Gobble gobble from the Adriatic Sea

It is not the first time I've spent a holiday out of the Country. It's an odd feeling...an out of body experience.  

One's  physical being is among people who know little or nothing about Pilgrims and that glorious meal they partook of while the mind and spirit are wrapped around a warm turkey sandwich wrapped in sausage dressing with a glob of cranberry sauce just for added calories.

And then there is family, of course. New sights and sounds are memory-filled and fabulous when you are walking streets never traveled before. But there is something undeniably comforting about sitting down to a place setting of china that only comes out on holidays. Vacation souvenirs dim when compared to Aunt Mary's special pumpkin pie or Mom's request to have Dad carve the turkey.

Venice has the rich smell of garlic, tomatoes and tourists' dollars. But family feuds fade when the aroma of mashed potatoes and gravy waft from the kitchen.

So today, far from home, we will make do. As we Sit down for our first, second, third, fourth, and fifth meal of the day....(and of course  the Midnite  buffet) we will remember those who have none and we will be grateful for our blessings. We will also be praying that the luggage scales at the airport are broken. Chow and Happy Thanksgiving!

In the backyard

     Brisk air has ascended upon us. Surprising us with the realization that Fall and falling back on every clock in the house, is right around the corner.
     There will be a few things I miss about our house but none more so than our window on the world from our backyard. Living on the 'T' of a canal is a triple treat with backyard views all around. Backyards are really families' living rooms. We grill there, we swim, we play ball, we garden - there is a life that goes on there that no one ever sees from our front doors and driveways.
     Squeals of delight drew me outside this evening where a young boy across the canal had a fish on the line of his tiny fishing pole. It was a decent size fish and he had no idea how to pull it in. His sister ran off to the house to presumably get adult help. Mother arrived a few minutes later; looked the situation over and headed back toward the house to presumably get Dad. Dad, Mom and baby sister in her princess costume, soon arrived at the canal's edge to help pull in the big one.
     As the group gathered for the admiration ceremony, Mom hurriedly returned to the house. I knew what she would return with. The camera, of course. Group shots were taken with the fisherman proudly holding up his catch.
     I felt that tightness in my chest that always comes when I am moved by love, or patriotism, or kindness. Or when I lament the passing of my own daughters' childhoods.
     It was a Kodak moment - a short movie with no admission price or jockeying for a good seat. I was blessed to witness it right here from my own backyard. It is one perk I will miss when we move on.

Between the lines,
              later.

Will the real you please stand up.

    Authenticity is a tough one. Oprah makes it sound easy as she proclaims authenticity's profound value. She repeats that each and every one of us has a purpose for being here and that it's our responsibility to seek out that purpose and fulfill it, regardless of how small or seemingly insignificant others may view it.
    Perhaps when we are young, we wear our authentic selves as naturally and visibly as we wear our most comfortable jeans. Our purpose for being here is to have fun, experience the new - basically just to grab life by the balls and keep moving!
    I'm finding this is contrary to the search for one's authentic self in the middle years of life. I think it's called a mid-life crisis. It's like the cataracts my grandma had surgery for.The view for one's genuine self seems a little cloudy after you pass 50. The time clock is tickin' and in moments of self-reflection, panic can set in like dysentery after a bad burrito.
     Like a recent chick flick, where the main character, in fear of a spinster future, takes a second look at all her former boyfriends to see if she might have overlooked a good one, I'm inclined to believe I may have to look back and examine my mammoth inventory of jobs, unfulfilled aspirations, and self-help books. Surely there is a subtle clue among the twisted paths of my past that may dump some enlightenment on me in spite of myself.
     Oprah! I haven't seen you but I know you're out there on that other network. Listen up. You told us to find our authentic selves...that each one of us has a purpose for being here, but I must have missed the show where you gave the instructions for this horrendous challenge! I'm sorry. I've never learned to use my DVR. I'm bad.
    I'll keep searching because I know the real me, is in me, trying to claw it's way out. I wonder if they could see that on my last mammogram?
    Later and probably between the lines, with a red crayon,
                 me.
   
   

Items in the Rear View mirror can look very familiar.....

It was her last visit to Florida. 
It was Christmas time. 


I had just moved into a new home with a new partner and his two children. A blended family, holiday chaos, out of town visitors and an emotionally unstable host don't make for peace at the dinner table or any other time for that matter.


I was judgmental and cross with her as she sat on the patio smoking like the recent wildfires in Texas. I badgered her to eat out, to do some tourist things, to participate in the holiday merriment.


She chose to be idle. To relax, and to watch and to just be.
And as she silently watched, she must have grimaced at the over-reaching, the auto-pilot induced stress, and the insensitivity playing out in front of her.


I'm sure it made her sad. I don't remember seeing many smiles on her face. I don't remember even a moment where I hugged her or connected with the love between a mother and a daughter.


Despite my attempts to keep these painful memories at bay, they wash ashore from time to time, stinging like salt water does to an open wound. A harsh word from a loved one, a sense of irrelevance cast my way, a rebuke of a well intentioned effort, forces me to cringe at a mirror image of my behavior toward her.


I don't recall the Christmas gifts that were exchanged that year. But I do know if I could relive the past, my gift to her wouldn't be wrapped in a box with a bow. Instead, it would be an offering of kindness and patience, and a conscious attempt at acceptance  that is borne of love and respect.

Hi. My name is...and I'm an alcoholic.

The rooms are often not pretty. The furniture doesn't look like its from IKEA. The Salvation Army or Goodwill would be more likely. There's always the smell of strong coffee wafting into the hallway. The occupants in these church basements and classrooms, are old and young, wealthy and poor, in business attire and shorts and tshirts. They drink coffee. They mingle. They laugh. And they drink more coffee.

The meeting opens with the Serenity prayer followed by readings from 'their Bible' - The big book of Alcoholics Anonymous. It's actually a blue book but its called the big book anyway.

What follows is never static. Discussion, tears, laughter and most of all, the stories of miracles.
*The man who lost it all - his family, his job, his soul...now sober and a respectable member of society.
*The young woman who lost her children to the State because of her addiction, now sober and blessed with the gift of parenting again.
*The elderly man, still full of life, who turned his life around 55 years ago when he stumbled into an AA meeting and found he wasn't really alone like he had believed.
*The bright-eyed 18 year old, who hardly even needs to shave yet, full of enthusiasm for a program that has given him a chance for freedom from the drugs he had become a slave to.
*The man released from prison, the woman who escaped homelessness, the housewife who drank in secrecy, the executive who drank every day at lunch....all miracles who have gathered in the room.

None of those assembled need religion, money or status. All that is needed is a desire and willingness to try a new way of life. And, of course, the ability to drink really bad coffee!

No one is sure why or how the miracles happen but they can't be denied because they are too many and happen too often.

And so the meeting ends each holding the hand of the one next to them with bowed heads during the Lord's Prayer.  During the hour, a  renewed chance for a life beyond the wildest dreams has been afforded to them once again ...a beautiful life without drugs and alcohol.

The final act of the gathering is emptying and cleaning the coffee pot, because they all know....
No coffee - No meeting.   No meeting - No miracles.

This is Alcoholics Anonymous.

Between the lines (and one day at a time!),
Lee Ann R.

Some days just don't feel sunny even when the sun is shining bright in the sky. Have you ever noticed that?

Today is one of those days. Dark things have pushed all the pretty things aside. The coffee doesn't taste as good, the car doesn't run as well, the wrinkles on the face are deeper. The cat is crying, the dog is barking and the mosquitoes are buzzing double-time looking for some blood to suck.

Here's hoping it's like this wherever Casey Anthony is, as well. Maybe the hungry mosquitoes will suck her plum dry.

between the lines,
see ya next time.

Brick sidewalks and landscaping won't heal their hearts.

A construction detour took me from my usual route today and I saw a part of town that I have never traveled before.The detour was caused by City crews working on new brick-paved sidewalks and enlarged, landscaped median strips.


I am embarrassed to admit that the minute I saw black bars on a store-front window, I checked to make sure my car doors were locked. There were lots of steel bars on lots of windows. Each building I passed was more run-down than the one next to it. Many business names looked handpainted and the rest of the building, unpainted. Torn, dirty curtains indicated some residential living above Tom's Tavern, King Pawn Shop, and Tatoos to Go.

Lots of people milled about. A large group of men were huddled under a tree reminding me of a herd of cattle shading themselves from the sun. Young men with dark, furtive eyes, peered out from under stained hoodies as they scurried from one corner to the next and engaged in brief conversations followed by even briefer transactions. Men just 'hanging out' lifted brown papered beverages to their lips as they watched the 'local' girls strut up and down the street displaying their wares for sell.

I asked myself, "When do these people work? Do any of them have jobs?" Are the women as afraid to walk here as I am to drive here? Mothers were waiting at bus stops, one child in their arms and the other holding on to the hand of another.

As I'm dodging the cones of construction, I feel a rage welling up in me.

New sidewalks? New median strips? Huh?

How about some job opportunities? Some paint and free building materials? How about some free daycare so parents could look for employment? For God's sake, how about some covered bus stops or a cleaning crew to wipe the profanity from the walls? What about a clinic or an adult education center? Is this too much to ask? Do City officials really believe new brick sidewalks and landscaped medians will better the lives of these people?

We all like pretty things, but pretty doesn't make poverty and oppression go away or look any better.

Judgement Day or WTF?

The results are in.

She was found Not Guilty and 
I've been found Guilty by a jury of my peers.

"No. I'm not watching that crap," my friend snarked.
"I have better things to do," quipped another friend.
"Nope. Not interested. None of my business," said an Alanon acquaintence.
"I can't believe you're watching that. What a media circus," said my partner.

I'll readily admit it. For the last month I've been addicted to the Casey Anthony trial. At first, I just watched the highlights late at night on CNN, while bemoaning a lack of sleep the following day. Then  I found out I could watch the live proceedings. It was a watershed moment.

My daily schedule was fine-tuned to accommodate court time - from the moment of the judge's entry until his departure. Phone calls were answered or returned only during commercial breaks. When I wasn't watching it on tv, I was reading Facebook posts about the trial. I'd say, the opinions ran 50% guilty, 50% not enough evidence. NO ONE I talked to thought innocent.

I watched every move and facial expression of 'Tot Mom'. I wanted to hate her and I learned to hate her more each day. I developed a new obsession - one that enthralled and intrigued me. This was serious. I hadn't even found the time to go to Target in days!

After being slapped down by people a couple of times for bringing up the topic of the trial, I began to seek out conversations with those who were engrossed like me. We could spot each other. We were the ones with dark circles under the eyes, nervously watching the time, and pacing to find opinions on yesterday's court proceedings. We cautiously opened our conversations with subtle references to Nancy Grace or 'the trial' until we were sure we were in the presence of another avid observer. If we were on the same page (and the same tv channel), the discussion would ignite like a firecracker on the 4th of July! It was exhilirating!

Tuesday morning I received a text from a fellow trial stalker. The verdict was in.
30 minutes later, the devil danced as Tot Mom smiled and let her hair down. Not guilty. What?!@!#

Now a week later the hype is all but gone. I miss the excitement. There's a void in my life. Worse yet, I can only blame my age for the dark circles under my eyes.

But to those of you who judged us for our devotion to justice, (and a little daytime soap opera!), to those who poo-poo'd our passion for the courtroom - we will not soon forget your pompous, dismissive criticism when fantasy football season rolls around. Your incessant chatter about which team and which game on tv will garner the same scorn you shoveled out to us during the trial.

We will remember your intolerance and we, unlike the jury in Orlando, will convict!  :-)

Until next time and between the lines....

Cataclysmic Cyclical Cynicism

Cataclysmic Cyclical Cynicism.

Try saying that three times in a row, or harder yet, just try typing it once, without errors!

If you believe that life and all its elements are cyclical, then we're on the same team. And if not, I didn't want to play with you anyway! Of course, I'm teasing except about the part of all things being cyclical. I believe it because I've lived it. The mysterious element is the cognizance to recognize that you have cycled back to where you've been before and that nothing except everything has changed since you were here the last time.

If it feels familiar, chances are you've worn it before.
If it smells good, chances are you ate in the past.
If your wallet seems thinner today, chances are you spent it all yesterday.

Its all a cycle. Politics, love, war, weight gain. And then it cycles back again. War, politics, divorce, weight gain.

Too bad we don't have choices of cycles like we do on the washing machine. I've done the Permanent Press Cycle and the Heavy Wash Cycle. I'm tired. I'd like to do the Gentle Cycle this time. How about you?

See you later - between the lines.

Raccoon Rescue

Today, writing a novel has been replaced with rescuing a critter and then writing about it.

Mid Sunday afternoon. My step-daughter remarks that she saw kids across the canal throwing rocks at a raccoon. She could see the animal where he had made his way across the canal and was lying half in and out of the water. He was obviously hurt but alive, as she saw him lifting his head several times.

I drive to the neighbors house to get the story. I was met with laughter and disregard. The neighbor claimed the raccoon had tried to attack his large dog. They were aware the raccoon was lying on the edge of the canal dying and suggested that if I had a gun, I shoot it and put it out of its misery.

I cried all the way home wondering to myself, "How can people be so mean?"

After calls to the police and animal control, I was directed to the Wildlife Rescue Center who were more than willing to help. They asked that I verify that the animal was still alive which I did. He was very much alive as I looked down at the little 'bandit' face. It looked like his hindleg was injured thus inhibiting him from getting out of the canal or swimming away.

Kenny from the Wildlife Rescue Center was heading our way but would be about 45 mins coming from West Palm Beach. The tide was rising quickly and I prayed the little guy would make it until we got to him.

This story has a good ending. Kenny arrived, swooped the raccoon out of the water and into a cage where he was transported to the wildlife animal hospital. From his appearance and behavior, Kenny did not believe he was rabid, so the vets would have a look and give him the best care they could and then he would be released onto private, wooded property.

Quite an unexpected drama for an otherwise gray afternoon and an opportunity for reflection on the selflessness of people who love animals. We love them because of their unconditional love toward us and in return, we treat them with unconditional love, regardless of the effort involved and whether they are domesticated or not.

My respect and gratitude to Kenny, the Wildlife Rescue Center, and my neighbors for their moral support and compassion. To the kids across the canal, and even more so to their parents, you have my sympathy. It must get drafty living with a hole that big in your heart.

There's no place like home...

There's no place like home, except when you're trying to write.

Ahh....a nice uninterrupted day of writing. I'll get a lot done today. Right.

Cat #1 wants to lay on the keyboard.
Cat #2 found the catnip which was hidden in the closet and is now wildly chasing imaginary intruders from one room of the house to the other.
Fat Dog is in need of treats, or a car ride or both. When not begging at my feet he is chewing his own fur and spitting out hairballs.
Cat #3 smells the catnip on #2's breathe and decides a sneak attack is in order.
Fat Dog decides he has a dog in this cat fight and chases both into the backyard where the blue jays have been waiting to dive-bomb said cats.
Fat Dog spots a duck on the dock and performs his best 'guard dog' charge and bark routine.
With twitching tails and arched backs, #1 and #2 dart out of the bushes looking for the duck that just flew off so abruptly he left a few tail feathers behind.
Fat Dog has had his 2 minute limit in the heat and heads inside where he makes a pitstop at the litter box in hopes of an afternoon snack.

I'm exhausted from a morning at the zoo. #1, #2, Fat Dog (who has really bad breath) and myself into the bed and under the covers. Three lines total written before computer is turned off for the day.  Nap time.

There's no place like home but now I remember why I don't write here.

Happy writing, or NOT!

Five years and counting...

8:00 am

In my attempt to 'cram it all in' in one day, here's my to do list for Monday - the start of a new week, the beginning of my new discipline, the birth of my successful publishing career! Right...

TO DO:
1. laundry.
2.banking.
3.change litter box.
4. write.
5. organize writing area.
6. go to Staples. make the 39th copy of my manuscript. writing will be easier with fresh copies.
7. consider printing on both sides of paper to save trees.

5:00 pm

Accomplished 1, 2, and 3. 4, 5, 6,and 7 went to hell in a handbasket, as usual.

Too late to write now. Can't start this late in the day. Tomorrow, screw the litter box. Write, first!
See you later and remember to Read Between the Lines,
         
                                                                                          Lee Ann

Tips on How NOT to Write a Book

It's been five years...let's see, that's 1,825 days of torture! 1,825 of laying my head down on the pillow acknowledging that another day has passed with very little or no progress on my manuscript.
Every celebrity on the planet has published a book! Now one of my classmates from high school has even finished his 3rd or 4th book. What the hell is wrong with me? I know what you're thinking...with all the problems in today's world, mine is a 'high class' problem. You're right, but its a ball and chain that has bruised my ankles, scratched my hardwood floors to a pulp, and sent me to the chiropracter for curvature of the spine!
In a desperate, but less than subtle attempt to divert my attention from the project at hand, and to ameliorate my bleeding ego, I'm going to share my strategies of avoidance with all those poor souls out there who are trying to write as well.
Tip #1 Make a daily list of chores. Include WRITING. Mark off tasks as they are completed.
 Here's a sample of mine:
1. Write
2. Exercise. completed
3. Pay bills. completed
4.Take Dog for a walk.completed
5.Unload dishwasher.completed
6.Clean out wallet.completed
Need I point out which item was left in the lurch?!
Here's to between the lines and happy writing,
                                                                                                 Lee Ann

Spiritual Path

He said to me, "I've been searching for years for a spiritual path and I've finally found it." I didn't know him well. I mean how well does one know their favorite barista even if they do make you a brew every day? But his words struck a chord with me. "You found a spiritual path?" I couldn't believe I was asking this question in the middle of a crowded Starbucks. "Can you tell me about it?" I asked. "I would love to," he said. And so my journey began. Frightened, excited and apprehensive, I take a few steps forward each day, trying to leave past beliefs behind and make room for hope, peace, and a new way. Namaste.

Three Wishes, Minus Two.

He replied to her, "Your journey is a personal one. I can't take it for you."

"But," I said, "my inner compass seems to be broken. I' m looking for my destination, but oh, if I only had a glimpse of what it looked like."

"Sorry. You know men don't ask for directions."

"This is true," I sighed. "I'll go it alone but I'll always be looking back wishing you could have joined me."

"They have no good magazines..."

I hate the torture of waiting rooms.


It doesn't matter if its the doctor's office or the building department, I feel trapped in all of them. Impatience rears its pointed head and I start looking for some form of entertainment. People watching exhausted, I start to scrounge for a magazine.

Did I mention how much I hate waiting rooms that have crappy magazines or none at all? Ok, I can understand why the OB/GYN has Parenting magazine. But must they have 300 copies of it and nothing else? I don't have anything against parenting, but I'm over it. At least give me a choice in case I'm just too damn old to parent anything, anymore!

Today the wait was to be interminable. I grabbed a ticket as I entered. My number was 79. They just called the number 33 over the loudspeaker. I felt the anxiety bubble up in me like Mexican food does.

Please. Please. Let there be something here to read, I mumbled under my breath.

I glanced around. There was only one magazine in sight. I made my stealth approach. Oh no. The worst - it was an AARP publication. As I heard them call the next number, only 40 away from mine, I picked up the magazine and headed back to my seat.

Hmm. Dennis Quaid on the cover. He didn't look old. As a matter of fact, he looked damn good. Why was he in this magazine? To sate my curiosity I started flipping through the pages. No ads for Cover Girl makeup. No Cosmo tips on how to keep your man happy. No info on surrogate mothers or parenting tips.

Instead, I found a article on retirement - where, when and how much money do you need. I could relate to that. Which insurance companies cover knee replacement and what is the average recovery time. Yep. I had questions about that subject too.

I flipped back to the cover page to verify that this was AARP. What followed next was an out-of-body experience. I WAS reading AARP and I could relate...to almost every article.

I don't recall hearing the next 30 numbers called (guess I have the memory of an old person too) but when I got ready to leave I squirreled away that magazine into my purse like a shoplifter hiding her stash.

I still feel like a Como girl and I'll continue to buy Cover Girl makeup even though the models who advertise it weren't yet born the year I graduated from highschool. But, I will not join AARP or subscribe to their magazine. I will not give in to being that vintage. I will however graciously accept a senior citizen discount at the movie theater starting next month, that is as long as there is no one in line that knows me.

Did I mention how much I hate aging? :-)

Coming up next time: "Donald flies the coop without filing a flight plan." or "Where the hell is that duck?"

Always On the Wrong Side of the Door

Don't get me wrong.

I love my family. My two daughters are the sunshine of my every day. My sister - a mirror image of myself and a loving opportunity to change and improve at every turn. My boyfriend - the love of a lifetime - generous, kind and gorgeous. I'm a lucky person.

But then, there is the unconditional love of the four-legged, scratching, fighting, barking, bed-hogging, disgusting breathed, neurotic furballs that shadow my every move, every day.

My daughters can ask for 30 things a day from me; my animals ask for only 3 - love, food, and "Help, Mom! I'm on the wrong side of the door, again."

Don't get me wrong. I love my family, but oh those animals. They know how to steal my heart without a word.

The race is on for my greatest affection and I admit, it's looking like a 'photo finish.'

Gotta run...the litter box is calling my name.

**Tomorrow: Donald disappears without filing a flight plan.