REENIE'S REACH

Secret Codes and Much More

ifwriter@blomand.net — Sat, 21 Jun 08 10:33:00 UT

Holy Crap! Iâm worn out and itâs only 10:15 in the morning.

Iâve just given myself a crash course on HTML Codes. Good God Almighty.

Itâs an ego thing sorta and really and maybe. I decided to emulate a few sites I visit and post a list with my personal best essays. Itâs my way of commemorating the 100,000 mark â the number of hits on my site. Sometime during the night I passed the 100,000 mark. Sometime during the night over 100 people poked into my site. Who the hell are these people? And this morning as I dilly-dallied with HTML a herd of other people came by. Who are these people who lurk around and donât leave comments? (Yeah, yeah, I know youâre shy Janis and I still love you bunches.) I think Iâm pretty nifty and have a nifty life and can even write nifty sometimesâ¦ but 100,000 hits!

Anyway, I coded most the format to my liking. Links? Hahahahahaha. Youâre on your own, ya big babies! (Since posting this entry, I have learned how to do links.)

I have to reassess 2008. Iâm halfway through the year and hardly have any *favorites*. I think I peaked in 2006 with my second post.

Like my children, even if forced I couldnât pick a favorite essay. At this very moment though, We Were Once Young is my favorite, because my dear friend with Lou Gehrigâs died this year.

As I sorted through the past three years, I caught a catch in my heart, a lump in my throat. So much has happened. Good and Bad. Joyous and heartbreaking. And I found my emotions clashing and crashing like maniacal cymbals, especially when I read about Brian â I had loved him so hard and now am blessed with great indifference toward him. Itâs funny (and not in a ha-ha way) how fast life can shift, how unnaturally adaptable we become. Repeat: Unnaturally adaptable.

Anyway, if you are so inclined, I have earmarked some of my favorites. I canât believe Iâve spent so much time this morning doing this. I have important things to do like go to the dump, (if you found that last sentence shockingly inappropriate, please reread), buy a lottery ticket, wash the truck for the first time since I bought it (no wonder Iâve been divorced twice), and then get back home and maybe write a proper post!

THANKS to all 100,000 of you visitors. :)

xoxo

P.S. Just one person - just one, that's all I ask, please comment on how adorable my daddy is - fergitaboot the has-been seated beside him, but isn't he adorable!

Rennie's Reach

ifwriter@blomand.net — Sun, 15 Jun 08 16:54:00 UT

Thatâs it. I give up. Just start calling me Rennie. Seems like everyone else is. *sigh* Actually, I kinda like Rennie. Has spunk. Reenie sounds too feminine and delicate and flowery. Rennie has the kinda spunk Lou Grant wouldâve liked.

Oh? So, a lot of you donât remember who Lou Grant was. *sigh* Well then Shoo & Skedaddle. You're too young to be reading this old woman's blog.

Okay, so I suppose you want to know why the name change.

Last summer I attended the Sewanee Summer Music Festival for the first time and loved every note throughout its twenty-four performances during the five week session. I blogged about it here several times. I was dazzled.

I was so dazzled I made a hefty donation to this yearâs Festival. The amount is negligible, but letâs just say itâs been a long time since someone thought I was an Angel. *sigh*

Well, I bet you know where this is going. At todayâs opening performance, I noticed that my name is listed in the program as Rennie Fulton.

So, thatâs it. Just call me Rennie. Seems like everyone else is.

Iâm not as annoyed as my words might seem. In fact, I turned heads pre-performance as I laughed like a rabid hyena. (not really) Besides, in this small town everyone knows what was meant â that Rennie really means Reenie. Like, duh.

On the otherhand, if I was still in California, there mightâve been some confusion because there are so many ex-Mrs. Fultons running about. *sigh* Yeah, b-a-b-y, I sure know how to pick um. But back to my vague point: by April 15th 2009, Uncle Sam ainât gonna give a damn... nor will I. :)

Sidebar: Stace, I thought about Ant when I saw the typo, I remember how enraged and frustrated she became when people often misspelled your fatherâs name. Thank goodness they got it right regarding his annual namesake lecture series. :)

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And additional news on the Sewanee front: Iâve enrolled in the June session of the Sewanee Summer Seminars. During the week of June 22nd I will attend lectures and discussions and myriad other daytime & evening events. I am so excited!

If you are curious, you can Google Sewanee Summer Session.

In the meantime, I canât decide if my nametag should read Rennie or Reenie.

xoxo

P.S. Do y'all dig the red nail polish in the above pic? Never.Ever.Again. That's really Rennie wearing the polish. Reenie would never do something like that. :)

Nails

ifwriter@blomand.net — Tue, 10 Jun 08 11:55:00 UT

Okay. I take a huge risk of probably offending some of you, but I laughed really hard when I saw this video. My excuse: I'm a product of living in Southern California for twenty-two years. And well, it's funny.

I stole this from Amy's Site - a new place I stop by every day. Her link is with all my other links.

Enjoy!

Mountain Miscellanea with lots of pics

ifwriter@blomand.net — Sun, 8 Jun 08 16:59:00 UT

The following are loose end mountain tidbits. (This isnât the scary one, Eric.)

The first pic is of the front of my home. It has been such a beautiful spring with just the right amount of rain and sunshine:

This is a portion of my front porch with my new rockers:

Bug and I couldnât believe it when we saw a turtle on my front sidewalk one morning. The woods are full of them.

The following are some pics taken of my screened porch. It was a wonderful rainy day, but the pics are a bit dark. Itâs obvious I like color. :)

The next pic is of my truck and its decals. I recently added *Easy Does It* Good Gawd Almighty, itâs so crooked, it looks like Iâve been swimming in a bowl of spiked punch. *sigh*

And back by popular demandâ¦ Ta-Daâ¦ is B-U-G!

The following are her feeding bowl and water bowl (cup & saucer) served on a placemat with heart designs, of course. Youâre right, Donna, sheâs not spoiled, Uh-uh-nope.

You might notice that the kibbles bowl says *The Boss*. Oh, and yes, that is a music stand you see in my kitchen. I use it as a cookbook stand. :)

Well, thatâs it folks. Itâs not much, but itâs my kind of excitement.

xoxo

Bug

ifwriter@blomand.net — Sun, 8 Jun 08 11:51:00 UT

Iâve had a roommate the past seventeen days. Her name is Bug. Below is a pic of her. Sheâs adorable.

Her *parents* have been touring Italy. They traveled solo for one week then met up with eighteen others from Sewanee (The University of the South), which is down the road from me.

Some of the highlights from the Italy trip include: A private tour of the Gardens of Ninfa. They are considered some of the most beautiful gardens in the world and usually closed to the public. Then there was a 2Â½ hour private after-hours tour of the Sistine Chapel and the Vatican Museum. How remarkable! They also report that the food has been out of this world, and they've been buying, for immediate consumption, Italian wine at â to Â¼ the US cost, even with the inflated Euro!

Though their travels sound divine, I think I got the better deal. Bug is simply perfect. Very perfect. And so cute and fun and obedient and tidy. She snores a little bit, but I probably do too. :)

I suggested that Deb & Rick extend their trip. I'll be sad tomorrow when Bug leaves. Most important, a codicil is being attached to their will - making me Bug's guardian in the event... well, perish that thought, but just in case.

Friday Five a la Reenie

ifwriter@blomand.net — Sat, 31 May 08 18:35:00 UT

1. Name five books you think you should read that you haven't read yet.

Okay, so I canât count. Shoot me.

Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier
A Separate Peace by John Knowles
Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins

2. Five people can come to dinner, any five people, living or dead. Who do you invite and why?

Reload the gun.

I am no good at these. I fight any kind of limitations. I am the most unlikely rebel, yet I am. I would either have one big party or a series of small dinner parties replete with fine foods, beverages, table settings, and conversation. I would include these people - and many more. It's a stellar group - Google those you don't know. :)

Anne Lamott
Russell Baker
Jack Smith
Eric Mayer
Atticus Finch
Kahlil Gibran
Siobhan Nicolau
Rhubarb
Frank McCourt
Julia Stubblebine
Stacy Haines
Ruth Reichl
Indiana Jones
Darrell White
Barbara Klaser
Tony Earley
Katherine Hepburn
Haven Kimmel
Annetta Ribken
Minnie Warburton
My Children
And many, many more

3. Who were five influential people in your life so far, and why?

Some of these people seasoned my life with saltâ¦ yet greatly influenced me.

Take aim again.

My mother â The insane joy of creativity
My first MIL â The power of dignity
Wampy â Why shed tears when one can laugh?
Nancy Boykin â Grace & kindness & generosity personified
Bill W. â The skills to embrace life each day with renewed hope
Aunt Jean Carol â My bonus mommy
Many, many more

4. List five of your favorite movie or TV quotes, with attribution, if possible.

Iâve randomly selected these. Iâve focused on movies. Some had impact. Some amused me. Some are unforgettable.

Groundhog Day is my favorite movie, but no memorable quote jumps out â itâs an ensemble of quotes that makes it such a worthy film.

So, I canât fucking count.

To Kill a Mockingbird:
Reverend Sykes: "Miss Jean Louise, stand up. Your father's passin'."
My eyes teared-up with this powerful line. If it needs explaining, then you need to read the book or watch the movie.

Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid:
Paul Newman (Butch): Why you crazy bastard, the fall will probably kill you.

Five Easy Pieces Dialogue:
Jack Nicholson: I'd like an omelet, plain, and a chicken salad sandwich on wheat toast, no mayonnaise, no butter, no lettuce. And a cup of coffee.
Lorna Thayer: A #2, chicken salad sandwich. Hold the butter, the lettuce, the mayonnaise, and a cup of coffee. Anything else?
Jack Nicholson: Yeah, now all you have to do is hold the chicken, bring me the toast, give me a check for the chicken salad sandwich, and you haven't broken any rules.
Lorna Thayer: You want me to hold the chicken, huh?
Jack Nicholson: I want you to hold it between your knees.

Little Miss Sunshine (one of my all time favorite movies):
â¢ Richard: Oh my God, I'm getting pulled over. Everyone, just... pretend to be normal.
â¢ Edwin: Again with the fucking chicken! Every night it's the fucking chicken! Holy God Almighty! Is it possible just once we could get something to eat for dinner around here that's not the god damned fucking chicken?!

The Sixth Sense:
Cole Sear (the young boy): I see dead people.

Silence of the Lambs:
Anthony Hopkins (Hannibal): I do wish we could chat longer, but I'm having an old friend for dinner.

5. Name five foods you would like to have at the same meal in order to be truly satisfied.

Put a fork in me, Iâm done.

1. Zucchini Soup, chilled

2. Baby greens, sugar-glazed pecans, variety of sliced fruits, a mild cheeseâ¦ lightly dressed with lemon juice and olive oil.

3. Chilean Sea Bass or Halibut, broiled or baked, with an herb & macadamia nut crust.

4. Orzo â light seasonings of fresh basil or dill with olive oil.

5. Crusty Baguette with very hard butter.

6. Butterscotch Cream Pie.

7. Decaf Latte.

Time is Precious

ifwriter@blomand.net — Wed, 28 May 08 10:11:00 UT
My mother was taken by ambulance to the hospital last night. Severe pneumonia. I knew she hadnât been feeling well the past few days and was having trouble finding a doctor because her primary recently left Fallbrook. I called her several times last night. I thought, against all odds, that maybe she had gone to the concert she had talked about. In one of my messages, I asked her to call me and leave a message. This morning when I saw no message, I knew something was terribly wrong.

I tracked her down. I talked to her. She sounds terrible, but feebly chirped that she was being well taken care of.

Sheâll be fine, she'll be fine.

Time is precious, isnât it? Read my last two posts now if you havenât already.

Call someone special today. In fact, call them often. And be kind. xoxo

Duty is the Glue

ifwriter@blomand.net — Fri, 16 May 08 10:57:00 UT
After I wrote about one of my most recent days with my mother, I realized I needed to give people a fuller & truer representation of life with schizophrenia as I know it. Laurieâs (LA) comments reminded me that there are all types and levels of schizophrenia. And Netta reminded me that my readers would not be aware of some of the bumpy times Iâve had with my mother.

There have been two bumpy times â when contact was curtailed for a while. The most recent episode occurred about three years ago:

See, hereâs the thing about my mother â never disagree or chastise or muzzle her. Though I may appear to be an enabler, Iâm not. I just know the dos and donâts. Three Christmas Eves ago we were sitting at a lovely table and I was serving a lovely dinner, and I requested that she cease talking ugly about my father â that it was Christmas Eve. Now first of all, one shouldnât have to make that kind of request. Secondly, my request was reasonable. It was Christmas Eve for Godâs sake. Well, the ugly droning ceased and the marinating commenced. My mother stewed about my comments for about a week and then telephoned me and said she never wanted to see me again. *sigh* We didnât talk for over a year. I waited for her to call me.

The first time we had a serious rift was when my children were very young. Iâve neglected to mention that not only is my mother schizophrenic, but when I was young she was an over-the-top alcoholic. Holy shit! Itâs amazing the woman is still alive and that she didnât take others with her. It was still the era when law enforcement went wink-wink. It was during this time she would not give up the drink, as I requested, when she wanted to be with my children. It was her choice. One she made it. She drank herself to oblivion for manymany years.

Now that brings to mind another nuance to my motherâs mind. Her will is strong. Stronger than any other Iâve ever encountered. One day she suddenly decided to stop drinking her couple of bottles of vodka each day. A few years later she suddenly decided to stop smoking three packs of cigarettes each day. When I inquired how she was able to do this, she said, âI just stopped.â

My drunken schizophrenic mother was notorious in the small town I grew up in. She was a joke. The town drunk. A menace. One time I was playing in a tennis tournament. A road ran beside the court where I was playing. She pulled up. Every time my opponent won a point, my mother laid her heavy hand on the horn. She carried on something awful. Funny isnât it â she was trying to be supportive â she wanted me to win. It was dreadful. My face was seared with humiliation, but I refused to concede. I lost more than a tennis match that day.

My sober schizophrenic mother is just as crazy as the drunken one, but a bit more manageable. Just last night (as is true every night) she talked about all her looney delusions, i.e., she was the first contacted when Marilyn Monroe was murdered by the Irish Mafia headed by Bobby Kennedy and B of A. (God only knows what B of A has to do with all this.) She thinks Alan Dershowitz (renowned Harvard attorney) is her co-conspirator to expose all kinds of illegal activity. Her true biological father is George Gershwin. Her phone is being tapped by the FBI. The list of insane delusions is endless. Iâve learned from past experience to just nod with acquiescence when she rambles with these fabrications. I keep my yap shut. I never encourage or ask questions or challenge her. I just dutifully listen â otherwise I become the enemy.

I donât write about this stuff nor do I talk about it often. Sheâs my mother. She had two beautiful daughters and nearly destroyed them. As youngsters we knew no better and believed every delusional word that spilled from her mouth. When people tell me they donât believe Jeannette Wallsâ memoir, I tell them, âBelieve it. Stuff like this happens.â There was never a fucking anchor to give me stability. My sister and I just got through each day. *sigh*

About 15+ years ago my mother phoned and told me she was lonely. I told her that was unacceptable, that I would try to make sure she never felt lonely again. Since then Iâve called her every night unless I was out of the country (or after the Christmas Eve debacle). I call and listen to her drone and drone and drone with her delusions. For her itâs like lancing a festering wound. For me? Itâs simple. Sheâs my mother.

Call yours. Okay? xoxo

P.S. And remember to be kind.

A Day in the Life of a Schizophrenic

ifwriter@blomand.net — Thu, 15 May 08 19:28:00 UT
Iâve just returned from a weeklong visit with my mother. It was highly successful. One day, in particular, stands out and thatâs the day I want to share with you.

As many of you already know, my mom is a special needs person. Sheâs schizophrenic. What makes this condition extra insane is that she went off her meds about four years ago. *sigh*

Before I go to my sample day with my mother, I have to detour with some backstory: My mother has a new obsession, a game if you will. She clips coupons, any coupons. If she can get a good deal on Kingsford Charcoal, sheâll buy it even though she doesnât own a BBQ grill. Fixadent? You bet! Though she still has her original set of choppers. Ground coffee? Another sure thing, though she doesnât have a coffee pot.

In all fairness to my mother, she uses most the stuff she buys, but has had to make some major palate-adjustments. Of no surprise, her neighbors think sheâs a Mormon because of the scope of her provisions. Sheâs now storing the overflow in their refrigerators.

Everyday of my life has been an odd little adventure with my mom. The following is the sample day I want to share with you:

Monday, May 12, 2008
A Day in the Life of a Schizophrenic

â¢ About midmorning after we had breakfast at a local restaurant, we went to her bank so she could exchange a roll of quarters for a $10 bill. Of course there is nothing weird about that except she had the quarters wrapped in scotch tape. The people at this bank are veryveryvery patient with my mother and treat her with the utmost respect.

â¢ Next we went to a local food bank. Now, now â donât get your chonnies all twisted in a knot. Remember the coupon fixation? Well, the local food bank falls into the same category â itâs a game for her. I swear to you, itâs like Christmas for her and each of the four sacks of groceries represents a stocking left by Santa. Mom gets all giggly and excited. Thereâs no doubt my mother does not need this handout, but sheâs 81-years old for Christ sake, has dutifully paid her taxes for many years, and is having a ton of fun. BTW, she returns food she doesnât use.

â¢ After loading her free groceries, which at this point she still does not know what they have given her, we head for the local salon for manicures/pedicures. Does anyone besides me see the extreme irony in this?

â¢ Then Mom insisted we go to the adjacent CVS pharmacy. I told her I would wait for her and let my nails dry a bit longer, but she insisted I join her. So she lumbered to the adjacent CVS. I say lumbered because thatâs how mentally challenged people who weigh over 300 lbs. walk. My mother also has perpetual bed-head, which also seems symptomatic of mentally challenged folk. Her voice also booms in a baritone monotone, which also seems to be symptomatic. Soâ¦ she boomed, âIrene I worry about you and canât be there to take care of you and you need some facial creams.â

SCREECH

In my whole life that was the most singularly powerful moment with my mother. Schizophrenics donât have a whole lot of emotional range. Her laughter sounds canned and she seems incapable of being sad. Oh sure, she can express herself with sad or happy words, but they never sound genuine. Anyway, $120 later I had an arsenal of creams to iron out more wrinkles than a Chinese Shar-Pei.

That evening I wept. I had never really known she cared.

â¢ After we purchased the creams we dined on a sumptuous lunch, then napped before waddling out for another sumptuous dinner.

This was a good day. In a skewed way, most days are good with my mother, but thatâs because Iâm desensitized to her unusual behavior. My idea of normal has always been misshapen because of her role model. Itâs gotten me into a peck of trouble at times because I often speak fast and bluntâ¦ But there were years of emotional torment for my sister and me. Years we hid the kitchen knives because we were frightened by her. There were years that my sister and I literally reared ourselves because our mother was incapable.

When I left my first marriage (I know â Iâm such a loser), I went to a therapist to talk about my failed marriage. I saw him twice. Each time I started out by talking about my ex, but within minutes Iâd turn my conversation to my relationship with my mother. My brilliant therapist finally stopped me and gently asked, âIrene, is there anyone else you would have rather had for a mother?â I looked at him as if he was nuts. I looked at him like he was loonier than me. I looked at him as though he was totally insane then said, âOf course not! Sheâs my mother!â In that moment so much happened. Unconditional love for my mother took root and to this day continues to flourish.

I guess until this trip, I never realized she had the same kind of unconditional love for me.

Oh, and the reason I saw the therapist only twice? My first husband was not worth the time and effort. I took care of the important stuffâ¦ my mother.

Remember to be kind. xoxo

Reenie (sans make-up and before using the wrinkle creams) with her Mom

Guest Appearance

ifwriter@blomand.net — Tue, 6 May 08 11:58:00 UT
Cary, over at List of the Day, liked one of my posts so much, he's posted it at his place if you are so inclined to take a peek. :)

Also, I just discovered that by mistake I deleted a pic from the Gratitude post. It's back in place.

Aura

ifwriter@blomand.net — Sun, 4 May 08 22:05:00 UT
Aura: n. halo, something which emanates from a person; atmosphere; karma.

The past two days Iâve had two people approach me and tell me I have a wonderful aura. Wow. I canât think of one other compliment I would rather receive. One was at a wedding reception that I was working and a guest came up to me. Another was at a restaurant in town. This tickles me to no end. :)

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I think part of these new positive energies is the direct result of changes Iâve slowly made in my life. The dividends of hard work and choosing trusted friends carefully and many other positive elements have finally reaped the balance Iâve been seeking. Life will never be perfect. It will always have its up and downs, but my toolbox is starting to fill with the tools I need to live the life I want.

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Thereâs no kooky reason for the *no comments* on my blog. Most my entries donât really require or inspire comments anyway. When I post, I usually get between 200-400 hits. Beats me who these people are, :) but Iâm always appreciative of them popping in. I would rather receive offsite emails â it seems to be a good trend around here. On occasion Iâll probably post something and open the comment option, but not often. Iâll also be putting several of my posts in the private sector after a few days.

Rememberâ¦ be kind. xoxo

New Rockers for my Clean Porch

For the Birds

ifwriter@blomand.net — Sun, 4 May 08 21:15:00 UT
I am feeling my arthritis this evening. Iâm prepping my home for people who are renting it for graduation next weekend. I am vacating Tuesday evening so am close to deadline. Ordinarily the preparation would be typical housework stuff with the addition of putting together a welcoming goodie basket with wine and juices and snacks and baked items, and yum-yums in general etc. (It's the least I can do - I get $375 a night.) The glitch in the routine is that the pesky Robin I wrote about last week managed to make a major mess. Below are some pics of the carnage as well as my bird-friendly deterrents: soaped windows and draped sheets. Good God. My house looked like an Irish Wake. After a few days of mourning *sigh* the bird flew off to terrorize someone else. In the meantime, Iâve also ordered some scary rubbery snakes to coil around the porches. Most likely Iâll be the only one frightened. *sigh*

Anyway, my arthritis is kicking up because I crawled around a lot today while scrubbing my porches. Just because of one measly bird!

Everything looks beautiful now. Yay! Below are the pics.

Doesn't he look sweet

Pooping on the rail *sigh*

Pooping on the chair *sigh*

One of the windows I draped

Soaped windows #1

Soaped windows #2

A small portion of the carnage *sigh*

Back to normal!

Lights-Camera-Action

ifwriter@blomand.net — Sun, 4 May 08 09:38:00 UT
The thing about the catering biz, itâs like Lights-Camera-Action. Itâs all about staging an event. And the adrenalin runs hard, which is good until the event is over and one goes home and canât fall asleep.

I drove one server home after a gig last week and she offered up that she prefers restaurant waitressing to serving at a catered event. I asked why and her answers made all the sense in the world.

Restaurant waitressing is predictable. Itâs more formula driven from the moment a group is seated to when they leave. The kitchen and table arrangements are always the same, as is often the menu. There are very precise table assignments, while catering is more of a team effort and servers float for the most part. In restaurants there are fewer surprises.

Catering couldnât be more different. Every kitchen is different â including ovens which can be either convection or conventional. We import every bit of food down to the last grain of salt. The table arrangements and settings vary greatly. Sometimes we import the tabletop place settings â other times the hostess will use a rental service especially if the event has a theme. Sometimes a hostess will use her own dishes, glasses, and silverware. Sometimes the hostess will even provide some of the food. Sometimes we provide floral arrangements, sometimes the hostess makes those arrangements. Catering events often have a theme. Catered events are always happy events.

Iâve worked quite a few functions since I started. I love it. I enjoy it far more than I ever thought I would. There is always, always a man or woman who thinks they have a special gene connecting their lineage to royaltyâ¦ and weâre supposed to detect their nobility. These people donât bother me a whit. Itâs actually kind of amusing. I like the challenge. And even the nicest folk around seem to think I have a magic wand. At a recent event where we served 125 sit down with seven servers and four bartenders (Iâm telling ya folks, that's h-u-g-e for up here), I had some unusual requests. I think itâs because Iâm ancient in comparison to the other servers that people approach me with odd ball requests.

Last weekend, one woman took me aside and explained that her daughter was extremely allergic to any nuts, and could I whip up a pasta dish or something for her. Well, in a nano-second several hundred thoughts raced through my head. A few of which were: Are you fucking nuts (no pun intended), here, let me pull my wand out of my ass, what fucking planet are you from lady? Nope. Didnât suggest any of those thoughts to her. After I scraped the glaze off my eyes, I explained in 25 words or less, the dynamics of a catering kitchen, but told her I would investigate possibilities. I scurried to the kitchen and robbed several trays and dishes, and came up with yummy little ham sandwiches and a salad sans pine nuts and a delectable array of sliced fruits. The mother and little girl were thrilled. At this same event, a woman beckoned me to her table and asked if I could serve her a different dessert because she was diabetic. I wanted to say, âHey lady, do I look like the Galloping Gourmet?" Nonetheless, I galloped to the kitchen and robbed different fruit garnishes, washed off the powdered sugar dust, made a pretty arrangement on a plate and tossed on a few almonds. She thought I was a goddess.

Catering is soooo cool. I love the challenge and the opportunity to work with different people. The reason why I will cook with Julia more often than others is because so many of the other servers have day jobs. Most catering servers are moonlighting.

Serving at events is fun. Cooking is fun, too, but the work is much more intense and harder, and apparently no one likes to bake. Baking isnât my favorite either, but I can do it. The terrific upside to cooking is being in Juliaâs *space*. Juliaâs other assistant is Gretchen who has worked for her for almost three years. The first day I cooked for Julia I made 144 petite cheesecakes and 144 petite chocolate cupcakes with raspberry filling and chocolate icing. These werenât all that hard to prepare, but I had to multiple the recipes by 7x. The thing about baking â thereâs no room for error. None. Baking is a precise art. While Julia was making her fabulous paella, she occasionally asked us to taste for seasoning. One doesnât make adjustments very easily when baking. I had to use every brain cell I had that day. :) But the camaraderie of a happy kitchen is pure joy. It was a blast!

Another minor difference between restaurant serving and catering is the dress code. We have a lot more flexibility, but basically wear a white top and black bottom (skirt or slacks), or black on black. We compliment each other but dress differently.

Another big difference between restaurant and catering jobs is that the base pay is much higher with catering and the tips are extremely good. This probably compensates for the ebb and flow of jobs and lack of steady income.

Anyway, thatâs my life these days. I know my job is nothing more than glorified waitressing, but I love it. Iâm a natural. In fact, someone came up to me last night at a wedding we were catering and said, âYou have a wonderful aura.â Yup life is so very, very good. Iâll have to get some current pics taken so you can see for yourself. Below are some taken last summer, I believe, when David was visiting. xoxo

David & Irene

Not bad for 60! Natural hair, too! And how 'bout that aura!

Gratitude

ifwriter@blomand.net — Sat, 3 May 08 15:22:00 UT
Hi. Just a brief pop-in. I've been delightfully busy and have much to write about. I think I will always have a shadow of sadness in my heart regarding my divorce from Brian, but recently Iâve been full of hope and joy and gratitude.

Julia is partially responsible for my newfound peace. I love working for her. We work hard, but itâs good hard.

Many of my updates have to do with her kitchen, the cooking, and the serving. I swear I never in a million years thought I'd be serving at catered events and l-o-v-i-n-g it. I guess because I enjoy entertaining, graciousness, and civility in my own home, I extend those gifts at events hosted by others. Iâm a natural.

Below are a few pics of my workplace - I will take more. It's simply heavenly. Julia lives on The Farm in Sewanee, the town adjacent to Monteagle where I live. Itâs not a commune, but is a small community with freestanding homes and a communal mindset: Gardens and sheep (probably other livestock) and solar power and shared appliances (washer/dryer). The people are amazing. I consider them flower children that grew into amazing flower adults. The energy is intoxicating. Itâs a gentle destination with gentle people. I am so very lucky. So very lucky. I have finallyfinallyfinally found my bliss.

The View from the Kitchen House

Another View from the Kitchen House

The best short story evah – by our Netta

ifwriter@blomand.net — Mon, 28 Apr 08 12:37:00 UT
My good friend, Netta, recently posted a short story that really resonated with me. It's a story I think should be read and *heard* and thatâs why Iâm posting it here. For me, it's all about basic decency toward our fellow brothers and sisters. The decency to take the time to acknowledge the humanity in each of us, visible and invisible. To take the time to ponder that each heartbeat has a story and that each heartbeat should be treated with dignity.

I had dinner this week with some very special people - kind people. I told them about Nettaâs story and everyone nodded with appreciation and understanding and gratitude for being reminded.

I have asked Nettaâs permission to post Wal-Mart, her short story. Itâs written in the unusual second person POV and is perfect. She demurs that it needs editing. I maintain that itâs perfect. Itâs copyrighted, so please pass it on â itâs a message worth sharing. xoxo

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A Trip to Wal-Mart
by Annetta Ribken

Turning into the parking lot of Wal-Mart, you cruise for a decent spot. You see a car inching out of a prime space; you sit and wait for the woman behind the wheel to pull out. She is taking her time; your fingers drum on the steering wheel as you fight the urge to lay on the horn. What you don't see is that she's trying to get her three-year old to shut up and stop squirming long enough to look behind her; her husband will kill her if she puts another ding in this car.

She safely pulls out, breathing a sign of relief and ready to smack the three-year-old; you pull smoothly into the space she has vacated. What you don't see is the man in the compact car cussing you out for taking his spot. He's had a bad morning; he overslept and missed church. When his wife got home he had to put up with her sighs, knowing looks, and comments about hellfire waiting for unbelievers. He figured he would make the trip to Wal-Mart to pick up some paint for the outside door; maybe that would shut her up. Now he has to ride around the parking lot one more time to find a spot. Day is shaping up great, he thinks.

Getting out of your car, you look up and see two boys walking by. One of them is laughing and the other is clowning, singing some rap song. You hit the lock button, shut the door and double check it without even thinking, wondering how the one kid keeps his pants up because they're riding so low. What you don't see is these two boys are honor roll students, and one of them will be shot early next month in a drive-by. The other kid will go on to complete high school and go to college. This day he spends with his friend will become one of his most cherished memories.

You walk behind the two boys into Wal-Mart; the lady greeter is there as usual. She smiles and pushes a cart in your direction. You don't notice the shadows beneath her eyes and you don't know that she is worried about her daughter and new grandbaby. The baby, her first grandchild, is still in the neo-natal unit and she knows her daughter is pushing herself too hard. She hates her son-in-law but her daughter loves him, so what can she do? She just wishes he would help more around the house, especially with the baby so sick and his wife spending so much time at the hospital. She's counting the minutes until work is over, so she can go help.

You roll your cart over to the pharmacy to drop off a prescription; the pharmacy assistant is tall and cute and you spend a few minutes chatting with him. He tells you how he's working his way through college and you think he seems like a nice fellow. You don't see the slight tremor of his hands and you don't know he's working his way into a huge addiction to codeine. Every minute of every day is consumed by getting high, the need to get high, or scoring to get high. He's filled with self-loathing and guilt, but that doesn't stop him. He won't stop until he loses his job and his scholarship. He will finally flunk out of college and will spend the rest of his life in atonement for the sins he is about to commit.

You wander into the electronics department, and casually look over the new music. Next to you is a young girl; she's pierced, tattooed, dyed, and made up until she looks like a freak from the circus. You sneak looks out of the corner of your eye at this child, and think, "If my daughter ever came home like this I would kill her." What you don't see is this girl is homeless; she's staying at a shelter because her mother took off for parts unknown, leaving her only daughter to the not-so-tender mercies of a perverted stepfather. Suicide is heavy on her mind right now; you catch her eye and she looks truculent. You smile a little, sensing she may need it. She does, and she takes it, giving a small smile in return. The clouds recede for her just a little; you walk on, not knowing what the little smile you gave just did for this girl.

You move on and stop to look through the magazine rack. A gentleman is there in a fatigue jacket perusing the latest hot rod magazine; he looks totally absorbed. What you don't see is this man has not slept in three nights and is looking for some relief. The nightmares won't let him go and the ebony cloak of depression is hovering, hovering. He has to sleep, but the screams of his men and the sound of the helicopters won't leave him. He's been here at Wal-Mart for six hours, and has almost finished reading every magazine on this rack. The winds of madness are blowing hard and he is holding on for dear life.

Stopping in the automotive department, you pick up some windshield washer fluid and notice a young man doing the same. You smile at him and he smiles back, but looks a little distracted. You have no way of knowing how sick he feels inside, because he's been cheating on his wife for the past six months and doesn't know what to do. He doesn't realize his wife has known for the last four months, and is at this very moment calling a lawyer. He only knows he loves his wife, but the other woman does things with her mouth and tongue his wife won't. The other woman understands him and puts no pressure on him. The other woman is his wife's best friend.

You get to the checkout lane with your purchases, and wait in line while the elderly woman in front of you unloads cat food, sheets, some Tylenol, and an African violet on the conveyor belt. She is humming to herself and looks happy; you smile, not knowing she's thinking of her husband who passed away close to twenty years ago, not knowing she misses him with every breath she takes. She's just marking time until she can join him. She feels lucky she had the time she did with him, but she's angry with God for taking him too soon. The anger is with her always, cheek by jowl with love.

The check out guy is mechanically doing his job; his mind is on the cute girl he met two months ago. She doesn't know (and neither do you) how his insides flutter every time he thinks of her, and now he's determined to get up the guts to ask her out. He daydreams about the sheen of her hair, the curve of her waist, and then stops because to go any further would embarrass him.

Sliding your credit card, punching in the PIN number is automatic with a ritualistic feel. You say thank you to the love struck boy, and head outside. Putting your purchases in the trunk, you get into the car, start it up and pull out. Someone is patiently waiting for your slot; they don't see worry on your face about a small lump that may or may not be there. They don't see your panic at the thought of your son entering the military or the concern about your daughter, who's been spending a lot of time with her friends and not enough at home. They don't see the strains of a marriage on the brink, the stress digging deeper and deeper into the flesh of your face.

You back out of the parking space, and head home. A waiting car pulls smoothly into the vacated spot.

~end~