda, then some tomato juice for good measure. I also bought some treats for bribes.

When I got home, he was screaming to get out. At times like these, I am possessed by an irrational thought... that cats can be reasoned with in a chastening way. It may not be productive, but it passes time and serves as interaction through doors.

"YOWWWW!" he cried.

"Well, you can't just go and beat up every animal you see," I said as I mixed the recipe preferred by mythbusters:

1. 1/4 cup of baking soda
2. 1 quart of hydrogen peroxide
3. 1 tsp of grease-cutting dish washing fluid

"YOOOOOWWWWW!"

"Well, doors that are closed and locked are to keep kitties in and critters out," I said, getting a pitcher to rinse him with and some extra supplies.

When I had a bowl of the secret recipe mixed, I gathered up some disposable linens and went in. The bathroom was safe, as Seamus was simply hovering by the door, awaiting his escape. He engaged me in more heated howling conversation.

"NYOOWWW!"

"Well, it's only for a little while. You need a bath!"

"OWWWW! NgggYOOOOWWW!"

"I know you don't like them, but you can't spread skunk spray all over the house," I said, filling the tub a few inches.

"RRRooowww!"

"Yes, as soon as you don't smell like marching death in a stinky shit band, you can go lay down," I said.

"Mmmmrrrrr," he said, plopping on his belly, panting from the stress.

I gave him a treat and he perked up a bit. The washing began.

I used body-temperature water for the whole process. It helps and keeps a cat calm. Slightly warmer is fine, but even a little cooler will bring howls of disdain and escape attempts.

For stage one, I washed him with pure Dawn. I was careful around his eyes and massaged it deeply into the huge spray-spot on his sternum to break up the greasy base containing the thiols from the skunk.

I rinsed him off, then drained the water and cleared the tub of his massive hair clog, then refilled. The smell was lessening. Seamus walked into a corner and peed, which I mopped up with a throwaway towel. He purred as he was given a treat and then stood by the door.

"YEE-OWWWWW!" he demanded.

"Not yet, you still smell like three-day-old roadkill tartar with a side of shit stew," I said, snickering a bit in my sleepiness.

"YOOOWWWW!" he said, pawing at the door.

I scruffed him and back into the water he went. I finished working out the spot on his chest and soaked him to the bone, looking for scratches or bites all over his body, as skunks are known to carry rabies. No bites. Good news!

The mix went on as a soapy soak, and Seamus disliked the cooler mix of fluids immediately. But he did not lick, and I let him soak for the 10-15 minutes asked. In the meantime, I went into the kicthen and boiled ammonia and set out cheap bowls of coffee grinds.

"YOWWW!"

"I will be back in after you soak, just calm down."

(Tap-tap-scritch) "YOWWWW!"

"Leave the door alone, that's how you got into this mess!"

"Mrrr.... Mrrrrowwwww... Mmmff"

"Good boy, I will be back soon," I said, opening the door a crack and tossing in a treat.

Once the vinegar was boiling and grinds were out, back in I went. Seamus put up with the indignity of yet another rinsing, his coat now a bleached, lighter shade.

I ran more water after cleaning the drain and soaked him in tomato juice then left to check on the other measures, adding candles and incense to my smell battle. I stopped and tossed a treat to him in the back corner. He ate it and laid back down, sighing big.

After soaking him for 15 minutes in tomato juice, I washed him off completely and patted him until he could take it no longer. The smell was almost completely defeated.

I went to sleep at 4 AM. Seamus hid in the closet with his mother's old clothes, but it smelled clean he next day. I worked a long day exhausted, but he seemed fine. Joy.

I need a new screen door.

Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Conclusion)

I knew Marcie would not settle for an ice cream cake on my birthday, but I also knew that, since she had talked them up so much, she might wait before she pressed. Wait, she did. In the mean time, I decided on the cake I really wanted.

As was typical between us, an impasse meant that we both waited for an advantageous moment before we upset the apple cart. Marcie had one planned.

The week before my birthday saw her tip her hand. Not that she had a choice. Her gift to me arrived with a harried-looking Barbara in tow.

"Oh, honey!" she said. "I didn't know you were home. Well, happy birthday!"

And there he was, a little puff of fur, half asleep and clinging to her dress. Under the closest of observation I took him from her and he mewed in protest.

He was tiny and soft, and as I held him, cupped in my hands, he stood, arched his back and stretched, his little needlenails poking into my palm.

All that Marcie knew was that he fit in one of my hands. "Oh my god, he fits in one hand. How precious is that?" she asked her mother.

Barbara nodded and "mmhmm'd" a little neutrally. I would find out later that Seamus had been in her house for a week, terrorizing Samantha, their older cat, and driving her insane.

"Well, happy birthday ahead of time, Frank," she said, taking her keys and walking back to her little Sprint.

"Thanks, Barbara," I said, smiling at the yet-unnamed and deceptively calm furball in my hands.

"So what is your name?" I asked him.

He looked at me sedately and made a silent meow. His striped chunks of fur and white belly told me little about him, except some possible Maine Coon lineage. But his green eyes were a clue.

Marcie wanted to name her male cats Angus and Fergus, girls would be Talulah Belle and (as was one of her nicknames) Tink. I liked the idea of a good Irish name.

"He doesn't have a name," Marcie said. "You have to name him."

"I think he's a Seamus," I said.

"Seamus," she said. "Oh, honey. I like that name. Like Seamus Heaney, the writer?"

I nodded and Seamus decided to look to the ground. I caught him and we went inside.

We played to his exhaustion with him that afternoon, then Marcie cooked some dinner. She wandered out and smiled, pleased with herself, hands on her hips. Her gift had been a big success. Seamus slept on my shoulder.

"So I have to order you ice cream birthday cake tomorrow," she said. "I hope you like it, honey."

I looked up and smiled. "Well, it's like having cake and ice cream all at once, I guess. Do they have German Chocolate cake versions? That's what I really want."

Her eyes lit up and she shook her head. "Oh, no, honey. They have pretty basic, set recipes with ice cream. It's not really even cake, really."

I feigned thought and then some disappointment. "That's a bummer. I have a craving for some German Chocolate cake with pecans..."

"Oh, I can make you that!" she said, plopping down next to me. "Then we can just buy some ice cream and eat a normal birthday dessert. What do you think?"

She set her hand on my forearm and bit her lower lip. She was stoked.

"That sounds good," I said. "We'll do that instead. I wanted to try your baking, anyways. We can get an ice cream cake some other time."

She clapped her hands a few times and then slapped her thighs as she got up. "I am very excited to bake for you," she said. "I think you're going to love your cake."

She brought dinner, and Seamus woke to wander about begging by our feet. Pieces of chicken slipped off my plate to him "accidentally." It is a continued tradition, of course.

Marcie shook her head as a piece fell from my plate. "So, honey, I am glad you want to celebrate your birthday, and it was sweet of you to say I was the reason you had to celebrate, but why are you so anti-birthday?"

I shrugged and I let it all out. "I will be 24 and I am just finishing my first year of college," I said. "I will be six years behind most of my peers from high school."

She looked at me as if I were insane.

"I am barely on my feet and don't have a solid job, I have to scrape a lot to get by, and some of my friends are already in their careers," I continued. "I just don't feel like I have anything to celebrate, accomplishment-wise. I'm behind."

She looked at me with a look of near-disgust on her face and rolled her eyes. Her fork clattered on her plate.

"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," she started. "You're a straight-A student, you have two jobs at the college, you are respected, you are a member of student government and you work on the side, too."

She picked at her sun-dried tomatoes and bread, then looked over, shaking her head, "You saw a lot of the world and you have lived and struggled and overcome more crap than almost anyone who goes straight to college ever will."

"I don't care who graduates before me," she added. "Ive been to Europe twice, had a lot of fun and worked and paid my own way through. Nobody gets any credit but me. And when you finish, you'll be able to say the same thing."

I leaned over and I kissed her as she turned to continue after gnoshing a bit on her dinner. "Thank you," I said.

I had heard a lot of the ideas of my being behind from a generation of people who thought door closed at certain times. Some of those gems I remember still, like "No college degree by 22? It's too late to go back..." and "Still in school at 23? You must be a professional student..."

Luckily I was with a woman with a sense of adventure, a lust for life and a disdain for convention and conservatism. Her opinion was that the quality of the life lived mattered more than the pace at which it accumulated goods or achieved milestones.

That next week, she made me a delicious dinner of steak and broccoli, rice and a grand salad. We ate a German Chocolate cake chock full of pecans. We enjoyed feeding a little puff of personality-laced fur teriyaki beef.

She came up with more gifts for me first birthday, but she had already given me the greatest one in that little bit of sage observation, annoyed as she was in delivering it. Of course, Seamus was a close second, but I digress.

She fit a lot into her life because she was never in a rush to do what everyone else wanted her to or decided was important. Doing it your own way was what made something special, not some arbitrary right way.

And if, as Marcie observed, people were impatient with you about how long you took, then make them wait a little longer and enjoy that, too.

Of course, she eventually taught me how to do that with bacon.

The Skunk Cat Rides

Seamus is wild, even at 14 years of age. This often makes him a pain in the ass when he is given the opportunity to express his less tame side. How does he show this? Let's take an inventory:

• Setting boundaries on petting with the application of force? Yes.
• Treating every furred wanderer into his territory like prey? Yes.
• Knocking a screen so hard it bends enough to open against the lock? Yes.
• Continuously swatting and darting in on a little skunk after he has been thoroughly sprayed? Yes.
• Roaming from door to door after he has been deskunked to get some more? Yes.

The ridiculous late-night horror I went through is worthy of a whole story in and of itself. I also need to post a few makeup items this week. I'll get to it. In the mean time, I was up from 1:20 to 4 AM washing a stinky, skunked cat then trying to purge my house.

The saga continues even now. Seamus? Pleased with himself to no end and thoroughly happy.

That means I took good care of him. Mean or not, crazy or not, he's a good little buddy and I was worried. The skunk left in seemingly one piece, so that was good news. But what an encounter.

If only there was web smell-o-vision.

Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 5)

It was drawing closer, and Marcie had determined the precise moment of my borthday's optimal celebration. This provided the proper framework, of course, for the preparation of lists, acquisition of goods and formulation of plans.

The third element created a quandary for me. Marcie was a person who knew immediately what she most wanted within any genre of selection proffered. Cake? Why, chocolate, of course, with chocolate butter-cream frosting.

For me, there were factors and moods and potential changes of mind to consider. I honestly didn't try to drive her insane. I was just quite a natural at it.

"Honey, it's a simple question," she said, dropping her hands to her sides, one with the pen and the other with her "special list for baking" pad. She leaned forward and rolled her eyes up as I responded.

"Well, it's liek two weeks away and I don't know what the hell I will want," I said. "I mean, I could end up wanting something completely different. I just don't want to commit yet."

Foregoing the obvious metaphors at this point in our relationship may have kept the peace, but Marcie was not one for offering such spurious and insincere comforts.

The solution slithered over me like a Zen snake. I leveled my gaze serenely at her and smiled. "I know what I want," I said.

"Well!" she said, raiding her hands and looking up at the ceiling. "It's a miracle! Frank made a decision."

I nodded slowly and smiled, whispering, "I want one of those Baskin-Robbins cakes you told me about," I said.

She looked crestfallen and I immediately regretted the idea, but pushed that sentiment back, as I did not really want an ice cream cake.

"Oh, the one I told you I thought I might like to try?" she asked, nodding. "Well, you know I can't make you one of those."

"I want you to relax and celebrate, too," I said, taking her hand and kissing her forehead. "But if I change my mind, I will tell you. This way, we are both covered."

She was disappointed, but she smiled and looked up hopefully. My deception was complete, but more importantly, I had learned to balance her need for forethought with mine for spontaneity, a lesson I would draw on for 14 years more.

In that moment, I just knew she was mollified yet still psyched at the possibility of baking for me. But the choice to throw out a red herring was made in a storm of memories.

The choice was only just so clear to me, and overshadowed indeed. It was overwrought, more likely, but I gladly indulged in my throes of memory. But I knew that mollification was no substitute for her simple pleasure at making me happy.

"Thank you for helping me look forward to my birthday again, honey," I said, slipping my hands under hers and onto her hips, leaning down and looking into her beautiful blue eyes. "I love you."

She bit her lower lip, and I knew she wanted to protest, but she was too pleased at the appreciation and the gratitude. It was a simple tithe I paid her, but one dear to her.

"Oh, honey," she said. "If all it takes is an ice cream cake to make you happy, then I can go buy you one right now."

She didn't. But we understood each other better, and there was much to be learned before that first birthday together happened.

Marcie On Our Other Birthdays

I will finish my story about Marcie and birthdays and growing up and getting over blah blah. But I wanted to mention one little thing Marcie did for someone in the family.

My grandmother, as I have said, was like Marcie when it came to cooking. Unlike me, however, grandma was also a baker. Yes, I know I have mentioned her making me cakes for my birthday. She also made delicious cobblers, pies and a variety of items.

As she got on in years, grandma Pruett slowed down on the baking. This impacted a lot of people, but one in particular. My father had a special cake he liked.

Grandma Pruett made my father his pineapple upside down cake for his birthday. I don't know when she started doing this, but it was likely his choice for cake in his formative years, in Hawaii.

I will ask him later today over dinner at Pampas Argentine Grill.

My mother had made my father pineapple upside-down cake as well, from scratch with a yellow cake mix and pineapple juice in places where water was called for, and lots of brown sugar topping.

Of course, her departure meant my grandmother resumed preparign the treat for him. At any rate, as Grandma got on in years she did not continue with the cake-baking. It was just too much.

Marcie, luckily, having a father also raised in Hawaii, knew just what to do. She made my father his pineapple upside-down cakes for years on and off, delivering one at his birthday faithfully. She took great joy in it.

It's just another thing her departure leaves missing in our lives now. But I try to note all of them, because the big things are just part of the good she brought into the world. All the little things count, too, and bring pain in their absence.

Places she never went

Marcie had a list of local places she wished to see or eat at and never got to. I am looking for her list now. In the mean time, the ones I remember will be visited one by one. Some I have already been to. Some I have Yelp-reviewed.

1. Private Reserve Wine Bar, our neighborhood wine spot.
2. Wine Steals Cheap wine bar in Hillcrest.
3. Soltan Banoo Middle Easter/Mediterranean food.
4. Phuong-Trang Restaurant Vietnamese and Chinese cuisine.
5. Laguna Mountain Lodge cabins that Seamus could visit with us.
6. Vagabond South Park mid-scale eatery.
7. Apertivo Italian Tapas, she was intrigued.
8. Pampas Argentine Grill Our friend Ariana's house of bif.

I recall her list having about a dozen items on it beyond these. If you know something she mentioned wanting to do, or a place she wanted to visit, write me or comment below for everyone.

A Place She Always Wanted To Go and Other Stuff

Marcie had some San Diego places to see on her list before she passed. I have decided, as my own departure approaches, to visit them for her.

One of those I wanted to visit with her was the Gulf Coast Grill. A Cajun/Creole joint, it promised to Marcie a flavor of another place she wanted to see: New Orleans. Her taste buds were never in shape enough to go to it. She always held off.

Everything was delightful, with one little wrinkle. I will post a link to a review of it on Yelp! which will be posted later. For now, consider this post a placeholder.

There is also more to write about Marcie and my birthday, too. That will come soon enough, as will some more of her characters and her little stories about them.

G'night for now,

Francis

Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 4)

I had a long walk home. I stepped on a sharp pebble, stubbed my big toe on an uneven piece of sidewalk and realized, in that very moment, that my Champion shorts were actually my Champion boxers.

I got home without being seen by anyone I knew. I remember wondering where she had gone, at first. My thoughts eventually shifted to the whole argument itself.

I understood her being upset. She was something to celebrate. But why on my birthday? For years, birthdays had been just days in my life. At home, birthdays were a visit to Grandma's for a cake.

But birthdays were also a privilege that could be taken away, a bargaining piece for an aunt who knew that the less joy in a life, the more precious the joy was. A simple act to remove it could coerce a lot, and coerce she did.

Foster care was no birthday destination, but I had observed my 16th there. Ny 17th was spent in juvenile hall under false charges that were later dismissed. The military ate my 18th and 19th birthdays. I had no real memory of either except having to stand a watch on both. One was in DEP, one aboard.

Others featured poverty, even homelessness on the 23rd birthday. My 22nd was spent on the road, wandering the highways fairly friendless, wondering how many more I might see before I found a place to be.

I took a long stroll down memory lane before I decided I had remembered enough of the bad

I decided that, despite my issues with progress and personal misgivings, I would try to sincerely celebrate with Marcie. I cleaned up the remains of breakfast and put away the dishes, noticing the late afternoon hour.

I showered and heard the door open and close, then latch. I did not call out and she did not come into the bathroom, so I dried off and tried to engineer a way to broach the subject, bridge the gap, heal the wound and move on.

I walked out to see her without a plan, having just dressed quickly as she unloaded things into the cabinets.

Honey?" I asked.

"What, Frank?" she asked. "Are you waiting for your meal."

"I am glad you are home," I said.

I closed the distance between us and let her try, half-hearted, to push my hands away until she stopped and turned into my chest and hugged me. The words came to me.

"I want to celebrate with you," I said.

"You do?" she asked, croaking, rasping. I still remember the hot tears soaking through my t-shirt where she pressed into my chest.

"I am so sorry," I said. "I was so stuck on the past that I didn't think of how much better my life is with you, because of you. I do want to celebrate, okay?"

She nodded and stroked my back as she whispered."I'm sorry I stormed out of here," she said. "But you looked cute following me down the street in your underwear."

The birthday was yet to come, and it would come with a very special gift and a little fuller discussion of the issues at hand.

Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 3)

It was a week later that Marcie, having sulked and for a day or two before resuming our normal relations, began to prod again. It started from the side, so to speak.

"Frank, what do you want for breakfast?" she asked, not looking at me, but rather standing in the kitchen entrance staring straight at the wall, lips tight.

"Just eggs and potatoes," I said. "Thank you."

"Yeeeap," she said, banging the pan on the stove and starting the gas burner. Cupboards opened and closed with force. Utensils rattled and I stopped reading my Logic textbook.

"Honey?" I asked.

"What?" she shot back, tersely, annoyed.

"You don't have to make me breakfast, you know," I said.

"FRANK! Would you just leave me alone and let me cook?" she spat, looking out from the kitchen, her eyes dark with anger.

"Well, you seem upset, so maybe you should just relax and we can go get some cinnamon rolls from Hob Nob or something," I said. "It's okay."

"You don't want me to cook for you and you don't want me to bake for you or celebrate your birthday," she said. "Of course I am upset! I feel like I am a live-in for a self-pitying jerk who just needs a roommate and a sure thing."

Humor was probably not the direction I should have gone in. But life without mistakes is like being asleep without dreams.

"Well, you make a solid point," I said. "But you shouldn't discount the cooking and housecleaning, those really help, too."

Raw potatoes cut into wedges did not hurt. However, she was not amused in the slightest.

"Fine," she said, picking up the potatoes as she spoke. "Fine. You like sleeping with me and kissing me and being fed by me and having a clean house. But you won't let me celebrate your birthday?"

"Honey," I said, trying to give her a hug. "I was just kidding, you know that."

She wriggled away and stood back, arms folded under her breasts, left foot forward as she nodded. "So we'll celebrate your birthday or we wont?"

"I stopped approaching and looked her in the eye, silent and defiant. I waited.

She moved her head as if to say, "Oh, really?" and her lips parted, her mouth hanged open a bit before she bit her lower lip and spoke.

"Why don't you celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What's wrong with you?"

I told her one part of the truth. It wouldn't help.

"I haven't celebrated it since I was in foster care, except my 21st," I said. "I just never had anyone remember it after that."

"So I want to remember it," she said. "What's wrong with that? I love to bake, I love you. I want to bake you something special, I want to do things for you on your birthday and I want you to enjoy yourself."

She let me hug her and buried her head in my chest. "I am sorry for throwing potatoes at you, but you can be such an ass."

I nodded and sighed. Deciding to let her in on more of my thoughts and issues was a good idea, but my delivery proved disastrous and my timing perfectly inappropriate.

"I appreciate that you want to celebrate with me, Marcie. I just don't think I have much to celebrate or be proud of this year," I said.

Of course I know now that this struck right at her heart. I realized it as soon as she pushed away from me and said her piece.

"Really?" she asked. "You just think this whole year has been a complete waste? I'm sorry, I had no idea."

She covered her eyes and leaned down, taking her purse and sweater and crying, pushing my hand away as I tried to console her. "You are such a jerk, Frank," she sobbed. "Thanks for making me feel like chopped liver, I needed that!"

And the door slammed. I followed her and pleaded with her to come home all the way to the bus stop in my bare feet.

"I'll be back when I feel like it," she said. "Celebrate that."

The driver stopped me from getting on. "Sir, you have to wear shoes on the bus."

The door closed and the 1 rolled away. She didn't look back.

Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 2)

"I don't remember asking you not to celebrate it," I said. "I just remember not being used to celebrating it, at least, not for a long time, and asking you not to overdo it."

She smiled up at me and released the hug, taking back the chocolate and nibbling a piece as she leaned against the counter and nodded. "Do you remember telling me about your grandma?"

I did at that. Grandma Pruett had prepared me many a cake after my mother left the house. Mostly chocolate and occasionally a marbled fudge cake, it was something she did and derived much joy from.

"She did that for us because my dad couldn't bake," I said. "Yeah, I remember your eyes lighting up."

"Then you just shot me down," she said. "You told me not to bake you a cake, you didn't want to celebrate because you weren't twelve years old anymore."

I nodded. It had been a canard

"Well, honey, I was ashamed at my delay, if you remember," I explained. "I was turning 24 and had just begun college. Most of my friends from high school would have graduated. I felt like I had to catch up."

"You told me that later," she reminded me. "But in the mean time, you just told me no, you did not want a cake, and you did not want to talk about your birthday."

She took another nibble and licked her lips, turning her attention to the cake. "But you changed your mind, didn't you?" she asked.

Or she did, but though it all took me back, I simply hugged her in a snuzzle and murmured an "mmhmm."

It had been a good year. I would start my first term as an Associated Students Senator in the fall, had scored all A's and was hired to tutor over the summer and as an instructional aide in the Chicano Studies Department. But I was not happy.

I had chopped my income, having severed ties with my business partner and slowly backed away from club and rave promotions to keep peace with Marcie. My writing was being published, but the pay was low.

I kept returning to the sense that I had fallen behind. It permeated my consciousness. No achievement was untinged by it. No failing escaped magnification by it. I kept it to myself, but it was slowly eating me.

Marcie had been very happy one May morning. She served me some fried eggs (hard yolks, no run and lots of pepper, just how I liked them). She sat across and watched me eat, her hands and forearms on the table as she grinned.

I looked up and stopped chewing. I swallowed. "What? You look very mischievous..."

Her eyes went even wider and she bit her lower lip before it all came out at once. "Guesswhatscomingupsoon!" she demanded, her hand sliding over and grabbing my fork forearm.

"Is it a concert?" I asked. The guessing game had begun, a favorite of ours.

"Noooo," she said, smiling. "It's more personal."

"Is it... a vacation?" I asked.

"Nooo," she said, shaking her head. "Not until I have been at the job for a year, at least."

Is iiiit your parents' anniversay?" I asked, knowing our own was well off into September.

She began to look exasperated and shook her head. "Nooo, honey," she admonished. "It's about you!" She shook my forearm and bit her lips, sitting straighter in her chair, sure I would guess it this time.

My heart sank and the egg swelled in my throat to ten times its size as I did guess what she meant. I whispered, "My birthday?"

Her eyes popped wide open and she bit her lip before she excitedly squeaked, "Yes! Oh, I can't wait to bake you a cake! We are going to have a great time and celebrate the end of the 24th complete year of Frank."

I nodded and scraped at my plate. "I don't want to celebrate my birthday this year, honey," I said. "I would just rather let it go by like it has for the last few, okay?"

She was silent. I looked up in her eyes and she was pouting and frowning. She was mad that I had spoiled her fun, but she was also concerned. "Frank, why not?" she asked. "Is there something wrong?"

"Well, I just don't want to make a big deal out of it," I said. "I am not a twelve-year-old. I don't have to have the world revolve around me for a day, really."

She withdrew her hand. "What if I want to celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What if it's important to me?"

I was suddenly very tired of the conversation. I looked up and simply said, "Marcie, please don't make an issue out of this, I just don't really celebrate my birthday and I haven't for a long, long time."

She looked utterly hurt and bit her upper lip, sucking it in a bit. She stood abruptly and grabbed her purse. "Fine, Frank," she said. "You know, you need to get over whatever it is that makes you such a grump. It's not attractive, you know."

She slammed the door after snatching the grocery list. I was bewildered at her insistence, but momentarily glad she had dropped it, no matter how riled she was.

But I was wrong, and not only about the argument, or for not being open with her, but in that she had not even begun to argue... not by a long shot.

It is a fight I am still grateful she picked.

A Call to Breakfast

Some of my friends know that I have been on a diet of sorts. Mostly I am simply eating healthier and running, but I have definitely kicked in some calorie counting. Today, I was reminded to occasionally cut loose and enjoy a good hearty meal.

It almost didn't happen. I almost did an all-fruit smoothie. Tragedy.

I arose and ran 7.3 miles, according to Google Maps, and then got home and started making my list of things to do for the day. Since one was shopping, I started chekign my refrigerator.

I found a disc of some sort in the freezer. I drew a blank. Wrapped in a Glad Freezer bag, I turned it over and saw her writing: "Ham Steak, Fully Cooked, August 12."

Her writing always stops me dead in my tracks. I could see her hand on the Sharpie as she labeled the freezer bag and tucked it away. I gulped down a lump in my throat.

I decided that, despite being off pork for some time, I would make a breakfast.

I cooked the ham steak her way, slowly, in a pool of water, preparing the rest of my breakfast as it simmered.

I laid out tomato slices and spinach, and a mix of herbal and green teas. I chopped onions, some leftover home-roasted red bell pepper and a bit of (sweet) banana pepper.

In the refrigerator, I took out the last of some Italian mixed cheese we used for our last Trader Joe's pizzas together. It was still good and not a spot was to be found after 9 months. More lumps to swallow.

I beat some eggs and, after the ham finished, tossed the vegetables into the pan to absorb the taste, as I know she would have liked. I waited until everything was a little wilted, having added a bit of olive oil, and slid the egg over the veggies.

I knew it would stick and just dealt with it, flipping the whole omelet and adding the cheese inside. After I had lightly browned the edges of it, I plated it.

It looked very authentic, except Marcie would have insisted on toast or added her potatoes. A picture:


I sat and ate the plate and felt a little closer to her again, having enjoyed a little bit of her Sunday Breakfast tradition, albeit imperfectly. Someday I'll do the whole thing for a friend or six.

We'll have to have waffles, then.

Reviving the birthday spirit

Marcie loved birthdays. If it was her own, she had a mixed view, loving the attention and the opportunity to celebrate but loathing the passage of years (despite her defiance of age). But in others', she took a great and pure joy.

Marcie was invigorated by the celebration of the birth of people she loved so much that I simply had to ask directly. She was humming to herself as she decorated a cake for her friend Kathleen at work.

"Honey?" I asked. "Can I ask you a question?"

She turned and looked at me with her half-open-mouth smile and wide eyes lit in the kitchen's indirect sunlight.

"Are you going to ask me what I put in the icing?" she asked excitedly.

Whether a work fellow, a close friend or a family member, Marcie could be counted on for a cake. Marcie did not make just any cake, though. Her recipes created cakes of unparalleled moistness, flavor and density.

She also improvised to suit particular preferences among her favored recipients, carefully considering the balance of flavors before assembling them. She was truly a maestro of tasteful baking and great confection-making.

I knew her question meant, "Ask what I want to answer first then I will answer what you want to ask." I complied.

"Oooh, yes," I said. "What did you put in Kathleen's cake?"

"Well," she said, turning to the counter and putting one hand on her hip. She enunciated each word. "Let me just tell you."

She held up the wreckage of a Scharffen Berger "Cacao Bittersweet" slab for me to inspect. "This is in the cake itself," she said. "Some I melted and added coconut."

She turned her nose up smugly and spun to the counter again, grabbing a container of half and half. "This you can use for your coffee, because I used it to replace the milk in the recipe."

She turned again and showed me some almonds, crushed in a small bowl. "These will be sprinkled on top of the frosting after I am done."

She smiled and I juggled the three to hold all at once. She turned and helpd up a little bag of Dove dark chocolate hearts.

"These will go around the outside of the cake and one in the middle," she said. "On top of the coconut and almonds."

"Wow," I said. "That is pretty deluxe."

I set the items aside and asked. "So you just love making birthday cakes, don't you?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Sometimes," she said. "Especially if it's for someone who I enjoy talking to. I like even more if they let me do what I want and make something of my own for them, or if it's something new."

"So what kind of cake is that?" I queried, nodding at it with my own half-smile.

"It's a deluxe dark chocolate cake with coconut and almonds that I used espresso for," she said. "It's delicious."

I nodded. She handed me a small bit from the center of the cake she had removed to make the final product sit flat. I took a bite.

I tasted the very moist cake first, then some bittersweet chocolate with a tinge of cocount. With no icing, it was already wonderful. The espresso was invisible in it.

"Wow," I said. "That is riiich!"

"I know," Marcie said. "Kathleen is going to love it. I made it to reflect what I think of her and her antics."

"So what you are saying is, 'Kathleen, you are a nutty, hyperactive woman with a sweet front, chunky middle and smooth exterior who goes down well with milk?" I watched her as she began her silent laugh.

She stop laughing as her breath came back, "Yes," she squeaked. "And I don't mind helping you get fatter, so have... a... cake..."

She took her breath in in deep, gasping breaths between chortles and cackles. she gave me a hug. "She totally lvoes my cakes and refuses to share them, which I completely understand."

"So you give her a cake you know she will eat all by herself?" I asked.

"No," Marcie said. "Oh, no no no. I give her a cake big enough to eat with [people at work and still have half left, which she tells everyone is for her family."

I nodded and she started cracking up. "Then she hides it and eats it all by herself until it's gone."

She took a few seconds then added,"Frank, I love her but she will eat ALL of it. I don't know how she can stand it, but she looooves my cake."

"So that is why you like her birthday so much?" I asked.

Marcie looked more pensive for a second. "I think I like to celebrate birthdays for people that have that lust for living. I like people whose appetites are as large as their personalities."

"I understand," I said.

"Kathleen can be annoying, but she's her own persona and I love that about her," she said. "So a cake for that kind of endless entertainment is nothing, let me tell you, honey."

She gave me a hug and looked up in my eyes. "Do you remember your first birthday with me? How you told me not to celebrate it?"

I certainly did.

Annoying Spell-Check

So Google's spell-check allows non-agreeing clauses and when enabled to do auto-correct, inserts whatever is closest. Grrr... this, coupled with my light typing style, ends up embarrassing me. I hate how my words get mangled by technology.

I am working on a post about birthdays and our girl but have been frustrated by the technology and have therefore delayed it. It will be up soon.

Changes afoot... some thank-yous

Friday was the last day I worked as Editorial Assistant with the San Diego Unified School District. Yes, school cuts got me. This is no big surprise and it plays into my plans, so I am far from stressed. My job officially ended on June 30.

I first pursued the job when Marcie's illness became so acute that I had to both increase my income and find more suitable benefits with no preexisting condition limitations.

It was a good fit for the purpose and with a government agency and regular hours to count on. Surprisingly, I was able to flex my journalistic and communications muscles, too. And I got to work with some great folks. Speaking of which...

Here's a big thank you to Elizabeth, Mary, Art, Bill, Josefina, Adel, Jim, Gordon, William, Gamy, the crews in Mandated Costs and Pupil Accounting, and all the rest of you folks who were so kind.

I am leaving a ton of you out who deserve a mention by name, but hey... it's just an update post. On to the update.

I will be looking for new work in a more lucrative market. I will visit San Francisco and the Bay Area in the next month for interviews. Simultaneously, I will hunt for housing. In both areas, I have done some homework :)

I will also be working at San Diego Unified in a whole new capacity on a two-month contract. Yep, I am slated to be a professional expert fixing up the district's elementary school pages as they convert to a more readable and accessible format.

It carries higher pay than Editorial Assistant. Oddly, this will be my third raise this year, and will show a progression of skills and compensation as I seek out work. I am sure that this, in San Diego, is a fluke.

No matter what, when the position ends, I hope to help SDUSD when called on and I may bid on contracts as they come up. But the bottom line is that I will be working a lot of casual, freelance and contract work while I prepare for a Ph.D. program.

I'll keep you up to date as I move on with these plans, folks. Until then...

F.