The cell phone rang about 30 minutes ago but I just didn’t have the strength to pick it up. It was one of those calls asking me to come help with a project. I knew who it was. It’s one that I won’t get paid for, and I’ve already had the caller reschedule it twice. He calls, reschedules, calls, tells me his busy. I’m busy myself right now.

I’m home. Thinking and not thinking at the same time.

I guess you would say I’m in the zone, that place I go when I’m tired and needing to decompress.

It happens. I’m human.

I just need to sit with my dog in my lap and listen to the rain as it is beating down on the metal roof as if Buddy Rich was banging his drums on the overhead clouds. I left for a few hours to head to work and caught up on things. Mundane it might seem, but I’m paid to read and make decisions which isn’t a bad life at all.

When I entered the office, I was sopping wet, water running down the front of my shirt settling into in the hollow of my chest and streams of rain running off each strand of my curly hair. There is a mirror in the bathroom when you walk into the newspaper which is an old bank and you can see yourself if the door is open.

It was open.

My face was covered in droplets of water and streaking down my glasses.

I shook my mop of hair and headed down the hallway that leads into the insert room.

“You are wet,” one member of the insert crew said. I could tell they were laughing. Spirits were high and I was secretly pleased. I like to hear pleasure in a person’s voice.

I just smiled and nodded, hopping not to slip on the 50-year-old tile which is as slick as ice when it’s wet. I walked carefully. I’m clumsy. I have to take care. I tend to not pay attention but I did today.

Yes, I was drenched.

I put down the two bags I always carry and tried to squeeze out the water from my shirt in a trash can. It didn’t help and I made a mess. The phone rang and I picked it up but missed the call. I was given the number by the receptionist and I called it back. It was a cheerleader call, the local girls had won a national competition.

It’s part of what happens at a small bi-weekly.

One call after another, asking questions that I could fortunately answer. The same chatter I hear everyday.

Sometimes I feel like the old newspaper office breathes and is alive. People laughing, phones ringing, a proof thrown on my desk. Salaries diminishing.

Me wondering where I will be next.

I picked up the proof. Thin.

My hands, still wet, smeared the ink on the front page leaving a surreal image of three prisoners in court. One of them is a man I’ve known forever, sentenced for a crime he admitted committing. I should be sad.

I’m not.

I went through emails, made small talk about a lady who has lung cancer. She ran the competing newspaper during WWII while the men were at war. I’ve spent hours reading the archives that she worked on, the pages tightly bound in a huge leather book, when women weren’t given this opportunity. When the men returned from the hardship of war, the owners of that time relieved her of her duties. A new hardship then begun for her.

That’s always bothered me. She was eliminated because she wasn’t a man. This was nearly 70 years ago and she has written for the paper writing a local “people” column I work at until she got sick a few months ago.

My mind is on her today. She’s always been on my mind.

Always.

My head is exploding from the sinus everyone has. No one is unique here although my teeth feel like they are sitting on raw nerves. I’m dry now, curled up in a recliner with a blanket on my legs but I still feel the chill of the wet morning.

There are times that you have to decompress. There are times that you have to take stock of those little, tiny moments that only last as long until the next moment begins.

Sometimes it hits me I’m 43-years-old. And, occasionally, I need a moment.

It’s not a bad time in the least. It’s just a time of rest.

I’m waiting for my Shuffle to charge. I will then read a book and just breathe.

Killa and I work together.

This is just weird.

Since this dream really ain’t about me, you can substitute the pronouns to fit the dream. When we got to Boss Lady she asked us how we were doing. We said fine and asked her how she was doing. She kind of chuckled and said, “Pretty damn groovy.”

At about the same time Brina and I both looked down and saw that Boss Lady had bruises up and down her legs. The bruises were fading like they had been there a while, but you could tell that when they were fresh, they looked horrible and painful.

I’m Boss Lady, if you were wondering. Any dream experts out there? Head to Killa’s to read the whole thing.

Whoa.

Eleanor Roosevelt said “Nobody can make you feel inferior without your permission.”

I love that statement.

I do.

I know quite a few people that act like the world is out to get them and suck the oxygen out of the room when they enter it. I have felt that way before myself during down periods. Yes, we run into brick walls sometimes. We deal with unpleasant people who build themselves up by breaking others down.

Why is this on my mind this morning? I think it’s because, as I guess you can see by the changes on this blog, that I’m undergoing a transformation. And I’ve tried to surround myself with people who are comfortable in their own skin and who are not only empowered but empowering.

I get tired of people thinking they aren’t good enough, because THEY ARE.

This line of thought started this morning when I was talking to Homer about the incident last week. We were discussing, after a I did a bit of digging, that this has happened to other children and after a bit of raising hell, I think it will be dealt with appropriately.

Everything has a root system. I feel like everything is connected in some form or another. It’s my way.

But the difference of me being a woman who turns 43 years old in three weeks and a child is that I have learned through years of stops and starts that Roosevelt was right. Children don’t know these lessons unless they are taught them but it’s also a matter of just living.

My mother, the wise sage that she was, used to say “Never give someone not worthy free room and board in your head.”

Because our heads lie to us sometimes. So, what do we do?

Well, we learn that we are human. That we are capable of forgiving ourselves for mistakes we make. That no one else is responsible for our state of mind except ourselves.

Growing older is a wonderful thing, really. I’ve learned that if other people are talking about me, then they are giving someone else a break. I even make up rumors about myself sometimes to see how it goes viral in my town just to amuse myself.

You see, the bottom line is that I hope that I can teach my niece that she is not responsible for other people’s asshattery. That she is above that and those people are inconsequential. I tell her that they are fun vampires, sucking the fun out of a room. She has one life. Live it. Do something every day that scares you. She smiles shyly, but I know she is listening.

She is going to be just fine.

Eleanor was right. We have to take ownership of our own psyche.

This is your early morning dose of middle-aged Zen.

Mr. Lear,

Loraine Barr has left a message here for you in your request to send her a copy of an “All in the Family” episode that you wanted to give her.

I think she will like that one and I hope you both can hook up.

Thanks to both of you for stopping by. I am humbled and honored.

With much respect,

Newscoma

A story that says so much.

To the outside world, they were roommates – keeping separate bedrooms for appearances.

To each other, Barr and Mary Frances Piercey were the loves of each other’s lives.

They felt incredibly grateful to have found each other, and incredibly lucky to have spent more than four decades together.

Barr and Piercey also felt that theirs was “the love that dare not speak its name.”

Both grew up at a time when people didn’t talk openly about their sexual orientation. “Coming out” as a lesbian just didn’t happen back then, Barr said.

Loraine Barr is 88 years old. A lifetime of living in the shadows but with a great deal of love. Her partner died several years ago, and now she’s talking about it.

With an exquisite power and grace, she is being brave about things she thought she could never be brave about.

Read the rest here.

So, what is this story saying? If I don’t have a pair of power heels under my desk, I’m less than?

I call BS.

Look under many a powerful woman’s desk and you’ll find a serious pair of heels. Whether they’re on her feet or tucked in a drawer, the shoes’ key attribute is a three-inch spike that, if redirected, could put your eye out.

snip

Yet, as much as I’d like to argue that this is all about the added height, I’m afraid it’s not. High heels are sexy. They offer an inherent contradiction: They make us more fragile, but conquering them to stride alongside men in their sensible flats creates mystique.

In an elevator at Lehman Brothers, Ms. Bentz’s former employer, a couple years ago, a senior executive stared at Ms. Bentz’s chocolate-brown crocodile four-inch pointy-toe pumps and asked, “Where do the toes go?” she recalls with relish.

The empowerment of women in the office has actually opened the door for sexier looks, even in conservative offices like the insurance brokerage where Darla Brunner works in Los Angeles. High heels were once less acceptable because of their alluring connotations, says Ms. Brunner. They were a distraction. But “in this day and age when it is more accepted that females are capable in the business world, those same high heels now command more business respect,” she says.

You aren’t going to find a pair of heels under my desk. The reason, I’m usually doing things that I might have to run to. Yeah, I wear Crocs and Converse Tennis Shoes and I’m quite smitten with my Born sandals.

I blew both knees out in my carefree youth and heels just don’t work for me. Because, I guess I’m a klutz, but my knee gives out. Have Meniscus surgery and you’ll understand. I have.

If this story isn’t a pile of steeping dog poop, I don’t know what is. You know, be who you want to be, not who people tell you to be. If you like wearing heels, do it. Yes, they are sexy and cool, I’m not saying that.

But it doesn’t change who you are in the business world.

I’ve known a ton of women who wear heels. Some of them are good businesswomen. Others, not so much. And, I also know a bunch of men who are the same way, but they aren’t being told to wear heels.

Jeez.

But, once again a story come in that makes me believe that the way women are treated is the way mainstream media wants them to be. And I’m crying foul. What is this? A story from the time of Mad Men?

“Business respect?” I’m just wondering if reading a budget and doing a strategic plan makes a bit of difference or being able to manage personnel? Probably not as long as you have heels on?

Got my ire up. Listen, I got the rest of the story, I’m not saying I didn’t. But do we hear stories of how men’s business savvy is depending if he dresses left or right, you know.

And yeah, I know the quote

“Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards and in high heels.”

These days, she wouldn’t have to.

Feh.

Botox weirds me out. There is just something about people injecting stuff in their face and looking a bit like a blow-up doll-like that I don’t get. A lot of people do it, but it’s just not for me.

That may be why I look all of my age.

But I read this article over my morning coffee and I could not help but be perplexed that so many men and women are doing it.

Botox helps “Grey’s Anatomy” heartthrob Patrick Dempsey stay McDreamy, and Donny Osmond says he’s used it to keep his puppy love looks.

Even Sen. John Kerry, D-Mass., reportedly used Botox to look more youthful on the 2004 campaign trail.

When I was growing up, I constantly worried about my weight, my hair and how I was perceived by others in a physical aspect. The older I got, the less it meant, and I guess I’m a bit unusual. I often feel somewhat left out of conversations when people are talking about the latest beauty aids. Don’t get me wrong, occasionally I like getting dolled up, but not not often. (and currently, my latest bag of make-up is lost and I cannot find it).

I’m too busy thinking about stuff, hanging out with people I love who love me for who I am and trying not to swallow my ever-increasing huge bush-sized hairdo as it is getting so long that it is constantly  drifting toward my mouth.

I am sometimes hypersensitive about issues like not being the size of a bulimia victim, and then I realize, oh, now, come on. I’m force-fed this crap constantly from the media. I sort of wig out when people joke about it and try to make sure that I don’t hurt other people’s feelings and I have no sense of irony about it. (I know, I have a sense of humor, but I do have some baggage about people feeling of value and I always miss the joke. Part o’ newscoma’s baggage, I guess. This happened on Friday, and man, did I feel stupid that I put my baloney on someone else.)

And, let us remember that Marilyn Monroe was a size 16.
I have a couple of friends who have spent a fortune on plastic surgery to build their confidence who were quite beautiful in the first place. I have tried to be supportive during their “transformation” but I admit I don’t understand it. It’s constant money to keep it up and  continual upgrades to their appearance.

But if they want to do that, fine.

As I careen into middle-age and I find myself holding on the hand-rails backing up a bit as I stare another year in the face, I realize there are several things that have are starting to define me as a woman in her forties.

Emotions are different. Perceptions are different. Finding value, knowing that most likely half my life is most likely over (I’m not being morbid, just talking about growing older), has become important.

Being appreciated for who I am, and not what people want me to be, that is a biggie.

So, I sit this morning, drinking coffee watching Wimbledon, Squirrel Queen is sitting across from me, looking at her own laptop and we are at peace with the day, because the moment is right now.

And I don’t need a needle in my face with an injection of the fountain of youth to let me know that life is what is is, and sometimes that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

But if any of my readers like the idea, good for you.

We are all different.

Okay, I cook like crap. Seriously.

There are a few things I can give you but most of the time your taste buds will be begging for Alka Seltzer and for a more pleasing taste in your mouth. Like Dragon poop or Spam in can (which I wouldn’t eat, but hell, you may love it).

So, in my brilliance as a culinary genius, I’ve decided to tell you how to eat on the cheap. Here, in its entirety, is my recipe for black bean soup that will cost you less than six bucks to make. Is it good? Probably not but at least you will have eaten.

BLACK BEAN SOUP by Newscoma

A bag of dried black beans or about two-three cans of black beans. (You can find them on the $1 aisle of your local grocery store. Soak your dried beans the night because you will be in for a sad surprise if you don’t)

A large Vidalia onion. (I’m Southern. We live and die for Vidalia onions. Shut up. No vidalia, cut up a white one or a yellow one. I don’t care, it’s your life. Live it fully.)

Garlic.

A pat of butter (In my case, it’s usually three. I’m a butter ho.)

Spices that you like (I dig pepper, and a bit of basil.)

Chicken Stock (Who am I kidding? I’m not Paula Deen or Alton Brown. Couple of cans of chicken broth but if you have chicken stock, have at it.)

WHAT YOU WILL NEED:

A knife to cut up your onion.

This crazy thing called a pan.

A stove or a fire of some kind.

Band-aids.

Telephone on speed-dial to 911.

What to do:

Put onions in pot in butter. Add spices (I like Cajun Garlic Sauce) and let cook until they start to become translucent.

Add beans first. Whether you soaked your dried beans over night or are going uber quick with the cans, throw it in and mix it up.

Add Chicken Stock/cans of chicken broth. (One thing about canned chicken broth, it’s salty so keep that in mind.)

Cook for awhile. Now awhile for you and me be different. I usually cook it for about an hour but you can cook it quicker or more slowly if you feel so inclined.

Go watch Deadliest Catch. Ponder over the life of a crab fisherman. If that’s not on, watch Survivorman or Man Vs. Wild. Watch hosts eat grubs.

Now you are ready:

Get a bowl (crazy concept.)

Get a spoon. (It’s easier this way, trust me.)

If you have sour cream or cheese (I prefer cheddar/monterey jack blend) toss it on top. Got some onions, throw those suckers on there. The sky is the limit eating on the cheap.

Eat it.

I know, I’m here to help. And it’s better than eating a grub.

Thank you and good night.

To quote Tammy Wynette. Although I’ve never had to stand by my man, so to speak, other than my father. I’m assuming my dilemma is the same for men, quite frankly, on some levels but not all of them.

As this week as been filled with such manic-depressive fervor, from very high-highs to incredibly devastating lows, I have been thinking about aging. I talk about that sometimes, but it really hit me last night as my tooth split in two and my face swelled up like a four-day old bloated, dead possum on the side of the road that I see quite frequently in our little burg.

It ain’t pretty, campers.

When my parents were around my age, I think they had it going on in some respects much more than I do now. For my mother to be a musician, she was incredibly shy. She was, however, very much on top of things. My father, Big Daddy, worked like a dog to make sure that Homer, the sis, and I were taken care of. My mom was pretty cool about wanting us to face reality, but she did instill the dreamer in both my sister and I.

Sometimes I just don’t think I’m as together. My fervor for politics has waned recently as I’ve just been so disappointed to the point of throwing my hands in the air. My job is what it is. My life isn’t bad, but sometimes I just don’t think I have it “together.”

Know what I mean.

Last night, as I was eating and my tooth cracked in two and I’m trying not to swallow the damned thing, it made me very reflective. I looked like a cat hacking up a hairball. But it hit me, I’m getting older. At 41 years old, I try to remain playful and passionate about my life, but the fact is, and dang it all, I’m not getting any younger. As an unexpected and completely unnecessary expense hit on Wednesday that needed immediate attention that hammered me financially and I realized that I’m never going to be in the same financial place that my parents were when they were my age. I cheated recently on the cigarette plan but I’m still doing better and I keep trying.

So many things swirling in the cranium.

But the tooth was significant for me, and yes, it hurts like a muttha. It was significant because it represented a great deal of things that I’m having trouble grasping my hands, and my brain for that matter, around. This past year, I’ve had the hystie, a deadly bout of bronchitis and some other things that made me realize, “Hell, ‘Coma! You are going through a mid-life crisis.” And I had my first hot flash sitting in my office at work where I felt like I was being microwaved from the inside-out, this also floored me. One of my employees thought I was dying. In reality, I was desperately trying not to throw up in my garbage can.

“I’m having a HOT FLASH!” You gotta be kidding me

Now, this revelation of what might be going on hit me about 9 p.m. last night. Wow. I mean really.

I’m so busy making myself busy that I didn’t understand this but I’ll be damned if that isn’t what it is.

I’m not a brain surgeon, but here are some of the characteristics I lazily looked up over at Wikipedia:

• search of an undefined dream or goal
• desire to achieve a feeling of youthfulness
• acquiring of unusual or expensive items such as clothing, muscle cars, jewelery, gadgets, etc. (Coma Note: Now this isn’t happening.)
• paying extra special attention to physical appearance
• need to spend more time alone or with certain peers
• a deep sense of remorse for goals not accomplished
• an underlying desire to initiate new sexual partnerships

Well, that sounds about right. I think that when you lose a parent or you undergo major transitions like the infamous ednaectomy, things start getting a bit askew. Now, with that said, I wonder why the issue of a tooth breaking and my mouth feeling like a construction worker has take a ball peen hammer to it started me thinking about this.

But it makes sense. This post is going nowhere really, but I can’t help but thing that I just need to sit out under the stars out in the country and contemplate the whole thing. Replenish myself spiritually, physically and emotionally.

I probably should see what Rachel over at Women’s Health News says about mid-life crisis. She always seems to have it going on.

So, today, I have an important meeting in less than three hours. My right side of my face is bloated. I wonder if there is a lovely pain killer out there that could, A.) fix my mouth and B.) Calm my soul.

Yeah, those things never work.

I’m going to tackle the being-fearless thing again, because for some reason, I think this is a common issue that a lot of us are trying to look at head on, right in the eyes.

And, damn it all, if it isn’t hard. Wicked hard.

We might ramble a bit, so let us. There might be some women talk here, and if you don’t like that go here to see polar bears looking at a pick-up truck.

GingerSnaps wrote this snippet this morning about her quest for definition, one I relate to. Here’s a bit of it:

Since I started writing a journal and then blogging, I have been doing so much introspection. There’s lot of scary stuff being dredged to the surface, too. Having insecurities and self-worth issues have always been a struggle for me in direct parallel with my struggle with weight, the breakup of my marriage, and on & on. Along with that comes wanting to please everybody all the time, sometimes at the expense of allowing myself to be steamrolled over because I don’t enforce my own boundaries in what I will and will not tolerate.

It’s good stuff. She’s being fearless because of her transparency about processing finding her path, and I dig that. She’s taken some hits, we all have, but she continues and that is really amazing. As I’m going to personalize this (as that is what I believe blogs do) allow me to say this. By allowing herself to be open about the quest she is on is some brave-ass stuff. Not everyone is this open. I always feel weird when I am. And it’s hard. You know, if you are hammering let’s say, politics or blogging with an objective, there is an agenda. On some blogs, it’s about self-expression. For others, it about reaching out to a community of like-minded (and sometimes not like-minded people) but making a connection. For some, like mine, I’m just dicking around with all of it.

Here’s another post I read recently about trying to figure things out.

I was thinking last night about those people you meet who seem to be important in some kind of fateful way. Like you are supposed to learn something from them.

That always f**ks with me, that feeling, because I don’t believe in fate, at least not fate in that way. I don’t believe there is some predetermined path we all must walk.

I do believe the path we walk ends up being determined by the kinds of lives we’ve lead and our ancestors have left us. Call that fate and I’m all in.

But occasionally you meet folks and it seems clear that they’re going to teach you something.

Maybe that’s not fate. Maybe that’s just luck.

So, we have another example of allowing people into our lives, and how damn scary that is. How absolutely frightening it is to not necessarily ask for help, but to ACCEPT it  because as women who are growing a bit older and we’ve learned in some cases, not all, there are conditions. And when those conditions are unknown, it’s a scary place because we’ve learned, in many ways, there is a price.

But the price might be a good thing, like acceptance and love, or it might be another more frightening price, and that is complete rejection for whatever reason.  And rejection, it doesn’t matter if you are male or female, is a bitter, sad pill to swallow after opening yourself up and not finding the joy or relationship which should have gone 50/50 but didn’t you thought might be there.

And, no, I’m not being cynical.

Coble breaks it down in three sentences and if it doesn’t say a hell of a lot, I don’t know what does.

I can’t stand change.  I really hate it.

Right now I feel this overwhelming sense of change that is really troubling and frightening.

And I get that more than Coble herself will ever know. You throw yourself out, whether it’s in the blogging world or in our real life relationships, in our careers, and it’s terrifying. It’s scary.

It is.

Because you don’t want to throw it out only to have it thrown back in your face. Placing value on things so important to you to have it mocked or dismissed is some scary ass stuff. And it’s devastating.

I’m in the same place in some ways as these three women. I can relate.  Change is odd. Letting people down is monumental to me. Being the tough woman that some people perceive me to be, knowing that’s not always the case is some scary stuff. I’ve been talking about change for more than a year. I’ve written things that are sitting on a flashdrive that I refuse to show anyone.

I want. But I wait.

And what am I waiting for?

Your guess is as good as mine, but I’m processing that. And knowing that I’m not the only one is oddly warm and comforting.

We, as women, have to take care of each other.  A knight, his head hidden under heavy armor riding a majestic white steed is the story of fairy tales. It’s a damn shame, but it just isn’t real.

So it’s up to us. And we need to join hands and hope for the best and expect nothing. And when we reach the goal we want, well that will be gravy, won’t it. It will be the greatest gift of all because we did it all by ourselves.

And, that my friends, is so of the good.

I’ve been puttering around working on some new things and work has taken the driver’s seat for awhile. I haven’t been blogging as much. As I dig the blogging thing, this is sort of sad.

Ever since my week of being really sick about a month ago, I’m finding I’m still sort of recovering. A friend told me yesterday that my immunities still might be down from my ednaectomy. I guess that’s a question for Rachel, as my doctors are sort of not being of the helpful.

So, I’m headed to being more healthy. I thought MY actions might be at least something I have control over. So I’m trying to figure out how to do this. (Yeah, I know beer and smokes are not a part of any health regiment, so I’ll have to work on that.) Homer is a relatively healthy person. I realize when I ask her for assistance, she will get all militant, but being that I respect her opinion, I will become her slave. Squirrel Queen is way too militant, but being that she can be the zen momma sometimes, I guess I’ll listen to her as well. Part of what I want to accomplish has to do with digging the temple of me, if that makes any sense.

Next week, my friend freezertroll and I are working on a new project on-line. He and I both will have something new set up by next week. It should be sort of groovy. And yeah, I didn’t have a Lost recap last week but I’m headed downstairs to watch my beloved DVR and see this week’s in a few minutes. I saw last week’s epi, just wasn’t very inspired by any of it except the last three minutes.

I’m trying to veer away from any spoilers until I see it.

How did I wake up this morning, you ask.

Easy. Post-surgical hotflashes.

Oh they are so delightful. I just can’t say enough about them. Feeling like your body is being nuked in a microwave is something I truly never imagined I would ever go through. The sweat dripping like I’m waking up in a tropical rainforest. Just love it. I’ve had one a night since my bout with bronchitis except this past Tuesday. I think the only way I can explain these wonderous acts of my body’s nature to men is to say it’s like putting your boyparts under a hot lamp at a convenience store which is heating up dried, four-hour old chicken for, let’s say, six hours. Actually, I guess that would just be a sunburn, but let’s just say, hot flashes and boypart sunburns are both highly unpleasant.

And the next woman who is cranky to me that is obviously going through the emotional side of menopause and says “Menopause never bothered me” is a liar. I might have to go throw some Little Bunny Foo Foo on their asses.

Ain’t a bit of fun to it, my friends. Not a bit. By the time you dry off from the sweat, change clothes and whatnot you are, indeed, awake. And I’m a young’un compared to other women going through this. Whirlwind of joy, not.

But I did wake up to Aretha Franklin singing on the Blues Brothers, so I got that working for me.

Please take a few moments and go over to Sharon Cobb’s internet home.

She has written a very honest, heartbreaking account of being molested as a child, the reason why she fights and how the actions of adults in her youth affects her life today.

When I worked with battered and sexually abused women and children, I knew they were changed because the abuse of their minds and bodies is such a violation. Abusers, pedophiles and rapists like control, so they strip their victims of their personal power.

So many of the women I worked with never felt safe again. Imagine just wanting one thing, to feel safe, your entire life. For adult survivors, or the ones I know, many never have that and feelings of personal loss are always there.

Sharon explains what it’s like to have innocence robbed and how the actions of one man who molested her changed her and how she fought to bring him to justice.

For Sharon, and other men and women like, who have suffered sexual abuse during childhood need our help to be heard.

It’s important.