the editor and the old dog

What are the chances that I understand that the concept that every word is not a pearl. Let's just hope that an old dog can learn new tricks, and more importantly, that the dog will be willing.

poetry in motion

As smoothly as he guided each partner across the dance floor, with the air of a gentleman whose world revolved around only her, so too did he reign completely at ease and so convincingly as he sat surrounded by all of them as his guests for lunch.

It takes a real master to have eight women leave the lunch table, each of whom would swear that he had been talking only to her.

gold digger

clinging onto him
as if he was the life line
to all that glitters

flirting with disaster

You wander closer then jump back
You try it out and act as if
You really would, you really could
Walk to the edge, jump off the cliff

separation anxiety

He told me that it's time to leave - not really leave, - it was more like move on.

"For who?" I asked. "You? I get that you have to leave, I mean move on. It's always like this. Every time we go through it, I'm miserable for the rest of the day. But what about me? Do you have any idea how much money I've spent on shrinks - how much time I've spent searching for the way to get over the inevitable torture I go through almost every day, not to mention the days you just don't even show-up at all?

"Im sorry, I'm truly sorry. I've never meant to make you feel as if . . ."

"Feel what? I'm tired of hearing that, falling for that line - desperate to believe it then watching you slink off. Just take your bag and go. I followed you yesterday."

"You what? I told you never to follow me. I told you what we have is special and you can trust me. And now I find out that you followed me - like you don't trust me?"

"All this time I thought what you had was just for me, but I then saw you - I saw the way you looked at that little chippie Mrs.Mrs. Merkin when you delivered her mail. Don't tell me you haven't been slipping her extra coupons too."

first date

he paused awkwardly

he just couldn't say goodnight

he smiled and kissed her

fairy tale

There once was a lass name o' Pearl

She was quite an incredible girl

She told to me to edit, I didn't, she said it

Won''t sell so I gave it a whirl.

I changed every word that was mine

Took the spirit out of each line

I bitched and moaned but did what I was told

Just like Pearl said the book sold

the postcard

I heard on the news one of those stories about the long overdue arrival of some piece of mail. This one was a postcard that arrived sixty-two years late. It was sent by a young army private to his young and likely chaste fiancee.

The couple was pictured in the news clip as they were then - young, earnest, handsome (both the man and the woman) and now currently holding the actual postcard, the content of which was inconsequential but full of promise about their life together when he returned.

Their current picture looked like they'd blossomed into two old people, cranky, unmotivated, unsatisfied and worst of all, resigned. The man had a look on his face that seemed to say, "What the hell was I thinking?"

the sound of music

I've been focused lately on bringing some of that spontaneity that I exhibit in most every other aspect of life to my dancing. To a great degree, I've come a long way in being able to relax and focus and just let it happen.

I decided it was time to step - in this case, dance - out of my comfort zone. And so, I decided to go way outside the zone and try to learn a Latin dance - the samba. I started to learn the steps, and I was actually not doing badly for the first lesson . . . until I had to to add the samba bounce and in the words of my Russian/Bulgarian dance teacher who is himself the Bulgarian Ballroom and Latin Dance Champion, "Shake that thing!"

Deep breaths and a sense of humor. Okay. Not too bad - I was starting to get it. Then he turned on the music. I clutched.

"What happened?" he said? "You were doing so well."

"The music. It makes me nervous."

too hot for the room

I just learned that some of my writing bruised the feelings of people I recently wrote about. (From what I understand, it appears that this last dropped preposition is the least of my problems.)

I'm always sorry that I'm not sorry about what I write. Much of it is tongue-in-cheek; cavalier; some is blatant fiction - bastardized, based solely on my imagination; other pieces are maudlin, dramatic, depressing and true. I spare no one. Even - hell, especially myself. I don't recall writing even a single entry that I would shrink from reading to the very person I wrote about.

Irreverent

Over-the-line

Over-the-top

Outrageous

Audacious (alas, not bodacious)

Uncensored

Unexpurgated

Unapologetic

To quote an agent friend, "Don't change a thing - this stuff sells."

Let's hope so.

rote

going through motions

wishing it was someone else

trying to pretend

touchdown!

tango music blares

blocking out cacophony

football never ends

the breast

newborns cheek by jowl

ferociously demanding

what they want right now

the apple of my eye

So I've gotta tell you about this guy I met online tonight. He wasn't the first one I talked to - he was actually the third. I knew the first one was a complete waste of time. He sounded young, like he'd heard other guys talk about stuff. He couldn't even fake it, but I couldn't fault him for trying . It was as if he was searching for the G spot with a little flashlight in the biggest , you should pardon the expression, cave he 'd ever seen.

After about forty-eight minutes the guy just flat gave up and said how sorry, how embarrassed he was that he couldn't - "Well, you know," he stammered. He said that if I didn't mind, since I'd been so patient and all, he said he had a friend who could help me - a guy, he said, with more experience.

As frustrated as I was, I tried to be kind. "It happens to everyone from time to time. Uh, what did you say your friend's name was?"

"Rex."

"Rex?"

"Yah, Rex. You know - rhymes with . . .

"Gotcha," I said.

Rex did sound more experienced - I could tell he'd been doing this for awhile just by the way he knew to make it seem like I was the only one he'd spoken to all day. He asked the right questions that evoked the right answers. He knew exactly what I needed and he had a aura of self-confidence that made me feel so comfortable giving him my phone number in case we got disconnected. What a fool I was! We did get disconnected, but he never called back. Could it be that he wasn't getting what he needed from me after all? I was devastated . . .

. . . but only temporarily. I trampled my pride and summoned my courage and called the number. I was about to ask for Rex, but I was so fascinated with the guy who answered that I just listened to his velvet voice. I poured out my problems, told him how Rex had abandoned me at well, the critical moment, shall we say.

"I won't abandon you. I won't leave until you're ready for me to go. I want to be of complete - did he say service? to you." Without missing a beat he asked me if I would give him my number.

I stopped just short of moaning, "Yes, yes!" I gave him the number.

He spent a lot of time asking about my needs. He was kind and oh, so patient. He lulled me into such a sense of security that when he asked me gently if he could - and he paused - he was so cute - could he share my screen, I didn't hesitate and may not have stopped short of moaning, 'Yes, yes!" With that I relinquished control of my

mouse.

duh . . .

stuck in the snow pile

emergency brake engaged

wonder why it's stuck

stuck

back forth to and fro

dig deep down then rock and roll

wheels engage you're off

i can never be sure

I lost my coat. It wasn't expensive, but it was really different, and I really liked it. I might have left it at the movies, but the guys at the lost and found said, "Nah, Lady, it ain't here." I went to another movie theatre (it was a big month for movies), and although the grammar was improved, "No, Maam , we didn't find it", the result was the same.

Whenever I lose something, I always start to worry - you know - my age and all. But I've losing things for years - umbrellas and virtually anything that's not directly attached to me. Must've been about fifteen years ago that I lost my pants.

I was at some mall or other at The Gap trying to find a pair of jeans. I must've taken in at least a dozen pair into the dressing room. I tried on the last pair and they looked pretty good, but I thought they might be a little loose - my theory on jeans is that if you can breathe, they're too big. So I grabbed my purse and left the rejected pile of jeans along with my own and went out to get another size. Along the way, I checked-out a couple of sweaters that looked cute, and when I got back to my dressing room, the jeans were gone. Mine included.

I marched back out to the sales floor and hunted down a sales clerk who looked to be about 18 and like he was hung over. I told him that he'd obviously put my jeans back into the shelves with the other jeans. He looked at me and said, with an absolutely straight face, "Are you sure you were wearing pants when you came in?"

I actually stopped to think.

too little, too late

. . . And so, he sadly came to the realization of the consequence of leaving a child without a parent. The child learned to do the one thing the parent would come to regret most - learn to live without him. The child grew up. When he knocked on the door, she let him in and smiled and said hello., But he could tell the smile was hollow. She was fine. She wasn't waiting anymore.

bang!

a gun to her head

writer's block be damned he said

write or I will shoot

as sweet as honey

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining - I'm not even discontent. I have no idea what prompted these - what? reminiscences. I guess I put a sweater away and the thought crossed my mind that I had plenty of room for more,

I wondered, I reluctantly admit, as I do every so often, almost as if one wonders in passing, whatever happened to an old friend - I wonder whatever happened to Honey Katz.

Honey and I had a fleeting relationship - not that there's anything wrong with that - for several years back in the '80's. It would, I suppose, appear to outsiders that it was an odd sort of alliance.The only thing I new about Honey was her name and all she knew about me was my first name (I recall telling her it was Madonna) and my phone number, of which she availed herself with abandon . . . which was just the way I liked it.

I'm not at all certain that I'd remember Honey's face after all these years, but I am certain that I would remember the sound of her dulcet tone, her sultry voice. She never announced herself - there was no need. . Even before there was "caller ID", I'd know the call was coming from a secret location deep within the bowels of Neiman Marcus (aside: that may be the first time the words "bowels" and "Neiman Marcus" have been used in the same sentence) and I'd hear the words, "Last Call starts tomorrow. I've stowed four cashmere sweaters, one is a three-ply - deeply discounted." (There was something about the way she said deeply) . "As always," she continued, "no need to say a word when you come in to pick them up. The look in your eyes reveals all that you're thinking."

before the fall

three sculpted figures

molded in clay yet so real

keep the past alive

just a game

playing with his heart

like a kitten chases yarn

detached and remote

a walk in the park

. . . it was when she resigned herself to just take that first step off the edge that the sound of her little girl's voice pierced her reality.

"Mommy, I can't get down. I'm stuck. Mommy!"

She just stepped back from the edge of the ravine and turned around. Her little girl was stuck in a tree, waiving her arms. Someone needed her.

thank you

The bag is really heavy now

I've dragged it with me all these years

Someone I trust said it's time now

Shake out the contents, dry my tears

It's such a foreign idea to me

It's really all I've ever known

Won't I feel defenseless

Without it I'll be all alone

I think I might just carry it

Let's face it - I am almost there

What difference can it make now

I'm afraid to drop it - I'll be bare

But maybe I should do the thing

I cannot do - just take a chance

Throw away the bag of guilt

Free myself - let go and dance

branching out

My husband's friend is in his early sixties, a nice enough looking, supercilious prick. He has hated me from day one. It's really nothing personal - he has an abhorrence for women with big thighs (I made the cut on that one) and especially for women who don't "know their place." That was my downfall. Knowing my place has never been my strong suit.

He's been twice married, twice divorced, and he's really, really cheap. He expects women he meets through Facebook or one of the internet dating sites to pay for the cost of the date if he drives over ten miles to meet them. He's a Jewish anti-semite and he's homophobic. All-in-all - a real catch.

But, my husband's known him for years, and the guy's apparently a good cook and intellectually inclined - although I suspect pseudo-intellectually. Much of the time he gets on my husband's nerves, but he's too nice to break it off since the guy considers my husband his best friend. There was actually a point where he was having serious money problems, and had the unmitigated gall to suggest the possibility of moving in with us. I guess he thought I'd stay in the bedroom most of the time. Lending him money was not an option since he hasn't paid back or even attempted to pay back the considerable amount my husband lent him over ten years ago.

I took great pleasure when he called my husband the other night. He went on for a good twenty minutes about how he had just joined FaceBook and had posted his picture and profile. He was shocked and disgusted about the number of people who were trying to friend him - people who were what he described as "swingers' or, "Even worse," he said, "homos."

I looked him up on FaceBook, and sure enough - he indicated an "interest" in men and men and women."

"Aren't you going to tell him?" I asked my husband.

"I'm not even going to mention it!"

"Too bad I can't tell him. He'd think I don't know my place. He'll be fine. It's a good think he didn't mention his interest in dogs."

44 days to valentines day

Sick of Santa

Bring on Cupid

He'll bring me diamonds

I'm not stupid!