Tightly Clichéd

I haven't been reporting because I don't feel like being anything but me and lately I don't make for very good copy. Here are some infinitive forms which currently describe my life: to work, to mother, to granddaughter, to daughter, to sister, to aunt, to behave, to economize, to dodge bill collectors, to heal, to be healed, to sleep, to dream, to plan, to laugh, to master, to rest, to renew, to recalim, to befriend, to enjoy the occasional solitude, to not take things very seriously.

As I said, it doesn't make for interesting reading but it makes for good living.

The biggest news is that I'm trying very, very hard (and not so very perfectly) to kick that devil nicotine once and for all. Please, no comments about how the only way to quit smoking is cold turkey. It isn't and all cold turkey does is make me a homicidal maniac. Nobody wants to see that. Nations will declare jihad on the US because of the large, foul cloud of bad vibes and violence emanating from my aura. It would be very, very bad -- as in hell on earth, armageddon, etc.

The other biggest news is that I'm working on an application for a Master's in Science program offered at the university/hospital where I work.

And in other news...

My son now drives and we just spent the holiday at my mom's eating cold turkey and watching a brazillion bootleg movies.

Also, I wish Blog Ho would post because he's practically my last enjoyable vice in this life since I cut back on the booze and the loose men. Practically, not totally or definitely, so please, still no comments about cold turkey. I don't want to hear it.

Have you noticed that many "loose" men aren't "loose" at all, but rather uptight when you get down to it? So the term "loose" is not a very good one when applied to men of leisure and easy pleasure. Let's change it to "tight" since "tight" is the second syllable in "uptight" and "tight" can also slangily mean drunk and/or a really good mesh of skilled and talented musicians during an improv jam session or (mistakenly used in reference to) a recorded song which sounds very good only after about 10,000 takes.

I have some new girlfriends and some blast-from-the-past girlfriends popping out of the woodwork and I've been having lots of fun hanging out with the girls and doing cool things at cool places and not really caring if you think I'm cute while doing it.

Mostly, I hang out with cool chicks, but I do still know some "tight" guys, in case you were concerned about my ability to be heterosocial. In fact, it was a couple of "tight" guys who helped me relocate my super powers a couple of weeks ago at an improv show during which 2 troupes performed; one female troupe of improvisers called Children of a Lesser God and one male troop of improvisers called Uncle's Brother. The male troop contained some famousish people. The female troop was "tight".

Yeah, during the show the one "tight" guy friend started asking me for a bunch stuff because he is not a boy scout, but rather a journalist. Meanwhile the other tight guy friend was suffering from the adverse effects of a reiki sneak attack coupled with acupuncture, allergy season and a musty rug at the IO, which may cause runny nose, sneezing, watery eyes, ague and overall fatigue. Yet somehow all of the symptoms, wacky energy, extemporanea and general hilarity were strangely regenerative, kind of like an eclipse on Heroes or possibly more like the way the destruction of Alderaan and the death of Obi-Wan brought the gang closer together and led to the eventual triumph of rebel forces against the Empire.

So once again, I have the magical ability to pull any necessary item out of my purse at any given time, for which my superheroic alter ego, Single Mom, is rightfully renowned, and if you ever run into me while drowning in a river I promise to dig you out a straw or a self-help manual on survival or somesuch -- or maybe I'll just dig you out of the current so you don't die.

Not on my watch, pal.

Semper Fi

I got sent somewhere...
...and trying to fly home got sucked into airport insanity of waiting for an hour and a half for our plane to arrive because there was an airport traffic jam. Had Reese's Peanut Butter Cups for supper and optimistically did not throw an overpriced beer back in the airport bar because my colleague had a long drive after and we would be home soon. Oh, foolish mortal!

The sweet dewy-faced boys in the line were sporting brand new Marine haircuts and purchasing their first "Hustler" magazines on their way to California for training and then Iraq. Sweet young men trying so hard to be naughty but still boys -- only one swipe of the razor older than my son. You shouldn't need to shoot no gun!

Marines go early, go deep, go often to a life of certain blood and endless nightmares and please, jen, look at me with the same eyes that twinkled at me before the distended bellies and crushed skulls and wide brown eyes of Somalia, before I broke my feet from walking in Saudi Arabia and look there's still that callous on my shoulder, and I saved the flag after everyone else was dead -- I wish I would have died but they gave me a medal and do you have an extra vicodin? and before I was a turret gunner in Vietnam and saw their faces when I shot them -- before that I wrote a perfect love sonnet for a girl but lost track of her during my tour. Look at me, please. Semper fi.

Semper fi. The terror alert has been raised to orange and I put my lotion and toothpaste in a ziploc bag to prove I'm not a terrorist. There is a traffic jam in the sky over Chicago so our plane is sitting on the tarmac in North Carolina for an hour and I am in the very back corner seat which doesn't recline rubbing my Saint Anthony medal -- patron of lost things and I am looking at these boys so that I can remember them in their civvies for the last time with their tough haircuts eating gummy bears and calling their girlfriends and their mommies while we wait for what happens next.

Later...we are circling over Chicago for an hour because of the air traffic jam. I am hunched over in a sitting fetal position so the blood can return to my ass and I see Orion the Hunter guarding the sky while the big dipper scoops up the phospherescent winter cloud cover and I think that the world is still so magic...

When we deplane everyone is sitting against the walls of O'Hare because there is such an inexplicable air traffic jam. (How can you possibly clog up the sky?) Everyone includes an Air Force regiment of 50 or so in sand camo and they look tired and anxious and I wish I could remember them from before tonight.

The PA reminds us that the terror level has been elevated to orange. I walk through endless hallways lined with tight, resigned faces to the El and on the train across from me a homeless man is snoring on his army-issued duffel bag and I wonder if anyone remembers him today or at seventeen. In my head I recite a Hail Mary.