What I Could Tell You If I Told You

I could tell you that Aleister's voice matches his eyebrows. I could tell you that on Monday it took me three hours to get from Gorst to Bremerton's Mariott Hotel, where I checked in, ate MnMs for dinner and felt like Julia Childs personally rolled each one of those colored little pill-like things for me. I could tell you that yesterday I took 2,000 miligrams of prescription Ibuprofen in one fell swoop and felt nothing at all except pissed. I could tell you that I participated in a poetry reading created by Susan Sweetwater and, once again, heard her own terrific poetry and once more was honored to see her terrific encaustics. I could tell you that Alan met my wonderfully dear Dietz's, Susan Sweetwater, my best friend Christine and her husband Michael, my oldest daughter Kelly and my grandson Morgan, my grandson Aleister and his beloved mom Angela, my friend Robin and my dear friend Jennifer and her husband Michael. I could tell you I'm beginning a writer's class in January. Small. Free. I could tell that, less than twelve hours before a Thanksgiving to which I'd invited twenty people, including Kelly and Morgan, who were flying in from Sacramento, we hadn't had power here for three days, we made it. We did it. I mean, we didn't splice any wires together or anything, the power people put the power back together again, but we managed to cook the turkey and even the guests who still didn't have electricity managed to bring something delicious and we were all so glad to just BE together. I could tell you that I think I'm at least ten pounds fatter than I was before. I could tell you that I spent the night of the poetry reading at the Dietzs and Mel Dietz makes a FINE bed. I could tell you that Alan and I are trading weekends, he's here one weekend, I'm at his house near Olympia the next. He has a water view and a straight on view of Mount Rainier and who wants to give that up, and I;m thirty minutes away from Seattle (Bainbridgonian's call it "the City") and who wants to give THAT up?) so I'm crunching patients (no wrestling holds allowed but plenty of finely honed stacking goin' on).....and that I'm learning about bagels. There are bagels and there are bagels.

"On Island", as they say, there are apparently no bagels. There are packages that SAY they contain bagels, but they do not. Not REAL ones. Fake ones. Tough ones. Artificial ones. Too this. Too that. Not enough this. Or that. Ach, God! Nyah! Nyah! Are these bagels ever awful! I SPIT on these bagels! Spflit! Spflit! Olympia, now, Olympia has good bagels. Not as good as New York, not as good as Jersey (oh, my God, Jersey! Jersey!) but....good enough. Quite good enough, in some instances. My poor toaster, which I was given at my baby shower in 1965, was not a good enough toaster to toast ANY bagel, tasty or non-tasty. So I bought a second toaster, a toaster large enough for....well, apparently large enough for one bager. One. Singular. bagel. Which I took back (I DETEST returning things,) took myself to Macys (I HATE driving to Silverdale,) and bought a big ol' large-enough-for-TWO-WHOLE-DAMN-YOUR-HIDE-DON'T-LOOK-NOW-BESSIE-THE-CAVALRY-IS-COMING-INDUSTRIAL-SIZED-BAGEL-TOASTER-MACHINE. Now, ain't I the one?

Who has the best bagel toaster NOW, huh? Huh? HUH?

Yup. It ain't him.

Me.

Little ol' how-do-you-do-, I-wuz-born-in Silverdale-Washington, ME.

I COULD TELL YOU.

Last night we watched my favorite movie THE GODFATHER, which Alan had never seen. Which Alan had never seen. Which (did I say this before?) Alan had never seen. And there was one place where Michael Corleone, played by Robert DeNiro,(okay, sp) turned and said -- "No", only it came out sounding something like Alan's "no" - kind of like --"nya"--something like that - and we both caught it - and today Alan called and said he just sent Deniro some kind of legal-suit-form for stealing his "nya".....and I laughed.

I could tell you.

People tell me I look happier. Steadier. Realer. Calmer. My psychiatric supervisor has yanked me (okay, weaned me) off antidepressants I've been on since Jim died. I am most interested in all this. I AM happy, but I have NO idea what the hell it is people are talking about. What was I doing, walking around looking unhappy, unsteady, unreal and frenzied? Could no one have told me? I look ten pounds fatter, is what I look. Food will do that for you. Or maybe it's the bagel machine, I don't know.

Or maybe it's laughter.

I could tell you more but I'm tired and I need to go to bed.

Thanksgiving was fun. I made an apple pie with homemade pie crust. Homemade pie crust. Homemade pie crust. The kind I used to make all the time. The kind I will never make again. You hear me? Never make again. Alan's daughter, Star, is a star quality baker. I'll bet she has no trouble whatsoever making pie crust. She shoulda been here. I wouldn't have spent two hours throwing cold water on the pie dough, which lay there on my little kitchen island, looking as if it were having itself a little nervous breakdown.

Keep Hoping, and if you've lost all hope, try hopping.
Sayanara,
me