Never Underestimate A Southern Belle

Seasons of Love

2006-02-01T11:22:00.000-05:00

Seasons of Love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure -- measure a year?

In daylights -- In sunsets
In midnights -- In cups of coffee
In inches -- In miles
In laughter -- In strife

In -- Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?

How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love

SOLOIST #1
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a woman or a man?

SOLOIST #2
In truths that she learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died

ALL
It's time now - to sing out
Tho' the story never ends
Let's celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends
Remember the love
Remember the love
Remember the love
Measure in love

SOLOIST #1
Measure, measure your life in love
Seasons of love ...
Seasons of love

- From RENT, the Musical

Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life 2006 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.

A Long December

2005-12-31T20:53:00.000-05:00

A long december and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember the last thing that you said as you were leavin'
Now the days go by so fast

And it's one more day up in the canyons
And it's one more night in hollywood
If you think that I could be forgiven ... i wish you would

The smell of hospitals in winter
And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls
All at once you look across a crowded room
To see the way that light attaches to a girl

And it's one more day up in the canyons
And it's one more night in hollywood
If you think you might come to california ... i think you should

Drove up to hillside manor sometime after two a.m.
And talked a little while about the year
I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower,
Makes you talk a little lower about the things you could not show her

And it's been a long december and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember all the times I tried to tell myself
To hold on to these moments as they pass

And it's one more day up in the canyon
And it's one more night in hollywood
It's been so long since I've seen the ocean ... i guess I should

- Counting Crows

Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life 2005 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.

Expect The Unexpected

2005-09-06T10:32:00.000-04:00

Have you ever been cruising along through the day, totally oblivious to everything around you when, suddenly, out of the blue, something happens that completely takes you by surprise? Whether it is a pleasant surprise, or a not-so-pleasant surprise, those sudden occurrences that happen when we least expect them have a way of altering the rest of our day, don't they?

For instance, the telephone rings and it is a friend you haven't spoken to in quite some time, but have been planning to call. You sit down and have a wonderful chat, catching up about this and that, and the rest of your day is a little more uplifted because of that conversation. Or, you go to the mailbox, expecting the usual bills and junk mail, only to find a refund check where you accidentally overpaid something many months back.

In my daily planner recently was this quote:

“Everything has meaning, everything.” ~ Laura Day

Whether we understand or completely comprehend the meaning at this moment in time, everything has meaning. So, we shouldn't be so quick to dismiss each and every one of those moments as they pass throughout our day as simply the passage of time – some insignificant flash on the journey to something of greater importance – because each moment holds an importance of its very own, no matter how small it may be in the overall scheme of the grandeur of life.

And, as if there was a theme unfolding, in a recent fortune cookie was this message:

“To affect the quality of the day is no small achievement.”

There is a wonderful book by Debbie Ford, New York Times #1 best-selling author, creator of The Shadow Process, and founder of the Ford Institute for Integrative Coaching, entitled The Secret of the Shadow: The Power of Owning Your Whole Story* that begins with this dramatic opening paragraph:

"Imagine that you knew at birth that you were a master, that you were powerful beyond measure, that you possessed enormous gifts, and that all it would take to deliver your gifts to the world was your desire. Imagine that you came into this world with your heart filled with the healing power of love and that your only desire was to bestow that love onto all those around you. Imagine that you had the innate ability to create and have all that you want and all that you need. Is it possible that at some point in your life you knew that there was no one else in the world like you? And that in ever fiber of your being you knew that you not only possessed the light of the world, but that you were the light of the world? Is it possible that at one time you knew who you were at the deepest level and you rejoiced in your gifts? ake a moment now, and see if you can remember that time when you knew the truth of who you really are."

And, after that bold opening, each subsequent chapter begins with a "Contemplation" which then expands on the concept set out in the chapter's title, and wraps up with a few "Healing Action Steps" to help you apply the insights you've just discovered to your own life's story.

So, if we choose to look at each day, at each moment, as a moment of our own life's story, it becomes something that is exciting, and something that we can claim as truly our own.

In another book, this time by Harvey Rich, M.D., entitled In the Moment: Celebrating the Everyday** Dr. Rich outlines five principles which will make it simple for you to create the celebrated life for you and those around you. Those principles, as outlined in Dr. Rich's book, are:

Principle One: Openness

Be open to the possibility of the moment.

Principle Two: Sharing

Share the moment to enrich and enlarge life.

Principle Three: Recalling and Recounting

Tell the stories; share the secrets.

Principle Four: Play

Think outside the box, color outside the lines, play outside the moment.

Principle Five: Recognize Mystery and Awe

Proclaim the mystery of a moment and stand in awe of it.

As you can see, if we stop for just a moment, and truly consider the MOMENT, it takes on a new significance that cannot be ignored. So, today ... stop ... take a moment ... reflect ... and truly enjoy that moment in time – because once it is gone, it is gone forever.

CREDITS

*The Secret of the Shadow: The Power of Owning Your Whole Story, by Debbie Ford, Publisher: Harper SanFrancisco; 1st edition (December 24, 2001), ISBN: 0062517821

**In the Moment: Celebrating the Everyday, by Harvey L. Rich, M.D. and Teresa H. Barker, Publisher: William Morrow; 1st edition (November 5, 2002), ISBN: 0060199687

(both books which I had the privilege of being asked to write reviews of for two on-line book review sites)

For those who were expecting Part IV of "You Can Go Home Again," the series took a hiatus this week. Since feedback has been weak at best on the last two installments, I am debating on whether to continue the saga or not. If you're interested in hearing more of the tale, please take your thoughts to the boards and share them there. The continuation of the tale of Callie and Ryan lies strictly in my faithful readers' hands.

Originally published Tuesday August 12, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.

Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life 2005 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.

2 a.m.

2005-05-18T16:05:00.000-04:00

Alexandra lay still in the darkness, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock, staring out through the wall of windows across from her bed at the crescent moon and pin-dots of stars that filled the sky.     It was 2 a.m. and sleep was eluding her, as she couldn't push the memories of her recent conversations with Doug from her mind.

They both knew they were two halves of a whole, incomplete without the other, but separated by fate's cruel irony.     Now, alone in the darkness, Alex couldn't stop the flood of memories the years had accumulated.     Was Doug thinking of her now, too?     She remembered another night -- with such a similar sky -- when they had spent the entire night underneath the stars, talking . . . so intently . . . as the sun would never dare to rise and break the connection of that night.

Doug had been a part of Alex's life longer than he had not been.     She could scarcely remember when he wasn't there.     How could two people experience so much together yet still be forced to be apart?

Alex stared out into the darkness in sadness, not out of regret, because she did not regret one single moment she and Doug had spent together -- but, sadness for all of the moments that they had spent apart.     Fate had found instances through the years to be kind.     Would fate show kindness once again?

She thought of how she viewed this compartmentalized segment of her life . . . and she knew -- logically -- that life is too short to deny happiness -- whether out of fear, or some other ancient baggage that is carried.     At some point, there has to be a willingness to "let-go" to find what was meant to be.     But, could she?     And, would he?

2005 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland    A Southern Belle's Life

Reappearing . . .

2005-04-30T15:36:00.000-04:00

No! For those who have been wondering. This blog hasn't been abandoned. It is just that "circumstances" made re-prints difficult to add, and life made "up-keep" something that needed a re-evaluation. But, the blog will be returning soon. The re-prints will still have to wait, but new material will be added as life dictates.

Thanks for your understanding, and thanks for reading!

2005 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

You Can Go Home Again, Part III

2005-01-10T08:00:00.000-05:00

Callie looked around and suddenly realized that she was the only one in this entire section of the restaurant.      She reached over and pulled the small envelope from the bouquet of roses and saw her name written across the front.      She smiled and turned it over, opened the flap and, as she slowly removed the card, she looked up to see Ryan walking toward her . . .

[This is part three of the story that began with the column "You Can Go Home Again, Part I," which was published July 15, 2003, followed by the column "You Can Go Home Again, Part II," which was published July 25, 2003.      If you haven't read parts one and two, please click here for part one, and click here for part two, to read those columns before continuing.]

Ryan flashed a smile at Callie and asked, "Did I remember correctly?      It is the pale apricot color that's your favorite, right?"      Callie couldn't speak; she just smiled and nodded.      He moved closer and she couldn't help but notice how handsome he looked.      In all the time she had known him though, she could never remember seeing him dressed in anything but jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers.      But, here he stood in perfectly pressed khakis, a blue and khaki golf shirt, and a pair of brown Italian loafers.

Ryan leaned down and lightly kissed Callie's lips before taking his seat across from her at the table.      "Well?      Go ahead.      Read the card."      She had forgotten all about the tiny card that she was still holding in her hand.      "Oh," Callie stammered, flushing with embarrassment, "I had completely forgotten the card."      She finally took her eyes off Ryan and looked down at the card.      On this tiny card, the five words spoke volumes . . . in Ryan's own handwriting were the words, "I will always love you!"      Callie stared at the card without moving; she could feel the tears starting to stream down her cheeks.

"Oh, Callie," Ryan consoled, "I never meant to make you cry."      Callie looked up and smiled.      "Ryan, the card, the flowers, this setting, it is all so beautiful.      Thank you!      It's just that I don't . . ." she trailed off.      He pushed her to continue, "You just don't what, Callie?"

She hadn't planned on beginning the reunion with a discussion of Matt, but Ryan had asked.      "It's just that . . . I haven't gotten flowers in such a long time.      Matt always says, 'they'll just die,' so he never buys them for me.      But, enough of that for now, okay?      Tell me what you've been doing since we last saw one another."

Callie needed some time to regain her composure, and hoped that Ryan would pick up the slack with some conversation while she tried to pull herself together.      She was overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness, his caring, and the fact that time, distance and circumstance had not lessened his love for her.

Before Ryan could say anything, a waiter came to the table with freshly baked bread, menus, and a pitcher to fill the water glasses.      Behind him stood the wine steward with a corkscrew.      He deftly uncorked the wine that had been chilling beside the table, and poured a small amount in Ryan's wine glass for his approval.      Ryan swirled the wine slightly, took a brief sniff, and tasted.      A faint smile crossed his lips and he nodded to the wine steward who filled both glasses, returned the bottle to the stand, and was gone without a word.

Ryan lifted his glass and looked at Callie.      Callie picked up her glass and moved it toward Ryan's.      He said, "I would like to propose a toast.      Here's to what once was, and to all that could be."      And, with that, he smiled, lightly clinked his glass against hers, and they both took a slow sip of the wine.

Callie drank in more than just the wine; she drank in the feelings of genuine love, caring and respect that Ryan was evoking.      She hadn't experienced those feelings in such a long time.      It seemed that the feelings she experienced most days were more negative -- neglected, unimportant, overlooked and ignored.

Ryan reached his hand across the table and touched Callie's hand and asked, "You seem a million miles away; are you okay?"      She smiled again and said, "I'm sorry.      I guess I was lost in the moment.      Thank you.      Thank you so much for everything.      This is such a wonderful surprise."

Just then, the waiter came to the table and asked, "Are you ready to order now?"      Ryan glanced at Callie, who nodded and gave her order.      Ryan followed up with his order and the waiter was gone again.      She took another sip of wine and reached for a slice of bread, suddenly feeling nervous and unsure of herself.      With the bread as a diversion, she said softly, without meeting Ryan's gaze, "I wasn't sure what to expect when I telephoned you this morning.      I mean, it has been a long time, and I should have made more of an effort to keep in touch."

Ryan answered, "Callie, I'm just as guilty of not making the effort.      We both knew that when you moved away, that it would be harder to keep in touch.      But, I should have made the time to check in with you, and to make sure that you were doing okay."      She looked up and was immediately lost in those wonderful brown eyes that, when they looked at her, made her feel as if she was the most important person in the world.      "It has been hard at times," Callie confessed, "I don't want to sound like a tired old cliché, but Matt just doesn't seem to care anymore.      Of course, when I told him I was making this trip back home, he suddenly found all sorts of reasons why I shouldn't come."

Ryan noticed that Callie looked so sad as she talked about Matt, so he quickly changed the subject.      "Oh, Callie, enough about Matt.      While you're in town, how about I spend my time showing you that someone really does care about you?      After lunch, how about we go and do something fun?"      Callie brightened a bit and asked, "What did you have in mind?"      Instead of answering, he looked at her for a moment, smiled a devilish smile, and said, "You'll just have to wait and see."

Before she could ask any other questions, the waiter brought their lunch, refilled their wine glasses, and asked if they needed anything else.      Ryan looked to Callie, who shook her head and said, "Everything looks divine."      The waiter turned and left them again, and Ryan said, "Let's eat.      Then we'll spend the rest of the afternoon . . . ," his voiced trailed off, and he looked down at his plate for a moment before continuing.      "I know the perfect place to go, and I know you'll love it there."

[to be continued . . . ]

Originally published Wednesday August 06, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

You Can Go Home Again, Part II

2004-12-02T15:34:00.000-05:00

Callie got into the car, pulled out of the driveway, started down the street, and reached for her cell phone.      Her hands were trembling as she began to dial the number, and then she heard the phone begin to ring.      After the third ring, someone picked up the phone and she heard his voice say, “Hello …”

[This is part two of the story that began with the column "You Can Go Home Again," which was originally published July 15, 2003.      If you haven't read part one, please
click here now to read it before continuing.]

The months of silent anticipation, the years of too many sleepless late-night wonderings of “what-ifs,” had now culminated into the sound of a single word . . . h-e-l-l-o, and Callie was unable to utter a sound.      Again, the voice on the other end of the line, now with a bit of annoyance, said, “Hello?”

Callie regained a miniscule modicum of composure and she heard herself faintly asking, “May I speak with Ryan, please?”      To which the voice on the other end softened and said, “This is Ryan.”      With her heart pounding, her palms sweating, and her faced flushed; she took a deep breath and said, “Ryan, this is Callie.      I know it has been a long time, but …”

Before she could continue, Ryan interrupted her and said, “Callie, it has been a long time, too long.      I've missed you.”      Nothing else seemed to matter after she heard those words – time seemed to stand still – and then she heard Ryan asking, “Callie?      Are you still there?”      “Yes, I'm sorry,” she answered, feeling quite foolish for becoming so lost in the moment, “What did you ask again?”

“I said, would you like to meet me for lunch?” Ryan asked.      “I would love to see you again, to catch up on what's been going on since we last saw one another.      So, what do you say?”      Callie moved the phone slightly away from her face, took a deep breath, hoping not to sound too eager, and said, “It sounds like a plan.      But, I have a few errands that I really must do first.      Can we meet around one?”

Ryan sounded pleased by her acceptance of the invitation and said, “One sounds great.      That will give me time to tie up a few loose ends here and clear my afternoon schedule so I can spend more time with you.      How does Gittos sound?      I'll call ahead for a reservation; a nice quiet table in the back.”      Callie had always loved Gittos – the food and the atmosphere would be the perfect setting for this special reunion.      “Gittos sounds heavenly.      I'll see you there at one.”

She disconnected from the call and glanced at her watch – eleven o'clock, two hours until she had to meet Ryan at the restaurant.      Callie could think of nothing else but seeing him again.      How long had it been?      So much had happened; how would she even know where to begin?      After her last move, they had attempted to stay in contact, but the everyday rigors of real life have a way of lying to you that one more day won't make a difference.      And, then, one day turns into weeks, then months, and reaching out to re-establish that connection just keeps getting harder and harder as each day passes by.      She couldn't even remember how or when they let the connection finally just slip away.

Knowing that it was useless to try to think about errands, Callie decided that everything could wait until after lunch.      But, since she didn't know what the afternoon held in store, she decided to call home and let her parents know that she wouldn't be home for dinner.      That way, she could take care of her errands on her way back home without having to rush.      Since the day was so beautiful – sapphire-blue skies, white fluffy clouds, and a nice gentle breeze – she decided to stop by the lake to relax, catch a few rays, and call home before heading to the restaurant.

She dialed the number and her mother answered.      “Hi, Mom.      I've had a little change in plans.      I'll be a little later than I thought, so don't hold dinner for me, okay?”      Her mother asked, “Is everything alright?”      And Callie answered, “Oh, sure, Mom, everything is fine.      I'm just playing things by ear and I stopped at the lake for a while.      So, instead of rushing around with my errands, I'm soaking up the sun instead.”      Her mother laughed, knowing all too well how much Callie loved spending time at the lake.      “You haven't done any of your errands yet, have you?” her mother asked, knowing the answer before she even finished the sentence.      “Oh, Mom!      It is just such a beautiful day.      I got a little sidetracked, ya know.      But, I'm going to make a few more phone calls, then it will be off to lunch soon, and then I'll run my errands on the way back home.      I just didn't want you and Dad to be waiting on me for dinner.      I'll probably just grab something quick on my way home later.”

Her mother laughed again, thinking of how Callie always just seemed to never worry about plans or schedules.      Little did her mother know that, behind that carefree demeanor that once was genuine, was now a soul filled with worries, doubts and fears that she tried so very hard to hide.      Her mother said, “Be careful.      We'll see you when you get home.”      And Callie answered, “I shouldn't be too late.      I'll call if I'm going to be later than seven or eight.      That should give me plenty of time to get everything done and see a few friends, too.      I love you.      See you this evening.      Bye!”

She disconnected, sat back on the bench, looked out over the water for a moment, and then closed her eyes.      She let the breezes blow across her face and thought about Ryan.      The ringing of her cell phone startled her back into the present.      She looked down to see the display and recognized the all-too-familiar number that appeared.      With much hesitation, she pressed the button and said, “Hello.”      Matt, without so much as a good morning pleasantry, immediately said, “I just called your Mom.      She said you were out running errands and going to lunch.      Where are you now?”      Trying to mask the irritation in her voice, Callie paused for a moment and then said, “It is just such a beautiful day that I stopped by the lake for a few minutes before heading out to the mall.”

Matt had been none-to-eager for Callie to make this trip back home.      In fact, he didn't want her to come at all, but with so many things that had been happening in their lives in recent months, she needed a break and used the excuse that she hadn't seen her parents since last Christmas (which was true), and had finally just started making plans for the trip a few weeks ago, regardless of his objections.      His phone call now had shattered the idyllic, peaceful feelings that she was experiencing for the first time, in a long time.      He continued on, oblivious to her frustrations, “How long are you planning to stay at your parents?      When are you coming back home?”

At this point in time, Callie had no idea; she just knew that since arriving late last night, she could already feel some of the pressures lifting from her spirit.      Now, with this phone call, the tension was once again creeping back in.      “Matt, I really don't know.      I just got in late last night.      I hit rain halfway here and the trip took a lot longer than I expected.      That's why I called and left the voice mail message at home.      I had no idea what time I would make it in last night.      And, this morning, of course Mom made a huge breakfast, and I dashed out right after to go shopping.      I was going to call you a little later, but you beat me to the punch.”      She waited to hear his response and heard nothing but cellular static.      Then, his voice came back clearly on the line and he said, “Well, when you decide what your plans are, let me know.      I'll be home around five, so give me a call after that.”

Callie took another deep breath and said, “I was going to try to get in touch with Renee a little later.      If she is home, I was going to drop by to see her before heading back home.      How about I give you a call around nine or so?      That will give me plenty of time to get back home and settle in for the evening.”      Matt seemed a little irritated, but relented by saying, “Okay.      Tell Renee that I said hello and give me a call around nine.      I'm heading back to work.      Don't spend too much money!”      And, with that, no good-bye, just dead air as he clicked off his cell phone.

With a heavy sigh, Callie shifted forward on the bench, laid her cell phone down, glanced at her watch, and then tried to erase the last several minutes with a few deep breaths.      She leaned back and looked up at the clouds as they floated lazily by, blown wistfully by the wind.      She looked back out over the water again and saw the clouds reflected in the water, and felt the cool breeze against her skin.      She closed her eyes and let her thoughts return to Ryan.      The rush of anticipation was high so, with another glance at her watch, she decided to leave for the restaurant to have plenty of time to avoid any unforeseen delays.      This was one time where “fashionably-late” was not an option.      She wanted to have a chance to touch up her hair and make-up, and already be seated and waiting at the table when Ryan arrived.

Callie pulled into the parking lot twenty minutes early and slid into a just-vacated parking space near the door.      She picked up her purse and walked into the cool, dark vestibule where she was greeted by the maitre d' with a cheerful “Buon Pomeriggio! “      She smiled and replied, “Good Afternoon!      We have reservations for two at one p.m.      I'm a little early so I'm going to pop into the ladies room first.”      The maitre d' smiled and said, “Your table is ready and waiting.      I'll be happy to show you to the table when you return.”      She remembered every inch of this restaurant, and turned to go down the hallway on the left toward the ladies room.      She quickly checked her hair to make sure the breezes at the lake hadn't done too much damage, reapplied her lipstick, and returned to the vestibule where the maitre d' was waiting.

He gestured toward the entrance to the dining room and led Callie through a maze of tables to a secluded table in the rear of the restaurant.      As they approached, she saw a table which stood out from all the others – two tall, flickering tapers were placed on either side of a vase which held a large bouquet of apricot-colored roses and an abundance of baby's breath, with a card conspicuously tucked inside.      Sitting to the side of the table was a wine cooler with a bottle, already chilling.      The maitre d' turned to her and smiled, pulled out her chair without a word, and simply walked away.

Callie looked around and suddenly realized that she was the only one in this entire section of the restaurant.      She reached over and pulled the small envelope from the bouquet of roses and saw her name written across the front.      She smiled and turned it over, opened the flap and, as she slowly removed the card, she looked up to see Ryan walking toward her . . .

[to be continued . . . ]

Originally published Friday July 25, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

You Can Go Home Again, Part I

2004-11-28T10:52:00.000-05:00

As Callie eased out of the first night of peaceful slumber she had experienced in quite a long time, even before she opened her eyes, she began to smile as she thought about the Thomas Wolfe book, You Can't Go Home Again.      She hated to disagree with such a literary giant but, as she stretched out in her old, familiar, childhood bed, she could sense that the room was already aglow in lovely shades of yellow as the morning sun reflected off of the bedroom walls.      She opened her eyes and smiled again, basking in that engulfing cocoon of early morning sunlight that brought the walls to life with a rich, golden hue.

Through the door, she could hear her mother's faint humming along with some song that was playing on the radio, and she could smell the aroma of sizzling bacon and baking biscuits.      This trip was a journey with myriad possibilities, and she knew that, at least for her, she had come home again.      Her room was exactly as she had left it years before – she looked around and was immediately transported back to when she had lived in this house, and she felt the comfort and security that those feelings evoked.

A slight tapping at the door jarred her back to the present, and Callie's mother whispered, “Are you awake yet?”      “Yes,” she answered, and her mother pushed open the door slightly and said, “Breakfast will be ready in a few more minutes.”      “Okay, Mom,” she answered, “I'll be right there.”      She lingered a moment more between the cool cotton sheets, and then slipped into a tank and cut-off denims, pulled her blonde hair back into a loose ponytail, and padded, barefoot, down the hall toward the breakfast table.

As usual, her mother had outdone herself … there was homemade biscuits, milk gravy, bacon, eggs, hash browns, grits, honey, jam, and freshly squeezed orange juice – enough to feed ten people, not just the three that were sitting down to the table.      Callie had definitely missed good, old-fashioned, from-scratch, Southern cooking.      Not that she couldn't do it herself; she just didn't have the time, patience or inclination to completely turn a kitchen upside-down for just two people, and it could never taste as good as her mother's cooking always did, and probably wouldn't be appreciated anyway.

After grace, her dad asked what her plans were for the day.      How could she tell him, when she wasn't really sure herself?      What would she say?      “Oh, Dad, I'm going to try to recapture a time in my life when I was happy.”      How could she admit that to them?      She just smiled and said, “I'm going to try to catch up with a few friends, maybe do a little shopping, visit some old spots to get a few photos, and grab a late lunch at my favorite restaurant.”      She changed the subject quickly and said, “Mom, breakfast looks wonderful.      I'm starving!”

And, she was.      The drive home the night before had been so long.      She had left early enough but didn't anticipate getting caught in so much traffic.      Even though she left in 90-degree weather, with perfectly clear blue skies, halfway into the drive, the rains became torrential for hours, which made the miles crawl by as cars slowed their pace for safety.      When she finally arrived, all she wanted was a shower and to fall into bed.

Between bites, there was idle chit-chat of all the latest small-town gossip – births, deaths, marriages, divorces, and any other minor scandals that might be gossip-worthy.      Callie let her Mom and Dad talk, and she nodded in all the appropriate places, and tossed in a few comments here and there.      Breakfast was divine, and Callie felt as if she had gorged herself, not only on food, but also on a trip back in time itself.      She loved her mother's cooking, and she felt that same sense of comfort and security from her mother's love and care in preparing such a breakfast feast that she had experienced upon waking in her old sunshine-yellow bedroom earlier that morning.

Of course, her mother wouldn't let her help clear the table, but ushered her off to get ready for her day.      After a languid shower, she did her hair and make-up, unpacked, and then debated on what to wear.      She finally settled on navy silk walking shorts, a pale blue and white pinstriped silk shirt, navy belt, navy sandals and minimal jewelry – chic, non-threatening, classic, and comfortable – and, an outfit that had garnered many compliments, not that she was consciously planning to make a special impression, or was she?

She picked up her keys and cell phone, grabbed her purse and camera bag, and headed toward the door.      Her mother turned from the kitchen sink and smiled.      Her dad called from the den, “Be careful. Will you be home for dinner?”      Callie answered back, “I'm not sure.      I'll call later this afternoon to let you know when I'll be home.”      And, with that, she kissed her mother on the cheek, called out “Good-bye,” and was out the door.

She got into the car, pulled out of the driveway, started down the street, and reached for her cell phone.      Her hands were trembling as she began to dial the number, and then she heard the phone begin to ring.      After the third ring, someone picked up the phone and she heard his voice say, “Hello …”

[to be continued …]

Originally published Tuesday July 15, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

And, Now, Heeeeeeere's Jerry!

2004-11-18T09:51:00.000-05:00

Some people aren't willing to admit it but, . . . everyone has some member (or members) of their family that they fear might one day end up as a guest on the Jerry Springer show.      Even if it is that weird cousin, twice removed, it's too close for comfort for a lot of folks.      Or, some won't even admit that they have friends who could make an appearance on the show.

Me?!?      I think Springer is a riot!      Sure, a lot of it is staged, but just the topics of revelation are enough to make you stop flipping through the channels to sit down and watch for a few minutes.      None of those "tame" Maury, Montel, or even Jenny topics for Jerry . . . we've got . . . "I'm Sleeping With My Brother," or "I'm In Love With Dad," or the mega-hit shows like "I'm Here To Tell My Boyfriend That I've Been Prostituting, And I'm Leaving Him For My Midget Pimp."      Come On, People! -- These are not your typical everyday, run-of-the-mill headlines, even in the tabloid rags!      You don't see these headlines while standing on line at the grocer!

But, when the semi-legitimate JS staff "fluffer" gets the audience worked up into a frenzied crowd-mentality lather -- chanting . . . "Jer-ry, Jer-ry, Jer-ry, Jer-ry," or Steve and Todd have to pull two lesbian strippers apart, who are brawling like drunken sailors, while the audience chants -- "We Love Lesbians, We Love Lesbians," -- ya just gotta love it!

Now, most people would not expect the overly-sheltered only child of an ultra-strict Baptist Minister from the "Buckle-of-the-Bible-Belt," with the juxtaposition of a debutant & cotillion proper Old South Southern Belle persona, to even associate with anyone who might ever end up on a talk show ~~ Heaven-Forbid ~~ one as risqué and totally-trailer-trash, as Jerry Springer.      But, in the South (as is the case everywhere, whether you want to admit it or not!), just as you can get any movie star to Kevin Bacon via six degrees of separation, you can find yourself within six degrees of separation of someone who should be sitting in the Green Room as a Jerry Springer guest!

As a child of about eight, my pediatric dentist was having an affair with his dental hygienist (I may have been eight, but I wasn't stupid!).      He was also heavily into gambling.      His wife found out about the affair, contacted his bookie, and they conspired to put out a contract hit on him.      He was cut into many small pieces (I'm not sure if that was pre- or post-mortem), and discarded in a garbage dump on a mountain in an area that saw a lot of "disposing" of "evidence" and other things that people wanted to permanently "lose."

(I was never very fond of that dentist, anyway!)

"good-riddance-to-bad-rubbish"

*okay, that was a bad (sick & twisted) joke, folks*

Also, as a child, our hometown had a local cowboy television star, who had a daily children's show (which also featured his beautiful blonde Swedish wife, a stately palomino horse, and his bad toupee).      Small groups from local schools, scout troops, etc. were invited to be guests on the show.      There were games, food, cartoons, ring-tosses from the back of the horse, and loads of other interactive fun.      A small group from my fourth grade class (including me) was invited to be guests one week on the show.      A few years later, his beautiful wife was brutally murdered.      His brother was ultimately arrested and convicted of the crime, but always claimed that he was only following the directions of her husband.      There was never enough evidence to arrest the husband in the murder, and he is now a behind-the-scenes executive at the same television station where he has always worked.

Several years after that, I briefly dated a police officer (imagine that) who purchased a small two-seater convertible from this aging television star (what a great car -- I loved that car!).      When he took it in to have it detailed right after buying it, they found an unbelievable amount of pills, roach clips, joints, and assorted drug paraphernalia that had slipped between the cushions of the seats.      I would have loved to have seen the luminol and black light testing results on that car!      That would have probably been a forensics pot-o-gold!

Too gruesome?!?      Okay, let's get a little more trashy then, shall we?!?

Let's talk about my money-hungry, social-climbing friend who was all about status -- the best clothes, the most expensive cars, houses, cruises -- and, who thought she had snagged the ultimate "Money-bag$" boyfriend.      My friend was a knockout -- beautiful face, raven hair, petite, all the right curves in all the right places, and plenty of men falling at her feet.      And, this guy -- he could scare small children and pets!      Talk about butt-ugly -- he made butt-ugly look attractive!      But, he had money, and lots of it, and he was willing to spend it on her.      And, that was all she cared about.      Or, so she thought.

He took her on cruises, bought her diamonds, and showed her off like a trophy (which, to him, she definitely was) at all the "right" parties and high media-coverage social events.      He even let her pick out his new house -- a three quarter million dollar house in an exclusive gated community on the waterfront.      He let her choose all of the colors, fixtures, etc., leading her to believe that once the house was completed, she would be moving in as his wife, with all the social status, exposure, and A-list privileges that marriage would bring.      When her daughter was at her ex's for visitation on weekends, he would always stay at my friend's house and, after his house was finished, she would stay at his.      But, the wedding kept being delayed for this reason or that.

One day, her ex picked up her daughter a day early and she thought she would surprise him.      Talk about surprised!      They were both quite surprised when she drove over, saw the maid's car parked out front, thought nothing of it, let herself in with the key she knew was hidden outside, walked into the bedroom, heard water running, and walked into the bathroom to find him and the maid in the shower together, having wild and kinky sex.      It seems the maid not only worked there, but also actually lived there four days each week as his maid and his girlfriend, and only went home on the weekends because he told her that's when he had to be out of town for work.      He was having the maid Monday through Thursday, and my friend Friday through Sunday.      The maid was getting the better end of the deal, actually -- she was getting the "girlfriend" monetary benefits and a salary for working as a maid.      Wait!, or do they call that prostitution?!?      Either way, both women were getting screwed, and getting paid for it!

My friend realized that, for all the materialistic possessions and prestige that his money had brought, her self-esteem had suffered the consequences more.      As I said, she was petite; standing only 5'2" and weighing only 102 pounds, and she began literally, yet uncontrollably, starving herself to death, dropping to 60 pounds in less than four weeks.      Every time she tried to eat, she became violently ill.      I found her several times, curled up in the middle of her kitchen floor, sobbing hysterically, whimpering about how she loved him and couldn't live without him.

Although I love her dearly, I was never a fan of his, and I didn't think there was time for 'hand-holding' and 'there-there's' -- so, I immediately began an unyielding campaign of 'tough-love' to try to snap her out of it!      Luckily, she fell for the doctor she met in the emergency room I literally had to drag her into, and they dated for about eight months (before she moved on to someone else with more money and social status).      Although, that guy (another doctor) ended up trying to hire a hit man to kill his ex-wife so he could have sole custody of his kids (he went to jail because the "hit-man" he tried to contract with was actually an undercover police officer).      She may be a beauty, but she has lousy taste in men!

A friend, who was a minister of music and youth leader of our church (No!, not my Father's church!), and who had a long-distance relationship with his long-time girlfriend from seminary, finally proposed and married her, and she moved to our city.      I couldn't understand “why” he married this girl that he obviously didn't love -- the only conclusion I could draw was that he needed a strong soprano for the church choir. (???)      This is the friend that we saran-wrapped his toilet seat while they were on their honeymoon!      Amazingly, the marriage lasted longer than I expected.      But, just a couple of years into it, she said or did something that was, as they say, "the-last-straw," and he confessed to her that he was gay, had been in a long-term relationship with a man, had not stopped seeing the man after they married, and was leaving her for this man.      That was ten years ago that they divorced, and he is still with his lover.      They have been a couple for over seventeen years!

Before anyone thinks they can take a "holier-than-thou" attitude, stop and think for a moment . . . about your friends, your relatives, your acquaintances, and your co-workers . . . we ALL know someone with a story . . . a story worthy of a Springer appearance!

Even xxxxxxx is not above a little Springer flavor . . . when visitors, members and even columnists choose to hide behind an unregistered moniker to attack columnists with snide remarks, unfounded accusations, and ridiculous posts on message boards, they're simply becoming those nameless audience members who stand up and point an accusing finger at the guests on the show -- attempting to show superiority simply by belittling the person they're aiming their comments at . . . but, what happens when the mirror is turned back on them?!?      What's in YOUR past?      Or, what's in YOUR life?      What makes you any different, any better, any superior in any way to anyone else?      The answer to that is NOTHING!

We all live in this world . . . together . . .

traveling through life, as this spinning globe

travels around in our solar system . . .

just a minuscule fragment among the billions of

stars, planets, galaxies and the unknown beyond . . .

It's L--I--F--E!
The good, the bad, and the ugly!

And, as the old saying goes . . .

"Life, . . . it's better than the alternative!"

So, why not enjoy it to the fullest?

Find humor in the strangest places . . .

Have fun along the way . . .

Don't miss a chance to explore the less-traveled roads

and interesting paths you encounter . . .

And, take the time to look at everyone as a potential friend . . .

they may be different but,

"WOW!," they may be loads of fun, too!

And, what's the harm in having a little fun,
laughing along the way, and enjoying life?

Me?, I'm all for it!

Originally published Monday July 07, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

Truth Or Dare

2004-09-28T17:10:00.000-04:00

How many of you have ever played the game of “Truth-or-Dare?”      We've all heard of it, and Madonna made it quite famous with her tour and tell-all documentary.     But, have you ever played it?     I never have, although I've been in situations where it has been suggested and, luckily, I've been able to avoid getting drawn into it.     I just don't think it is the right game for me!

Now, don't get me wrong – I'm no prude … I would not hesitate to tell the truth on many a question, or take a dare on just as many others.     It's just that … as Jack Nicholson's character in A Few Good Men said, I just fear that some in the groups I might be playing with just “… can't handle the truth!”     Or worse, might be shocked by how far I might go on a dare.

So, perhaps to pave the way for any future chance of the opportunity of playing “Truth-or-Dare” that might arise for me, I might need to “come-clean” on a few truths now so my 'real-life' friends who read my column will be “prepared” for what might be admitted to them at any future date.

We'll start off with a little introductory background information and 'e-a-s-e' our way into some things that some of my friends may, or may not, know …

Question:      “What were you like as a child?”

Blonde: “I was an only child, highly-precocious, highly-artistic, and not at all interested in what little girls are supposed to be interested in. From very early on, I wanted to be one of two things – either a police detective or a newspaper reporter – no playing-house or dolls for me. When I was probably five or six, an elderly neighbor gave me a desk and a beat-up old manual Underwood typewriter, and I alternated between playing reporter and playing detective – going out and doing interviews (my mother was a saint because she was always the interviewee), after which I would go back to the “office” and type up my reports. I was the only girl in the neighborhood, and my parents were overly protective, so I wasn't allowed to play with anyone else in the neighborhood, or even leave our yard. So, I spent a lot of time alone, but never developed an imaginary playmate like so many other only children do. I read a lot, I wrote a lot, I drew and painted a lot, and I reflected a lot; all of which helped to cultivate my creative nature. I guess my sheltered childhood was also highly influential in the development of my iNFp personality type, as I gain my energy and recharge from being alone.”

Question: “We've read your xxxxxxxxx profile. But, what other things are there to know about you?”

Blonde: “Aside from being blonde, I'm a fiery, temperamental Irish lass, with a pale peaches & cream complexion, and I pop out with freckles when exposed to the sun. My eyes are teal – not really green, not really blue – and they literally change color depending upon the day, and, definitely, on my mood. I'm 100% “Old South” Southern, accent and all – and I couldn't shake it, even if I tried, not that I would ever want to – Oh, My, Never! I would unquestionably make Scarlett O'Hara quite proud, I'm sure.

On the down side, I have suffered from severe migraines since I was fifteen with no known triggers, even though I have been tested for everything from food allergies, to environmental reactions, to brain wave pattern disruptions, and nothing can be pinpointed, and no medications are very effective in relieving the pain. I also have fibromyalgia / chronic fatigue syndrome, which makes for good days and bad days – but, I'm too stubborn to take it easy on the good days, and have been labeled “WFO” by many who know me which stands for traveling “wide-f*ing-open” all the time. I have seasonal insomnia, which is also linked to the fm/cfs. But, life's too short to sit on the sidelines, so I never slow down for fear of missing out on something totally amazing! Let's see?!? Other little tidbits include -- I'm also a major shoe-aholic (don't ask how many pairs I have!), and a candle-aholic (only Trapps and Yankee brands for this candle-snob). And, I have seen both Casablanca and The Bridges of Madison County at least seventy-five times each, and I cry every time (yeah!, I'm a sucker for an impossible love [triangle] story!, so sue me!).”

Question: “Okay. Now let's move on to some harder questions. Are you ready? Truth-or-Dare? Would you ever inflict any damage to anyone's personal property?”

Blonde: “Truth. I spray-painted a girl's blue car totally red once, spray-painted the word “wh*re” on the windshield and rear window, and shoved an entire tightly rolled Sunday newspaper into the tailpipe. When she started the car, the whole interior filled with exhaust, but it was still drivable, and she had to drive it home that way. She shouldn't have been *&%$# my s.o. while calling herself my friend – there's a line that you don't cross when it comes to professions of friendship and commitments to relationships. Luckily, I still had plenty of friends at the police department. No charges were filed. And, if you want to know the real truth – it felt real good doin' it!”

Question: “Truth-or-Dare? Have you ever used “creative methods” to get out of a speeding ticket?

Blonde: “Truth. While living in Memphis, we didn't have any Dunkin Donut shops in the entire city, but there was one in a town about an hour northeast. I had a craving for my one and only favorite doughnut from Dunkin Donuts, so I drove the hour to Jackson to buy several of these doughnuts. On the way back home, it was late, it was dark, I was speeding, and I was eating one of the doughnuts – a luscious chocolate cream-filled, powdered sugar-covered doughnut. I just happened to turn on the overhead light and my lips and the front of my shirt were covered in flecks of powdered sugar. Just about that time, I saw blue lights in my rearview mirror. Great! I looked like I'd been snorting cocaine! When the officer pulled me over, he walked up to the car, shined his flashlight in and took one look at me, and I turned on the Southern charm – fast! I said, “Officer, this isn't what you think. I drove all the way to Jackson for Dunkin Donuts because we don't have them in Memphis. This is powdered sugar, honest. Doughnuts – you know all about doughnuts – here, smell my chest!” When I got a smile from that line, I kept on going. I said, “Officer, you don't know what it's like to have a craving for a doughnut and have to drive an hour, one way, just to satisfy that craving. But, I have one doughnut left and, if you let me go, I'll let you have it.” I had to give up my last doughnut but, .59 cents -vs- a $75.00 speeding ticket was probably worth losing my last doughnut.”

Question: “Truth-or-Dare? Would you ever buy an outfit, wear it for one event, and return it for a refund?”

Blonde: “Truth. No, I would never do that. I consider that stealing. I have a relative who did something similar. She bought over $2,000.00 worth of clothes on her credit card, wore them for a “glamour shots” photo session, and then returned them all. She did the same thing for her daughter's prom – bought the dress and shoes and returned them afterwards. I think that is a form of stealing, and I would never even consider doing it.”

Question: “Truth-or-Dare? What is the most public place you've ever (as Bob Eubanks would say on the Newlywed Game) *made-whoopee*?”

Blonde: “Truth. It is a toss-up. It would either have to be on the hood of a police cruiser in the middle of the afternoon at an active construction site, or on a research table in the law library in the basement of the county jail, which is monitored by surveillance cameras. Just, don't tell my Minister Dad, okay?”

Question: “Truth-or-Dare? Have you ever been streaking?”

Blonde: “Truth. Technically, no. Streaking was literally running from one place to another, through a crowd, in the nude, specifically for the shock value. So, no, I've never been streaking. If you want to split-hairs (no pun intended), I have been nude in public but, discreetly – very discreetly – and not observed by a crowd on any occasion. Do I want to elaborate further? No, not really.”

Question: “How far would you go on a Dare?”

Blonde: “I guess that would depend upon the dare, the circumstance, and the given situation (and, of course, who was in the group at the time).”

So, My Dear Readers, now it's my turn to ask you a question . . .

“How far would YOU go on a Dare?”

Originally published Tuesday June 24, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

Death Does Not Become Her

2004-09-21T13:32:00.000-04:00

It was a tragic death that came without any warning.      There was no time to prepare for an inevitable departure, just a sudden, empty void where moments before a full heart had known joy.

As one who has always strived for a non-judgmental approach to life, open to situations and events with a free-spirited attitude, and a lust for a wide variety of relationships and experiences, it is still difficult to wrap my understanding around the concept of intentional betrayal.      I find it hard to comprehend someone feeling the need to attempt to betray me when honesty, in whatever form it might take, would be received at face value, simply for what it was – the situation or circumstance as it was – reality and truth.      Maybe if someone just met me, they might not know my true soul but, those who know me should “know me” well enough to know that I expect honesty in its simplest and purest form in all of my relationships.

But, for you to knowingly, willingly, perpetuate an unnecessary lie that, without warning, was revealed to me by someone with no knowledge of your deception, and no reason to try to hurt me, literally caused a piece of my heart to die; a death that was preventable by you merely telling the truth.      And, what did you gain by the deception?      Nothing.      There was nothing to gain by it.      Which makes it all the more incomprehensible as to why you would maintain this lie for months instead of just being honest at the onset.

Roget's Thesaurus doesn't mince words when it comes to how it views the word – betrayal; and neither does Merriam-Webster's Dictionary when it comes to the word – deceive:

betrayal, noun – deception, dishonesty, falseness, unfaithfulness, misleading, insincerity, lying.

deceive, verb – to cause to believe what is false, or disbelieve what is true; to impose upon, to mislead, to cheat, to disappoint, to delude, to lie.

Ahhhhhhh!      There we have it – LYING!      Plain and simple.      No fancy words, no flowery connotations, just five little letters, strung together, to spell out the word … L – Y – I – N – G!      Didn't your mother teach you that lying was wrong?      I'm sure she did; she was a decent woman who wanted the best for you, and who was always there for you when you needed her.      Now that she is gone, are you going to discredit her memory with your behavior?      And, what kind of example does this set for your children, or for your new stepchildren?

I am nowhere near perfect, and I'm not claiming to be a saint, but I do give my very heart and soul to my true friends – with all of the respect, love, commitment and honesty that real friendship should possess.      Perhaps that is my downfall in expecting others to have the same dedication to the meaning of friendship that I hold dear but, to me, true friendship is a relationship that is open, honest and shares all -- the good, the bad, and the ugly -- "... that's what friends are for."

In the midst of my pain, I still found the strength to hold it together; I considered your feelings and the ensuing consequences (see? I still respected our friendship), and I refrained from inflicting any retaliatory damages that, in all honesty, would have been much worse for you than the pain I had just received.      And, believe me, that pain was almost unbearable!      In hindsight, would I have done anything different?      As they say, hindsight is always 20/20 so, I guess we'll never know for sure now, will we?

Liar

Three Dog Night

(R.Ballard)

I won't ever leave while you want me to stay

Nothing you could do that would turn me away

Hanging on every word

Believing the things I heard

Being a fool

You've taken my life, so take my soul

That's what you said and I believed it all

I want to be with you as long

As you want me to

I won't move away

Ain't that what you said?

Ain't that what you said?

Ain't that what you said?

Liar, liar, liar

May I see no night

May I see no day

If I ever leave while you want me to stay

You can believe in me

I won't be leaving

I won't let you go

Ain't that what you said?

Ain't that what you said?

Ain't that what you said?

Liar, liar, liar

Originally published Thursday June 12, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

Naked Women And Liquor

2004-09-14T18:32:00.000-04:00

Naked women and liquor sounds like the prime ingredients for an exciting bachelor party, right?      But, for us, naked women and liquor were the only things waiting for us when we recently moved into our 1898 Victorian farmhouse.      When I unlocked the front door to allow the movers to begin unloading, I found two handcrafted terra-cotta statues of naked women sitting in the right front parlor floor.      Then, in the kitchen were seven small bottles of alcohol -- three Di Saronno Amaretto, one Triple Orange Grand Marnier, two Baileys Irish Cream, and one Kahlua.

The statues are quite unusual, very interesting, and most intriguing.      Neither our Realtor, nor the Seller's Realtor, knows anything about the statues or the liquor.      The Seller hasn't been in the house since well before it went on the market in October of last year.      The only persons who have been in the house since our final walk-through with the contractor three weeks prior to closing was the contractor, who was doing work to ready the house for closing (he knows nothing about the items), and a maid that I hired to clean the house the day before we moved in (she knows nothing about the items, either).      The only person who had a key to the house was the Seller's Realtor, who would arrive, when needed, to open the house.      Strange, huh?

Here is the first woman ... She is approximately 10" tall, sitting on a bench, on a base that is 8" x 10" in a shape roughly resembling a mis-shapen figure eight, and the piece is unsigned.

Here is the second woman ... She is approximately 7.5" tall, sitting on a base that is 8" x 13" in the shape of a leaf, and this piece is also unsigned.

The detail in both is amazing.      You can see the finger marks where the terra-cotta clay has been worked by hand, forming each detail, down to the nipples and pubic hair, yet the faces are almost devoid of expression.      The one sitting on the leaf appears bald (in the photo), but actually has her hair pulled into a bun on the back of her head.      Her face is left almost “unfinished.”      The other has a little more “character” to her face but, still, she lacks any real “emotion.”      Both have that “Earth-Mother” look, with the heavy, pear-shaped, paunch to the stomach.

Many have already speculated on their meaning – we've heard everything from good luck charms, symbols of health, wealth, prosperity, and fertility, as well as others who have speculated that they have more sinister roots, with one person even suggesting that they were left by a passing coven of witches.

Regardless of what others may think, both occupy a prominent place on the mantle in our right front parlor.      I would love to know where they came from, who made them, who left them, and what (if anything) that they mean.      Does anyone recognize these women?      Any ideas?      Any suggestions?      I would love to hear your thoughts.

Originally published Tuesday June 03, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

Soulmates Throughout Time

2004-09-07T08:44:00.000-04:00

Alex,* for lack of a better phrase, was not born with a silver spoon in her mouth.      On the contrary, she was born on the borderline of lower middle class and upper poverty.      She was a bright, bubbly, highly intelligent child – more than a bit precocious, perhaps – and exceedingly-gifted beyond her years.      She was also plagued by the demons of childhood traumas in the forms of physical, emotional and mental abuses inflicted on her by her father, paternal grandmother, members of her extended family, schoolmates, and even so-called friends.      She withdrew further and further into herself, and began absorbing all of the negative words she was hearing as "truths," and continued to incorporate them into her personal concepts in relation to her own self-esteem and self-worth.      Fragile does not even begin to describe the shattered psyche that was precariously teetering on adulthood.      We won't even mention the dangers of a whole new set of evils lurking just around the corner.

Alex spent a sheltered adolescence without dating, or parties, or any of the things that normal teenagers experience.      She spent most of her time alone, locked in her room with soulful music, journals, writing poetry, and dreaming of a whole wide world of endless possibilities outside the confines of her parents' home.      At eighteen, this shy, naïve, inexperienced girl was allowed to get her first job, where she was immediately besieged by a pack of wild dogs, in the form of older men, who smelled fresh naivety, and a smoldering, untapped sensuality, and were moving in for the “kill.”

Alex was utterly surprised and totally flattered by all the attention, and completely oblivious to the ulterior motives.      She didn't realize these wolves all seemed to think they were playing the starring role in a famous Vladimir Nabokov novel.      She was searching for love and foolishly willing to trade sex to get it; while they were simply searching for sex and willing to trade a little attention to get it.      To them, it was but a small price to pay; for Alex, a large price, indeed.      Once again, she found herself used, abused and discarded.      If her self-esteem could have sank any lower, Alex would have had to dig a hole to let it continue downward.

That's when she met Doug.*      Although she was still extremely apprehensive, there was something about him that put her at ease.      He didn't seem like all the others; there seemed to be a sincerity that made him somehow different.      Doug was sixteen years her senior, and he had a charming, intellectual, philosophical outlook on life that made Alex reflect on her own life and how she had, at times, contributed to playing the role of a victim.      Doug was fond of saying “No one can make you 'feel' something.      You 'allow' yourself to feel that way.”

Their relationship grew out of their mutual needs for friendship, compassion, caring, understanding, someone to listen without judging, a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, and a desire to share not just their bodies, but their souls as well.      Alex's love grew for Doug daily, but Doug was incapable of uttering those three simple words.      He, too, had been hurt in the past in bitterly cruel ways – ways that can scar a heart so deeply that it can make it afraid to open up to the potential of ever truly loving again.      What a pair they made – the walking-wounded – clinging to one another, for they knew, deep inside, whether they were willing to admit it or not, that they were soul-mates who were destined to be together, forever.

How can two people, from such widely diverse backgrounds – age, situation, circumstance – ever overcome all of the challenges that face them so that they can be together?      In this lifetime, they haven't, although they've tried and tried.      But, soul-mates keep returning, lifetime after lifetime, searching for one another, until they finally are together as they should be.      Alex and Doug may not have sustained a permanent connection in this lifetime, but there's always the next lifetime.      The bond between them has sustained for almost a quarter of a century, and they still instantly reconnect, no matter how much time passes between the times they talk or see one another.      And, a love this strong will continue to seek out the essence of Alex and Doug until they are together again for the lifetime of happiness that they deserve.

Doug, Alex has always loved you, and she always will!

But, you already knew that, didn't you?

* names have been changed to protect the 'innocent'

Originally published Thursday May 29, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

Are You Casting Stones?

2004-09-05T15:56:00.000-04:00

judg·men·tal adj.

1.     Inclined to make judgments, especially moral or personal ones.

Synonyms: condemnation, accusation, blame, censure, conviction, damnation, denouncement, denunciation, disapproval, reproach, reprobation, reproof, criticism, assumption, measurement, opinion, perception, discrimination, conclusion, conjecture, generalization.

I've seen and experienced a lot in my life – many unspeakable horrors that I wish I could have been spared the experiences – but, overall, I've been a survivor!      I've tried to develop some of the characteristics that, in my darkest times, were lacking in those around me . . . characteristics such as: compassion, unconditional acceptance, non-judgmental attitudes, and genuine caring and support.      No one needs someone taking a “holier-than-thou” attitude simply because they've never found themselves in a similar situation.

Sure, a society as a whole needs to have a fundamental core of morals, ethics and acceptable values that allow us to live in peace and harmony as a 'tribal-unit.'      But, when we begin to over-impose our moralist belief systems onto other's situations without knowing all of the minutia, the baggage, and the history that brought them to that very place in time, we (whether intentionally or otherwise) are elevating ourselves to a superior role over the ones we are – dare I say it? – condemning, because their behavior doesn't fit nicely and neatly into our little “box-o-morals” that we have created for ourselves.

I have tried to adopt a “live-and-let-live” attitude, as long as the other's behavior does not directly affect me in a seriously harmful, or otherwise damaging, way.      Many of my readers know that my father is a Baptist minister – conservative to the nth degree.      Perhaps my overly-accepting attitudes were first formed from mere rebellion but, over time, I learned to accept people simply for what they were – regardless of any label that society may have used to attempt to pigeon-hole them.

My circle of friends and acquaintances are about as widely diverse as you could imagine.      But, each one entered my life simply on their own merit and personality.      I view relationships with blinders on – blinders to race, creed, color, religion, sexual preference, moral situation, economic status, or any other fact that might prevent someone else from ever taking the opportunity to know them simply for who they are – a human being, and a potential friend.

Judgmental attitudes, over time, only serve to make you bitter and uncompassionate for the plights, foibles and hard times experienced by those around you.      I'm not saying I'm perfect – FAR FROM IT – but I try to accept people simply for who they are, not for what they do.

While everyone will eagerly (for example) take all of the latest quizzes that are posted as links to the [xxxxxxxx] site, thinking nothing of the results that these quizzes return, based upon the answers that each one provides, sometimes their views and comments on similar topics in other areas are in direct conflict to what they were *giggling* about when the quiz results called them "this" or "that."      If it is "only-a-quiz," that's one thing; but, if it's someone's real life, that something else entirely???      So, does that make it okay to judge someone else's situation when you don't have all the facts?      I'm just trying to understand the difference . . .

Originally published Friday May 23, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

Farm Livin' Is The Life For Me ...

2004-09-03T15:40:00.000-04:00

“Well life on a farm is kinda laid back,

ain't much an old country [girl] like me can't hack.

It's early to rise, early in the sack:

Thank God I'm a country [girl].” *

Were the hassles of this move worth it?      Amazingly enough, after all we have been through, I still have to say, “Yes!”      And, “hassles” do NOT even begin to describe the weeks of pure, unadulterated hell we have been through simply trying to make this move – a move that should have occurred in February, but just finally occurred last week.

The day before closing, the moving company arrived to begin loading us.      We had obtained estimates from six (6) moving companies and all six, although not within a close dollar amount, were ALL within one hundred (100) pounds on the estimation of the weight of our entire household, including the entire basement, which held my s.o.'s complete woodworking shop (that translates to large, heavy tools -- think Norm Abram's New Yankee Workshop!).      So, to lessen the costs of the move CONSIDERABLY, my husband rented a 24' U-Haul, hired one of his employees, and they packed up my husband's entire workshop, and most of the basement (which consisted of boxes we had already packed and stored there), plus a riding lawn mower and other assorted tools, lawn equipment, etc.      The estimation of the U-Haul poundage was MUCHO-HEAVY, to say the least.

The moving company only had to load the main level and upper level living areas, all of which were already packed in boxes, with the exception of furniture.      I-N-C-O-M-P-E-T-E-N-T does not even begin to define this group of five IDIOTS who were supposed to be loading our belongings.      The “job-boss” was inventorying the house, attaching inventory stickers to all boxes, furniture, etc., and listing each item, along with any defects, damages, etc., that he noticed prior to loading.

At one point during the day, I went upstairs and found the upper portion of my grandmother's 100-year-old antique dresser lying in the floor in three pieces along side the curved arms and swivel mirror.      Now, that morning when I woke up, the upper portion of my grandmother's 100-year-old antique dresser was a single decoratively carved curved back piece that connected the two arms and supported the mirror, and was attached to the base of the dresser!

I walked outside to find my s.o., who was loading the U-Haul, to tell him about the dresser, and I saw my grandmother's 75-year-old antique chair in the front yard waiting to be loaded on the truck.      Now, I had placed a sign on the inside back of this chair – in very large letters – which read, "VERY FRAGILE -- HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE."      As I walked out of the front door, I saw one of the movers grab the chair by both arms and jerk it up roughly, at which time he literally snapped the left arm of the chair completely off.      I walked over to the "job-boss" and said, "He just BROKE my grandmother's antique chair!" to which the guy replied, "Oh, well."

I won't go on – but suffice it to say, the movers were totally incompetent, destructive, completely disrespectful and unprofessional (and, this was a franchise of a national moving company, not some local fly-by-night deal).      After they had left, we found several boxes throughout the house that they had simply failed to even load onto the truck.      We had to try to find some way to pack them into our vehicles, which was no small feat, as I had already packed my convertible with items I did not want the movers to touch, and it was at maximum capacity already.      My s.o.'s pick-up truck was loaded as well, and the U-Haul was packed – floor to ceiling, front to back – with our entire basement.      And, the next day, I would be driving our Jeep with a ½ filled aquarium full of fish, pet carriers with five cats, and two rambunctious dogs.

On settlement day, the buyers were supposed to be at our house at 8:00 a.m. for a walk-through prior to us going to a 9:00 a.m. closing (we had back-to-back closings on the sale of our house and the purchase of the farm).      The buyers “said” they could not be present at a 9:00 a.m. closing, but would go to the settlement office at noon to sign the papers.      Since we were scheduled for 9:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m. closings, we were also scheduled to meet the moving company at the farm at noon for the unload.      Do you think things went as scheduled?      FAT CHANCE on that!

The buyers and buyers' agent didn't arrive until 8:30 a.m., and we had to leave to make our 9:00 a.m. closing.      At closing, the buyers' agent calls and starts complaining about the most STUPID stuff imaginable!      We had a personal mirror (not affixed to the wall with mirror mastic or permanently attached in any way) in the downstairs powder room, which we removed because it was OURS, which we brought with us when we moved in.      The agent said that we had to return it or they would not sign the closing papers.      We attempted to explain that it was a personal item; not a permanent fixture of the house.      The agent began screaming that we were trying to "rip-them-off," and he hung up on us.      He called back moments later and said they would close, but only if we replaced the mirror with a "like" fixture, and to ensure that would happen, they were holding back $200.00 in escrow to assure that we replaced the mirror.      There was much screaming, yelling, and cursing back and forth between their agent and ours, and the agent hung up, again.

Then, he phones back once more – this time complaining about missing lights from the deck.      The "lights" he was referring to were decorative solar lights, which were NOT permanent fixtures, not wired in any way to the deck, were used in conjunction with our deck furniture and furnishings, and were NOT part of the contract.      Once again, he starts threatening not to close.

Needless to say, our closing on the sale of the house was delayed more than an hour and a half.      The clock is ticking, and the truck is already in route to the farm for delivery of our furniture and other household items.      I called the moving company and am informed that if I am not there to meet the truck, I will be charged $80.00 per hour for every hour the truck has to wait.      Then, more “good-news” (said with loads of sarcasm!); the closing paperwork for the purchase of the farm hasn't been received from the mortgage company.      Our agent calls the agent for the seller and is able to work out a deal (amazing, in and of itself!) for us to move in and close the following day, if necessary.      During this time, we're in the process of tracking down a mirror to replace our personal one that we removed from the powder room of the house we're selling (just to try to make things go smoothly) when the settlement package for the farm comes into the settlement office.      Of course, the settlement office has to do some additional paperwork after the package is received so, … tick, tick, tick, tick … the truck is heading to the farm and the dollars are racking up on a "wait" charge . . .

Finally, all the papers are signed, I pick up the cats, dogs, and fish and head southwest to the farm.      At the same time, my s.o. is at the old house installing a mirror in the powder room.      Now, GET THIS!      The buyers return to the house, say the mirror is "fine," and tell my s.o., "it was nothing against us" -- they just "hated" our Realtor!      My s.o. said, even so, all their complaining only made it bad for us, and had no effect whatsoever on our Realtor.      Talk about unexplainable behaviour!

When I arrive, the trucks are waiting and the “job-boss” informs me that they cannot begin to unload until I pay them.      The woman I dealt with at their company throughout the entire process had told us from day one, up to that very morning when we called her about the delay, that they would take a personal check as long as it was drawn on a local bank.      When I took out my checkbook, the "job-boss" tells me that he cannot take my check.      I explained to him that "Kathy" had said I could write a personal check because it is drawn on a local bank, and he whips out his cell phone and calls his supervisor.      His supervisor tells him that, under NO circumstances are they to take my personal check.

The "job-boss" hands me the phone and the supervisor and I spend a few minutes of "quality-time" discussing exactly what I think of their company, the fact that their representative (Kathy) has told us (repeatedly) that we could write a personal check, that they were overcharging us by at least $1,000.00 over the original quoted price since my s.o. packed and moved the basement himself, that his employees broke several pieces of my antiques, and that by holding my belongings "hostage" on the truck, they were basically committing extortion, especially since -- amazingly-enough -- the weight they are "claiming" the trucks weighed in at is EXACTLY the weight quoted during the initial estimate (which included the basement)!      At that time, my s.o. arrives and I hand him the phone.      The supervisor, it turns out, is actually the owner of the company.      He tells my s.o. that I am a "bitch" who will, more than likely, stop payment on the check, and he isn't about to take a personal check from us.      The "reason" he has labeled me a "bitch" is because the day before -- after his employees broke two of my grandmother's cherished antiques, plus left their lunch messes all over my kitchen for ME to clean up, I called Kathy to complain.      I guess complaining about employees who break items they are paid to be taken care to move and leave messes makes you a "bitch."      WHO KNEW?      My s.o. informed him that we wouldn't do something so devious as to stop payment on a check -- we would be up front and sue them in court!

Anyway, finally, by "securing" our personal check with a credit card, they began unloading our stuff.      Now, I took the time to write the name of the room that each box went into on the top and all four sides of EVERY box I packed.      And, I don't write small (over-compensation for low self-esteem -- wouldn't Freud love me?!?!?).      In addition, many of the items were to be temporarily stored in the studio building out back BUT, I spent the entire time these guys were unloading sitting on the front porch, checking off each item from a checklist that they gave me (FORCED ME) to complete, and on occasion instructed them on the items that were to be put into the studio as those items came off of the truck.      Now, although the studio is to the left and behind the house, it isn't a long walk, so it wasn't like it was any big deal.      About half way through the unload, they brought off our refrigerator -- a brand new fridge -- $1,400.00 -- which they refused to bring into the house and swap out with the one already in the house.      So, I instructed them to just put it into the studio, along with the upright freezer they had just put in as well.

About fifteen minutes prior to finishing the unload, it began to rain.      They dashed in with the last of the boxes, handed me the final paperwork, and left.

My s.o. had left earlier to return the U-Haul and take his employee, who was helping out, back home.      When he arrived, he walked into the house … FURIOUS!      The movers had left our refrigerator sitting in the middle of the yard, in the rain!      They had not said a word to me about the fridge.      Not only that, they had left several other items in the yard as well.      They just didn't bother taking them all the way into the studio for storage.      In addition, upon leaving, the truck took off two limbs of a large old tree.      Yes!, that's called property damage!

The following day, instead of unpacking, we had to spend it moving boxes into the rooms that they actually went into.      I guess when a box is labeled "Kitchen Pantry Canned Goods," the best place to put it would be in the upstairs master bedroom.      And, when a wardrobe box is labeled "Clothes Master Bedroom Closet," the best place for that is in the kitchen.      Kitchen Dishes in the Living Room, Family Room Electronics in the Dining Room -- well, of course, you can see how the labeling can be SO misleading!

In case you're wondering -- I've contacted the State Attorney General's Office and have been told that I have grounds to file a formal complaint for fraud and extortion.      I've also contacted the Better Business Bureau.      I'm also suing for property damage in small claims court.      You don't mess with this fiery Irish lass without getting a fight on your hands!

And, all of this was just the FIRST day we moved in.      You wouldn't believe what else has happened in the week since we've been here.      Horrendous hassles galore!      But, as Scarlett says, "“I'm not going to worry about that today.      Tomorrow is another day."

With all of the hassles, headaches, ulcers, migraines, etc., the peace and tranquility of this 1898 Victorian farmhouse and acreage is AMAZING!      I've met the cows next door (even petted a few).      I have little baby flying squirrels nesting in my attic.      There are assorted birds in abundance.      The flowers are blooming everywhere.      The whole side yard is filled with trailing ivy.      The hundred-year-old maples in the front yard have canopied the entire yard.      We've already had a rainstorm that was music on the tin roof.

I may still be buried in boxes, but I'm in a place I can truly call "HOME!"

* Thank God I'm A Country Boy, sung by John Denver, written by John Martin Summers

Originally published Thursday May 15, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

Tin Roof ... Rusted ...

2004-09-01T15:26:00.000-04:00

Generally, you would expect to see sex, drugs, and rock & roll; or, at least, the hint of an elicit affair, a minor infraction that could be construed as illegal (or, at the very least, slightly immoral), or some such excitement emanating from my column, wouldn't you? -- AH-HA! -- I got your attention, didn't I???      Well, I hate to disappoint my fans, but it is simply a more mundane column this week.

You see - I'm in the midst of packing.      When I say, in the midst, I'm waist-high in boxes, that are filling every room of the house with only a rat's maze of a path to move from room to room.      Granted, there are certain things I have refused to pack until the very last minute - my computer, my AV system, and my DVD player but, sadly, those are slated for dismantling on Monday as well, since the movers arrive -- bright and early -- on Tuesday morning to begin loading the trucks for the move.

This move has been a hard lesson in dealing with S-T-R-E-S-S on both ends of the transaction.      Perhaps you've read some of my rantings on the boards about a bit of the suffering I've had to endure.      This is not even a 1/1,000th of the stressors that have faced us on the buying -- as well as the selling -- ends of these transactions (not to mention other stressors totally unrelated to the house transactions!)!      As many times as we have bought and sold houses, I've NEVER encountered people such as this (and, there have been a few whackos in the past!)!      Top that off with discovering just two weeks ago (after someone posted a link to the "National Registry of Sex Offenders" -- forgive me for not being able to give credit to the columnist who posted the link, I couldn't track down the link again while writing this column -- sorry!), that we are moving within three miles of a registered sex offender -- Oh, Joy!      Yes, that was LOADED with sarcasm!

We originally began our house-hunting in Pennsylvania (we're in the suburbs of D.C. but my s.o. has service centers located in three States and he travels extensively, so we can live practically anywhere in a reasonable circle of the Mid-Atlantic region), but after the turn-of-the-century homes with acreage we were looking at (that looked so good in the MLS listings) turned out to be such DUDS when we made the many treks to PA, we decided to look closer to where we live now.

Our Virginia Realtor, based upon our criteria, brought over several listings for us to view prior to scheduling a day to visit all of the ones we were interested in.      I made two stacks -- one was "possible options" and the other was "not interested."      I took the "not interested" stack and tossed them into the trash, and the Realtor made a list of the MLS numbers on the "possible options," left the listings with us, pulled the listings again when he returned to the office, and called to make appointments for us to visit each of the houses we chose to see.

On the day we were viewing houses, we had excluded several after viewing one because they were by the same builder and basically the same floor plan.      (I didn't want to look at new construction anyway but, I had to humor everyone else to get to see what I wanted to see.)      At that point, I said "We have only two more to see," (both of which were turn-of-the-century homes) and both my s.o. and the Realtor said, "No, we have three more to see."      I had the stack of listings in my hand and there were only two left.      I asked to see the listings that they had, and they had one of the listings that we had originally placed in the "not interested" stack and tossed in the trash the first night prior to the Realtor going back and re-pulling the MLS listings to make appointments.

I believe in SIGNS and took this as a sign that we were supposed to see this house, even though it did not meet our criteria.      As we pulled up in front of the house, I was mesmerized.

The semi-circular drive in front of the white picket fence let you take in the full view of the house that sits at least 250' back from the drive.      We walked up the sidewalk, and as we reached the front porch, the Realtor made a passing comment that he thought "This would be a great old house to scare children at Halloween!"      We walked up onto the porch and as he opened the door, it creaked open, and as I stepped across the threshold, I knew I was home.

The Victorian farmhouse was built in 1898.      It has six fireplaces (none of which are presently in working order - that will be a LOT of money to have those restored!).      The character and charm of the house, even though it hasn't been cared for in several years, still exists and will return with lots of TLC.      There is a lot of work to be done but, it will all be worth it in the end.      Behind the main house is a small guest house / studio, which I will eventually turn into my office / studio - but, it will take a lot of work and restoration to get it to a viable point as well.

As for the acreage, in the adjoining pasture, there is a barn that my s.o. will use for his woodworking shop - a'la Norm Abrams.      He makes great furniture, furnishings and accessories.      He'll be making more things along the lines of restoration and repair items in the months ahead.      The house, studio and barn all have tin roofs (ahhhhhhh!, I can't wait until it rains!!), and I keep hearing that Prince song in my head … Raspberry Beret:

I put her on the back of my bike

And-a we went riding

Down by old man Johnson's farm

I said now, overcast days never turned me on

But something about the clouds and her mixed

[[snip]]

The rain sounds so cool when it hits the barn roof

And the horses wonder who U are

Thunder drowns out what the lightning sees

The SIGNS kept coming from Day-One with this house.      Even though we should have moved two months ago, I never gave up on this house because of the SIGNS.      Remember that passing comment the Realtor made about Halloween?      When we returned to the car that first day after looking at the house, I took the MLS listing and looked over it again to get a bit more information on the house.      Imagine my surprise when I saw the date that it was listed for sale -- October 31st, 2002.      As we drove away, we were chatting about the house and, about a mile down the road, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a black cat dashed out across the road, right in front of our car.      When it passed to the other side of the road, it stopped and turned back to look at us.      It just sat there, looking at us, watching us, until we were out of sight.

Even though there have been MORE than a few roadblocks in our way during the last two months, it appears that, as of Wednesday, 05/07/03, everyone will be signing on the dotted lines, keys will be exchanging hands, and we will finally be able to move into our 1898 Victorian with the Spirits who have been waiting most patiently for our arrival . . .

Originally published Sunday May 04, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

Sincerely Yours, The Breakfast Club

2004-08-30T19:03:00.000-04:00

Hollywood calls it an "ensemble-cast."      We didn't call it anything - it just "was."      In any other space, place or time, this group of people would have never been friends.      I guess, if you had to compare it by Hollywood standards, it might be one cup "Big Chill, "two cups "St. Elmo's Fire," one and half cups "Breakfast Club," a half cup "Fatal Attraction," a half cup "Wayne's World," a dash of "Deliverance," and a huge dollop of "Twin Peaks" to add to the totally absurd flavor.      All of this was then tossed into a blender and mixed on the highest setting to blur the lines of demarcation even further.

I guess we were the ringleaders of it all, since everyone always ended up at our house.      Was it because we were the only ones with a house, instead of an apartment, at the time?      Or, was it because our fridge was always stocked, the pool table was always racked, the drinks were always cold, and the movies were always cued up and ready to go?      There was always "something" going on at least three or four nights a week at our house - card games, pool tournaments, movie-fests, cookouts, volleyball play-offs - something, all the time.

There was J.D. and Jennifer.      Not what you might call polished or refined.      They married very young and, by all standards, were your basic "white-trailer-trash."      J.D. raced short-track hot rods on the weekends, and got drunk practically every night.      Jennifer realized she made a mistake getting married so young when guys started paying attention to her where she worked.      Before then, she thought J.D. was the best she could do.      So she started seeing other guys on the side and, later on, began smoking pot every chance she got to try to escape her boring life.      J.D. liked to make passes at me when he was drunk (which was most of the time), and never aspired to do more than just enough to get by.

There was Wade.      He was the group's nerd.      He was not only funny, but also a little funny looking -- and smart, and artistic, and just an all-around great guy.      He never failed to make us laugh.      He did impressions that were totally amazing.      One that still cracks us up is when he combined Henrietta Pussycat from Mr. Roger's Neighborhood and Floyd the Barber from the Andy Griffith Show together.      It was an absolute RIOT!      But, he made the mistake of letting the group know that he was also a thirty-year-old virgin -- BIG MISTAKE!      Especially with this group!

There was Jackson.      He was un-ambitious, perpetually late, and never knew when to leave.      There were nights we finally just left him, glazed over in front of television, where we would find him still sitting the next morning.      He had a warped sense of humor, a caring heart, and we shared a lot of favorites - movies, music, food and drink.      He and I have probably seen "Texas Chainsaw Massacre II" and "Aliens" a total of fifty times each, only because we both think they're two of the funniest movies ever made!

There was Lynn.      Granted, she was beautiful, but she was battling the demons of her childhood and, having no self-esteem, she was totally self-absorbed and egocentric.      She wanted every guy to want her, and her actions made every girl hate her.      She's my cousin so I just ignored her when she acted like a prima donna (which was most of the time)!

There was David.      He didn't come around as often as everyone else because his wife wouldn't "let" him.      She didn't like us and didn't want him hanging around with us.      He was a walking contradiction if there ever was one.      To look at him, he was the vision of a strict military guy -- clean-shaven, buzz-cut, "yes, ma'am," "yes, sir," -- one of the Navy's finest.      But, he loved his alternative music -- his head-banging metal -- and played it at full volume until the windows on his little truck rattled from the noise, and all you could see was that buzz-cut head banging in time with the music.

There were others -- the fringe -- who came and went, but this was the basic core group.

We were from all different socio-economic, educational, even (original) geographical backgrounds, but we found ourselves in a situation just like Andrew Clarke, Brian Johnson, John Bender, Claire Standish and Allison Reynolds from The Breakfast Club.      We began to see the others apart from their stereotypes.      Just as Andrew was the jock, Brian was the geek, John was the criminal, Claire was the prom queen, and Allison was the psycho, we each found qualities about the others that changed our own lives forever.

In the "where-are-they-now" department:

One Christmas morning at 4:00 a.m., Jennifer got up, and with her purse, and one small bag with make-up, underwear, and an extra pair of jeans, she walked to the end of her driveway where someone picked her up and she left J.D. for good.      A few months later, she was in "the-wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time," and ended up in the car during a high-speed police chase.      When the driver crashed the car into a ditch, they both got out and ran.      Jennifer climbed a tree and eluded police capture for three days.      Finally, she was arrested and, since it was her first offense, she was only going to receive a suspended sentence and two months of weekend trash pick-up.      But, she slept in on the day of her hearing and the Judge issued a bench warrant for her arrest.      She spent eleven months and twenty-nine days in jail for failure to appear.

During this time, J.D. married the girl that he had always "forbidden" Jennifer to hang out with because she was such a "bad influence" and he supposedly "hated" her.      Turns out, he had been seeing her behind Jennifer's back all the while.      They're still married, with two kids, ta-boot!

As for Wade, he met a girl a few years older than him with a teenage son and, after dating for a little over a year, they were married.      He didn't realize that he was getting more than he bargained for with his "ready-made" family, and his stepson has cost him quite a few sleepless nights, and plenty of bail money.      He not only has a drug problem, but seems to find all sorts of new and creative ways to get arrested.      Although Wade's wife is a very nice person, she is definitely an enabler, and needs to cut the apron strings and make a choice between her husband and her now twenty-year-old son.

Jackson drifted for a while (probably, if truth be known, he's still drifting a bit).      He did meet and marry a girl a few years ago.      The problem was he didn't know her as well as he thought he did (especially considering they only dated a few months).      One night, during an argument, she stabbed him in the stomach.      Luckily, he didn't die - but he did file for divorce the next day.      He and I still keep in touch often and he's planning to ride his motorcycle up for a visit this summer.      We also have plans for an all-night movie-fest with "Texas Chainsaw Massacre II," "Aliens," "Wayne's World," and who knows what else on tap.

Lynn, even though she's my cousin, just isn't a very nice person.      She doesn't consider other people's feelings because she is too self-centered.      But, for all those years she was such a knockout, time does have a way of catching up, so to speak.      She is now seventy pounds heavier on a 5'2" frame, and looks fifteen years older than she really is!      Be careful whom you step on on your way up because, more than likely, you'll have to see those same people on your way back down!

David has had his share of heartbreak.      He, at least, did finally divorce the overbearing, domineering wife who controlled most of his life, but not before two children were born.      He loves his boys dearly but those child-support payments really take a chunk-o-change out of his paycheck every week.      He made a rebound mistake and married someone he met at work that gave new meaning to the word "psycho" although, compared to the rest of her family, she was the sanest of the bunch!      That lasted about two years or, as he says, "two of the longest years of [his] life."      During that time, he lost his mother to cancer, and his stepfather royally screwed him out of things of his mother's that David rightly deserved.      His stepfather gave them to a girlfriend he had been seeing behind David's mother's back all during her long illness and the horrors of chemo and radiation.      These days, he has been living with his current girlfriend and her two daughters for about a year now, but still longs for Andrea, whom he's never gotten over, even after all these years.

As for us … we've traveled extensively to exciting places, we've moved several times, we've gone through different incarnations - independently and as a couple, we've met and made new friends (never forgetting the old), we've changed jobs, we've experienced life in ways we never imagined in those innocent days so long ago, and we've evolved into older -- and, hopefully, wiser -- versions of ourselves . . . I do hope, though, that we didn't lose what made us "fit" so perfectly together as a group at that special point in time all those years ago!

". . . and these children that you spit on, as they try to change their worlds are immune to your consultations. They're quite aware of what they're going through . . ."
~ David Bowie

"Dear Mr. Vernon: We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it is we did wrong, but we think you're crazy for making us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us, as you want to see us: in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess, and a criminal. Does that answer your question?" ~ Sincerely yours, The Breakfast Club

Originally published Tuesday April 22, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

Uncertainty (or, Life Doesn’t Come With A Rule Book)

2004-08-28T18:52:00.000-04:00

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.      To keep our faces toward change and behave like free spirits in the presence of fate is strength undefeatable." ~ Helen Keller

"Obstacles cannot crush me; every obstacle yields to stern resolve." ~ Leonardo da Vinci

"When all else is lost, the future still remains." ~ Christian Bovee

"Experience is the hardest kind of teacher.      It gives you the test first, and the lesson afterward." ~ Anonymous

"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face.      You must do the thing you think you cannot do." ~ Eleanor Roosevelt

"Life is pleasant.      Death is peaceful.      It's the transition that's troublesome." ~ Isaac Asimov

To be totally honest, this is not the column I have been working on for over a week.      But, due to (as they say) "circumstances-beyond-my-control," it is the one that begged to be written.      I'm being totally bombarded from all sides with stressors that are seriously testing my fortitude and, at times, my sanity.

To further perpetuate my sense of helplessness, here's what my horoscope had to say today:

"The world seems to contain a limitless number of puzzles. As the Stars shine mysteriously upon you, every twist of the road seems to bring something new for you to ponder. Curiosity is completely cherished among the open-minded, isn't it? At a certain point, you'll have to stop asking new questions and start making sense of the answers that you've already collected. This may be just the first of many stages, but you're ready for whatever comes next."

If I'm SO ready for whatever comes next, why do I feel the need for a long primal scream, followed by major pharmaceuticals, to get me through the next several weeks/months that are looming ahead?      Just three short days ago, life -- although not perfect -- was not such a bad proposition.      It held some amazing prospects ahead (an upcoming move to an 1898 Victorian farmhouse with plenty of acreage, some exciting travel plans, some reconnecting with old friends, a Summer filled with new adventures that were sure to bring much writing and photography fodder, leisure activities only constrained by my choices of when/where to indulge in them, and no worries over the issues that many people do worry about -- such as steady income, financial security, health insurance, a decent retirement, investment options, etc.).      Now, within the blink of an eye, my world has been turned upside-down, and I could be facing a complete change in the lifestyle to which I've grown accustomed.

I (like many) do not deal well with situations-beyond-my-control, and that is EXACTLY what I currently find myself in.      The situations that will ultimately affect my immediate, and long-term, existence are, in essence, basically out of my control.      My personality is such that I cannot deal with others having an ability to disrupt my life and completely alter my life-path and (not-so-perfect, but reasonably enjoyable) existence with no ability on my part to stop the destruction.      My life (as some who have read some of my earlier columns already know) hasn't been all Cinderella/Fairytale perfection . . . so, to have what I consider a reasonably acceptable existence threatened is NOT an acceptable option -- yet -- how do I re-gain control over a situation that is beyond my control?

Some may be speculating over what these disruptions may be . . . it isn't something that can be easily explained.      In fact, it isn't even something that I am at a point where I can fully understand myself at this point in time, so it would be futile to try to "put into words" some type of explanation, as it would be impossible to communicate the depth or magnitude of the situation that lies before us.      It isn't divorce, or the loss of a job, or anything that "neatly" falls into that Life Stressors List but, instead, is a weird combination of things that could dramatically impact (and drastically reduce) annual household income, current employment, future employment, choice of vocation (present and future), living arrangements including city and state, and a wide variety of other factors as well.

Perhaps I should read this article more closely Identifying and Reducing Stress in Your Life to see if I can find some relief by "identifying" the stress.      Maybe if I can give it a name, I can better fight it???      Deep breathing isn't helping. Yoga isn't helping.      Meditation isn't helping.      Exercise isn't helping.      Eating right and reducing sugar, junk food, etc. isn't helping.      Yes, I'm praying.      Yes, I've telephoned my minister father and asked him to do the same.      Yes, I've telephoned my therapist and asked him to talk to my husband.      Yes, I've lit candles and asked for guidance from all around me.      My s.o. is asking advice from all of his friends and relatives, and "listening" for Divine Guidance from Above in any situation that he feels the Guidance is being spoken to him.      In my opinion, I think he is only "muddying-the-waters" by too much conflicting input . . . but what do I know???

Please, just don't let me return to an OLD bad habit … stress-eating, because that would be the (pardon-the-pun) icing on the cake of my stressor-filled life right now - STRESSED, and a BLIMP!

I am going to "attempt" to end this column on a UP note . . .

"For everything there is a season,

And a time for every matter under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

A time to embrace, And a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

A time to keep, and a time to throw away;

A time to tear, and a time to sew;

A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate,

A time for war, and a time for peace." ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

And, "If nothing ever changed, there'd be no butterflies." ~ Unknown

Now, if I could just possess the magic that Dorothy Gale had -- I would close my eyes, and click the heels of my ruby-red slippers together three times and say,

"There's no place like home,

There's no place like home,

There's no place like home!"

Originally published Wednesday April 16, 2003 (bw)
2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved.
Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life

What's Your Compulsion?

2004-08-26T18:13:00.000-04:00

There!, I said it! The "C" word. And, in recent years, it usually is always used in combination with the "O" word. No, NO!, Not those words! But, forget about the American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic Medical Reference definition for the term "obsessive-compulsive," and let's just see what our good old resource Merriam-Webster has to say:

com·pul·sion n.
a. An irresistible impulse to act, regardless of the rationality of the motivation.
b. An act or acts performed in response to such an impulse.

ob·ses·sion n.
a. Compulsive preoccupation with a fixed idea or an unwanted feeling or emotion, often accompanied by symptoms of anxiety.
b. A compulsive, often unreasonable idea or emotion.

So many otherwise regular John/Jane Does on the street want to label people with the phrase "obsessive-compulsive" as if every varying degree of this behavior is automatically a bad thing. How did a mass population of regular "Johns/Janes" obtain the necessary authoritative skill to arbitrarily label their fellow human beings in such a derogatory manner?

I don't need someone to point a finger in my direction. I will readily step up and say,

"Hello! My name is Kitty, and I'm prone to certain compulsions in varying degrees of an obsessive nature. Furthermore, I will also admit that some are basically harmless, while others, left unchecked, can (and will) venture into a more destructive path."

Probably some of my earliest recollections that might be construed as falling into this category was my passion for coloring books and crayons.      Yes, I think I might have been four or five at the time.      After I gained possession of the Holy Grail, better known as the Crayola Crayon 64 Count Box with the Built-In Crayon Sharpener in the back, each visit to the store meant a new coloring book.      And, not just any coloring book -- the decision took time, effort and a perusal of every book for sale on the rack, much to the dismay of my parents who had to wait impatiently for me to make my perfect selection.

And, when coloring, there were specific rules that had to be followed.      No more than one crayon could be removed from the box at a time so that it could be returned to the exact same location from which it was taken.      Color outside the lines?      Me?      Never!      Deviate from the colors used on the fronts and backs of the coloring books?      Never!      Let anyone else use my crayons or color in my books?      NEVER!      NEVER!      NEVER!

Teen years were all about purses and costume jewelry.      The more I had, the more I wanted.      Then, in my twenties, I discovered two new Holy Grails . . . silk scarves and designer shoes!      My best friend Rhonda and I would literally go on tri-state shopping sprees in a single day in search of the newest in designer shoes and scarves that no one else in town would have.      It was nothing to either of us to whip out the old charge cards and drop $100 here on a designer label silk scarf, or $300 there on the newest top name shoes.      Of course, we always had to toss in new outfits, jewelry, make-up, lingerie and assorted accessories to make the day complete.

At this point, I will admit this overspending -- most on 22% - 24% interest credit cards -- crossed the line into dangerous behavior indeed.      And, when my s.o. discovered my $18,000.00 credit card debt -- well, let's just say the proverbial **** hit the fan!      My wonderful, glorious, "thrill-of-the-hunt" shopping spree days were over, AND I was in debt up to my eyeballs!

And, during this time, in a less-than-amicable discussion (translate argument), my s.o. shouted, "I bet you have at least fifty pairs of shoes in your closet that you never even wear!"      Not one to be challenged, I immediately went upstairs to count my shoes and prove him wrong.      I had one hundred sixty-seven pairs of shoes, not counting sneakers, sandals and boots!      Uh-OH!      Time for a Twelve-Step Shoe-Addict Program!

This led to my next destructive compulsion -- overeating.      I dealt with the stressors in my life by "invisible" overeating . . . the kind that "didn't-count" because no one saw me doing it.      I ate in my car, I hid food, I ate alone at home, directly out of the refrigerator -- standing up, in front of the fridge, with the door open.      No dishes, no evidence, except for my ever-expanding waistline!      Logically, I knew my more destructive behaviors were just that -- DESTRUCTIVE -- but, try rationalizing with a personality that has compulsive tendencies that have no basis in logic or reason.

I'm the same way when I walk into a casino (which is why I usually avoid them)!      I know (logically) that I have x-number of dollars to gamble with and, if I increase my winnings, I should stop.      Or, in the alternative, if I lose, I should stop.      Does this mean I do?      Of course not!      Instead, I'm already scoping out the closest ATMs and keep gambling until someone literally drags me out of the casino -- usually penniless!

With so-called maturity      *cough-cough*      I've gained control over the more dangerous compulsions -- no more wild shopping sprees, no more compulsive overeating, no excessive gambling, no more chasing 'bad-boys' (oh, wait!, I didn't confess that one, did I?) -- but, there are still a few things I can't give up . . . I'm a total candle freak (Yankee and Trapp only), an avid bibliophile with a bulging, and ever-growing, library (now, mainly interior design books for work, forensic research books for 'lite' reading, and an array of self-help books *ha-ha*), loads of DVDs and CDs (I have wildly eclectic tastes in movies and music), and unusual police collectibles and memorabilia.      (Okay!, and an "occasional" overindulgence at Victoria's Secret!)      And, yes, I do check the stem on my wind-up alarm clock several times (seven, in fact, it's my "number") before falling asleep to make sure it really is pulled all the way out.

Does this mean I'm textbook "OCD?"

Probably not!

:rolleyes:

Adventures, French-Style!

2004-08-23T17:28:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I long for the naivety that youth so often afforded me.      I guess it was my severely strict upbringing that sheltered me from so much of the "worldly" things that many of my peers already knew at my age, but that naïve childlike innocence made everything an adventure!      And, oh, the adventures I had!

Granted, I was rebelling in a major way at this point in life.      My boyfriend "Doug," a police officer, was sixteen years older and married (oh, the scandal!), but we were what we both needed at that point in our lives, and "complimented" each other's insecurities and emotional absences like perfect pieces of a puzzle.      Sure, I had to endure his friends hitting on me all the time (I guess they assumed if I would date one married man, why not another?) but, finally, after several months together, it became obvious to everyone who knew us that Doug and I were inseparable, and what we had was "real" for us at that point in time.

When a new officer transferred into Doug's district, he made it very clear that he was interested.      I thought I made it perfectly clear that I wasn't.      But, "Mac" wasn't giving up so easily, it seemed.      He showed up where I worked practically every day, appeared seemingly out of nowhere when I would be driving home, or shopping, or whatever.      He called my house at all hours.      He was nothing, if not persistent.      Doug told me I should feel flattered, and just wait until he gave up.      I just felt uncomfortable because we all spent a lot of time "hanging-out" in the same social circles.

One day, Mac told me that he had been telling his wife Marilyn all about me, and that she was eager to meet me.      I didn't know how to react.      I told Doug this latest revelation.      He said I shouldn't be too concerned, but if I did agree to meet her, make sure it was in a public place.      Oh, Great!      Is this woman going to attack me for something I haven't even done with her husband?

I thought nothing more about it until I received a telephone call from Marilyn herself, inviting me to meet her for a drink.      She wanted to get to know me because Mac was always talking about "what a great gal" I was.      The phone call took me by such surprise that I heard myself agreeing to meet her the next evening for drinks at a local bar, even though I wasn't even of legal drinking age.

Admittedly, Doug had a warped sense of humor and found all of this hilariously funny, especially my increasing anxiety over whether I was walking into a meeting that could end in . . . I didn't even want to think of the possibilities.      Although I didn't know it at the time, Doug had arranged for two of his friends to be at the bar for 'back-up' for me in case anything got out of hand.

I arrived at the bar a little early but, when the hostess asked if I was meeting someone, and I said yes, she asked my name and showed me to a table.      A woman was already sitting there.      Awkward cannot even begin to describe how I was feeling, but Marilyn seemed quite cordial, even downright friendly, from the moment I arrived.

I sat down and immediately ordered a drink -- a white Russian -- and waited for her to speak.      She started off with idle chitchat, as if we were two girlfriends just catching up after not seeing each other in quite a while, instead of two women who had never even met before.      She "seemed" harmless enough, but there was a gnawing uneasiness in my stomach, and I downed the drink and quickly ordered another.

She began by telling me how much Mac was "smitten" with me, and how she wanted to meet the girl who had caused her husband to become so infatuated.      Before I could defend myself, she told me not to worry, that she could see why Mac was so attracted to me.      And, that the reason for asking to meet me was that she had a "favor" to ask of me.

"Oh, waitress, another drink, please - and, make this one a double!"

It seems that Mac was having a birthday soon and, when she had asked him what he wanted for his birthday, he had said he wanted -- ME!      So, being the loving wife she was, Marilyn decided to give him what he wanted.      Her only question was whether I preferred her to only watch, or would I mind if she joined in?

Once I had picked my jaw up off of the floor, and ordered yet another drink, "double, if you please," I was still speechless as to how to answer such a question.      Finally, my vocal chords began to work again, and I looked this woman straight in the eye and said, "You'll have to find something else for your husband for his birthday.      I'm not interested.      Thanks for the drinks."

Just then, the waitress arrived with my latest drink order.      I snatched the glass from her tray before she could sit it down and slammed it in one gulp.      I stood up, feeling stone cold sober, walked out of the bar and to my car.      I drove straight home and went straight to bed.      Needless to say, Doug and I did NOT attend Mac's birthday party.      We did hear that there was "paid" entertainment that stayed throughout the night.

Luckily, I only encountered Marilyn on two other occasions after that night and, both times, were when Doug and I were together.      Okay, at nineteen I may not have been a saint - but I wasn't that much of a sinner, either!

Seven All Over Again

2004-08-19T11:14:00.000-04:00

We all carry emotional baggage.      How much, and to what extent, depends upon a wide variety of factors.      And, we all deal with our pasts in our own ways, ways that may or may not work for us, but ways that have become our coping mechanisms nonetheless.      What may seem overwhelming to some may seem trivial to others, and vice-versa.

In this fast-paced, high-tech world, where success is only limited by one's quantity of desire, ambition, motivation, aggressiveness and hunger for the power, prestige, fame, recognition or the almighty dollar, it is still amazing that out there -- somewhere -- is someone who can transform even the most self-assured, successful professional into an insecure seven year old all over again.      And, who is to say what someone else's trigger may be?      It could be a word, a phrase, a look, or simply a careless comment that evokes a flood of emotions.

Whether the original pain came from a parent, the schoolyard, or wherever, we have to take responsibility ourselves in the here and now for how we deal with the memories those current triggers evoke.      I, for one, could easily use plenty of cop-outs and place blame on others for many situations in my life.      Granted, many of the situations (at the time) were out of my control but, now, I have to take control of both my emotions, as well as my emotional reactions to current situations, and deal with set-backs without reverting to that insecure seven year old who couldn't face the demons that were all around her.

As a child, we were poor.      And, as an only child who was described as quite gifted and precocious, frail and over-protected, artistic and overly emotional, I had to deal with over-achieving at school, although not being able to do many of the extra things that my over-achieving could have garnered, because we didn't have the money for any of the "extras."      The other students in school treated me differently because I not only made straight A's, but also was very artistic.      Yet, I still never met my father's standards for utter perfection.

Therefore, my father was overly critical of me, as well as physically abusive (which now I understand was only a legacy reaction from his own abusive childhood, and my father and I now have a very good relationship).      Living in this environment would have been difficult for any child but, as a child who was expected, even by the tender age of four, to act as an adult, the stress and disappointment of missing out on so many childhood activities still carry long term effects.

I was always quiet and withdrawn, even more so once I reached my teens.      At the age of fourteen, I was the victim of a gang rape at school by a group of all-star athletes.      Fearing my father's reaction, I went to our youth minister at church who accompanied me to school to speak with the principal.      We were told, basically, that "boys-will-be-boys," and that it would be my word against all of theirs, and the school had no plans to "ruin" the chances of these boys getting sports scholarships into colleges just because of my accusations.      Furthermore, these boys were from "fine-upstanding" families, so who did I think I was to cause problems?

[As a side note: a brother of one of the perpetrators was arrested in Texas a few years later (also) for rape, and the subsequent murder of a police officer who caught him in the very act. He was sentenced to death and was executed in May of 1994 - nice, fine upstanding family, indeed! As a further side note: my parents knew nothing of the rape until three years ago (many years after the fact), and they shouldn't have even found out then but … things happen]

My father was also a minister ("spare-the-rod-spoil-the-child") so, in addition to these traumas which were unspoken and totally internalized, I was not allowed to date, not allowed to wear make-up, not allowed to drive, and not allowed to get a job -- basically, I was a prisoner in my own house until the age of eighteen.      I guess that's where my writing truly flourished on all those lonely nights locked in my bedroom, dreaming of the day when a knight in shining armor would finally carry me away from all of my pain and sadness.      Just so you know - those knights do NOT exist!

Childhood and adolescence alone could be the crutch I use to whine about my life -- but I refuse to let age-old circumstances beyond my control take control of my current situations.      We are all responsible for our own choices in life - our choices that we make TODAY!

Each day, each choice, is merely a fork in the road -- you have two choices . . . do you take the left fork, or the right?      Once you've made the choice, you travel a little farther and, once again, you're faced with another fork in the road.      Each choice building, one upon the other, forming and transforming your life, making you uniquely the person that you are and, ultimately, the person you will become.

Good luck on your journey . . .
perhaps I'll meet you somewhere along the road . . .

Honor Among Thieves

2004-08-17T11:30:00.000-04:00

Although this movie was released in 1992, it truly should be considered a classic by anyone with twisted standards for enjoyable cinematic entertainment.

Review / Movie:   Reservoir Dogs
Pros:   A unique blend of humor and violence
Cons:   Not for the overly-squeamish
Plot Details:   This review reveals minor details about the movie's plot

Take eight parts ensemble cast.      Add in very limited resources.      Stir in loads of obscenities and graphic violence.      Mix with a killer 70's soundtrack and unexpected traces of dry-witted humor.      Shake well and you have ... Reservoir Dogs.

This debut (indie) film by the then unknown video clerk, now the well-recognized and respected actor / writer / director Quentin Tarantino, gives hope to all those who envision the bright lights of Hollywood.

As the story unfolds - layer-by-layer - in a sequence of flashbacks, you meet each character in the same layer-by-layer fashion.      In overview, you quickly see that this ensemble of quirky gents, with their nondescript black suits and starched white shirts, are definitely not a meeting of accountants.

Long-time crime boss Joe Cabot (portrayed in gruff demeanor by Lawrence Tierney), and his less-than-ambitious protégé to the business, his son, "Nice Guy" Eddie (with the insightful casting of Christopher Penn), are planning yet another caper in their fastidious and painstakingly detailed style.      In each caper organized by Joe, he "exhorts" anonymity and insists on code names for each chosen 'player.'

Joe's latest jewel heist assembles Mr. White, a criminal with an ultimate conscience (portrayed in true multi-talented fashion by Harvey Keitel); Mr. Blonde, an ex-con with a maniacal streak (dead-on target by Michael Madsen); Mr. Pink, in conflict over the moniker he received (played in impeccable whining glory by the amazing Steve Buscemi); Mr. Blue, who seems to just be 'biding-his-time' (astutely played by Eddie Bunker); Mr. Brown, rivaling Mr. Pink with his off-the-wall tangents (finely nailed by Quentin Tarantino himself); and, newcomer to the Cabot capers, Mr. Orange (given depth and drama by Tim Roth).

Exploring the old adage, "Honor among thieves," the jewel heist - thwarted by a police ambush (and raising questions of an informant) - finds the thieves regrouping in an abandoned warehouse to sort out the situation and decide how to proceed.

The soundtrack, in its entirety, is aces ... but, the scene which utilizes Steeler's Wheel's "Stuck In The Middle With You," although not for the squeamish, should not be missed!

If you haven't guessed already, I LOVED this movie!

Cops DO Have A Sense Of Humor!

2004-08-12T12:31:00.000-04:00

The "thin blue line" denotes the brother/sister-hood of police officers that are on duty "to-protect-and-to-serve."    Having been given an opportunity to cross that blue line and become privy to many of the things that most people never see, I have plenty of stories I could tell.    But, most I never will, because that was part of the trust and honor I received when I was allowed to cross that proverbial line.    But, the story I am about to tell is one that is worth telling, just for the humor of it all.

Please note: *the names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Back before the latest in modern technology filtered down to the smaller municipalities, our police department was still either tethered to the 2-way radio in the patrol car, or carrying the huge 2-way walkie-talkie type radios when they exited the car.    And, back-in-the-day, there was a lot of, shall-we-say, extracurricular activities among many of the officers, both on and off-duty.

One officer in particular, let's call him Bert* had a favorite lady who catered to his two most desired activities - food and sex.    On one occasion, Jan* called dispatch and left a message for Bert.    When dispatch asked him to switch channels for a message, a couple of the other officers switched to the other channel as well.    They heard dispatch give Bert a land-land number to call and they all recognized it as Jan's number.

When Bert called Jan, she asked if he wanted to meet for a picnic and a little afternoon delight.    Of course, Bert (a portly sort) was never one to turn down food or sex, so he was immediately up for both.    He told Jan he would meet her at their special spot in half an hour.    Jan packed her picnic basket and dashed off in anticipation of another sweaty rendezvous.

As Bert was arriving, he called dispatch with a code seven, meaning he was taking his lunch break.    He then casually tossed the microphone over into the passenger seat when he rounded the corner and saw Jan's car waiting for him.    Jan bounded out of her car, over to the patrol car, with her picnic basket in hand and jumped into the front passenger seat.

After a quick kiss and in the midst of a brief chat, Jan began to bring out all she had prepared for lunch.    She leaned over and placed a sandwich on Bert's leg, and had turned to pull out more food when the sandwich fell from Bert's leg onto the floorboard of the patrol car.    Bert reached over, picked it up, and proceeded to raise it to his mouth.    To which, in horror, Jan shouted, "You're not going to put that nasty thing in your mouth, are you?"

As soon as the words had left her lips, Bert looked down and saw the green light on his 2-way radio was illuminated.    When Jan had gotten into the car and sat on the microphone, she had inadvertently "keyed" the mike.    The entire conversation had been broadcast across that channel, picked up by every other patrol car in that sector.

Horror, panic and total embarrassment filled Bert down to his toes, and he immediately shouted at Jan, "Say sandwich, dammit!    Say, SANDWICH!"

Of course, cops are notorious for "ragging" on someone when they have something embarrassing to hang over their head.    Poor Bert suffered the cruel teasing for months, with his fellow officers eager to share the story with all of their friends (which is how I came to be privy to all the details).

A few months later, when Bert thought the whole ordeal had finally died down, he managed to add insult to injury that would live on in stories for years to come.

Bert received a call from dispatch and, when dispatch asked him to switch channels for a message, a couple of the other officers switched to the other channel as well.    Again, they heard dispatch give Bert a land-land number to call and they all recognized it as Jan's number.    They had been planning this for weeks and, now, it seemed the plan was finally going to come together.

Six officers were going to pull the ultimate shrek on Bert and had all their secret codes calculated far in advance, so that no one would know what they were talking about when they were keeping in contact via the police 2-way radio.    The first step was to pinpoint Bert's location.    So, one of the officers called for a Sector twenty report, which requires all patrol cars to call in with their car number and current location.

Once they knew where Bert was, one officer was sent to keep tabs on him and keep the other officers informed of his movements by the predetermined codes.    The officer found Bert at a pay phone, presumably calling Jan to arrange the rendezvous.    When Bert headed out, the officer followed a safe distance behind, assuming Bert was heading to he and Jan's usual meeting place.    He made a benign radio call which disclosed the information the other officers needed and they all converged on the meeting place.    Remaining just out of visual range, two of the officers exited their patrol cars, and went on a reconnaissance mission.

Due to Bert's girth, as well as all of the equipment and miscellaneous assortment of paraphernalia located in the front seat of a patrol car, the back seat was the only place for a little afternoon la vite.    Bert and Jan opened both back doors (remember, this is a patrol car!), and shed their clothes into a pile on the floorboard.    The two officers, on their bellies like a pair of infantry soldiers, moved invisibly to either side of the car.    One grabbed the clothes undetected and, then, with quick eye contact between them, slammed the doors simultaneously, stood up, and double keyed their mikes twice.

On cue, four patrol cars, with light flashing and sirens blaring, began circling the stranded patrol car with two startled inhabitants locked in the back seat, helpless and naked.    It would be several, several minutes -- which for Bert and Jan probably seemed like hours -- before they were finally set free from the back of the car, given their clothes and left alone.

FOOTNOTE: I don't know if this was the "last-straw" for Bert, or if he just knew it was time to move on before his wife discovered the existence of Jan.    Shortly thereafter, he left the police department and spent years moving from job to job, never really finding his place in the world.    After divorcing his first wife and remarrying a few years later, he moved north, found a good job, and was doing well (or, so he said).

Sadly, he passed away, on the toilet, one Christmas morning.    I guess it was the final irony to his life.

But, Bert, wherever you are - we still miss you!

The Ghosts In The Parlor

2004-08-10T15:41:00.000-04:00

While visiting relatives who had recently moved to a new city, I had an opportunity to take a scenic drive around the outskirts of town.      We were driving down a winding lane when, suddenly, up ahead on the right, I saw it!      Situated on a grassy knoll, almost hidden by the stately grove of trees, was a wonderful turn-of-the-century, three-story treasure.

As we made our way closer and closer, that's when I heard them ... the guests, calling out my name.      I immediately edged the car off onto the shoulder - much to the surprise of my passenger.      When she inquired, I asked, "don't you hear them calling us?"      Before she could answer, I grabbed my cameras and ran toward the house.      I envisioned a party to which I was arriving fashionably late.

As I approached the house, I was surprised to see all that had eluded me from the road.      Not only was the paint chipping away from the clapboards, but the clapboards were also pulling away from the structure itself.      And, how did I miss this before?      The front porch was completely gone (with the exception of the support columns which were disintegrating right before my very eyes).

Who could be playing such a cruel joke?      I could still hear the voices calling me ...

I'll just peek into the windows -- I know the guests are merely hiding.

That's when the realization hit me -- when I saw the crumbling plaster and the peeling wallpaper ... when I saw the buckled floorboards and the dangling mouldings ... I knew!

It wasn't the guests who were calling ... It was the ghosts in the parlor ...

Contemplation

2004-08-08T16:59:00.000-04:00

Way back in the groovy Sixties -- in the days of free love, new drugs and psychedelic music -- taking "trips," and contemplating the mysteries of the universe by staring intently at your navel, was all the rage.

*something as simple as a dandelion could mesmerize us for hours*

Has contemplation been edged out by the fast-paced, technological twenty-first century age?    Granted, I'm not advocating the return to navel-gazing (that is, unless your navel actually DOES hold the grand secrets of the universe!).    What I am suggesting is a variation of the tired, old cliché -- "take time to smell the roses."

Whether your pause for contemplation comes from nature -- viewing a sunrise, watching a sunset, surveying the billions of stars in a night sky -- or something so simple as watching a child at play -- find your center for contemplation and visit there often.

The world today, with all its digital-this and e-that, cannot sustain our need to look inward from time to time.    In an age where there is no longer free love, or freedom from consequences for abuse of any kind, now -- more than ever -- we need the respite that contemplation brings.

And, if inspiration is eluding you, pull out the bell-bottoms, the tie-dyes, the beads and the incense.    Crank up the phonograph and toss on a Jimi Hendrix vinyl.    Lean forward and take a peek.    Perhaps the answers CAN BE found in your navel.

Television Skewed Our Views Of Reality

2004-08-05T09:48:00.000-04:00

America Puts These Shows In The Top-Ten Week After Week?

Petticoat Junction -- who wants to be getting their town's water supply from the same place three chicks and a scruffy dog are lathering up -- in a place called Hooterville, for Heaven’s sake?      Jeez!, Kate Bradley ran the Shady Rest Hotel -- didn't the hotel have bathroom facilities for its guests?      What did the guests who stayed there do for bathing, and other necessary bodily functions?      And, what kind of mother was Kate Bradley anyway?      Why did her three daughters have to strip naked and contaminate the town's water supply -- with that scruffy dog in tow, no less?

Gilligan’s Island -- this was a three-hour tour -- THREE HOURS!      Forget about why a millionaire and his wife would bring a trunk-load of clothes, money, jewels, golf clubs, etc. onto a tiny chartered boat for a three-hour tour.      WHY would they be on a tiny, chartered boat in the first place?      They're millionaires!      They own everything else.      Where is their yacht, fully staffed, navigationally ready, and twenty times the size of the tiny S.S. Minnow?

And, this movie star (forget about where all of her clothes are coming from!) -- why wasn't she lounging on the deck of some producer's yacht, sipping martinis and doing what starlets do to make sure they're in the newest movie coming out?      At least the Skipper, Gilligan and the Professor wore the same clothes, day in and day out -- although, I wonder just "what" they were wearing while the "girls" were doing the laundry?      (how stereotypical and sexist was that task?)

And, last but not least, after the first few times Gilligan screwed up, why didn't everyone learn to quit assigning him part of the "plan" to help get them off the island?      Just sit him down under a palm tree, out of everyone’s way, and pull off all of those brilliant plans WITHOUT Gilligan’s help.      I didn't think he was that much of a screw-up; everyone else was at fault to keep giving him something of major importance to do in the first place!

Ahhhh, The Brady Bunch -- If Mike Brady was such a smart and successful architect, how come they lived in a sprawling main level house -- living room, dining room, kitchen, breakfast room, family room, maid's quarters, Mike’s home office – but, on the split-level pseudo-second floor, six kids were crammed into two small bedrooms and sharing one tiny bathroom with duel access entry?      What kind of architect is THAT?

And, if I were Jan, I would NOT have put up with Marcia being "Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes" act all of the time -- she should have just decked her!

The Love Boat - Captain Stubing's short pants and knee socks aside, he sure made the rounds on the Pacific Princess, meeting and greeting.      On all the cruises I've been on, I've only briefly glimpsed the captain once each cruise as he was introduced during mandatory safety instructions the first night aboard.

And, what was with Isaac Washington -- was he cloned?      He turned up in every bar, on every deck, at any time of the day or night.      Burl "Gopher" Smith was the Gilligan of the large sea-faring vessel -- causing everyone to shake their heads in disbelief at his stupid schemes, and Captain Stubing to bellow "SMITH" at the top of his lungs several times during the voyage.      Perky Julie McCoy, Cruise Director -- our cruise directors were never anywhere but in pre-determined spots, usually with some sort of barricade in between them and the guests with a microphone to make their instructions heard.      And, I doubt they knew ANY of the guests by name.      Adam "Doc" Bricker, the consummate ladies' man??      Did anyone buy this?? -- you'd better have your credit card and a real medical emergency if you ever wanted to see the doctor aboard any of our cruises.

The Love Boat would have you believe that the ship's head crew is there, waiting to greet you as you board, and there again to bid you a fond farewell as you depart.      Most of the time, you never see the same crew-person twice.      Most of the time, communication is quite difficult in that most only speak a limited amount of English as they are from practically any and every country around the world (usually with the exception of the U.S.).

Trust me – the list could go on, and on, and on . . . Rerun from What's Happenin’?      Yeah, he's a high-school kid, sure!      Jack Tripper living with two girls on Three's Company in a strictly platonic relationship?      Yeah, I believe that!      Well, you get the idea.

Saving Graces, Redeeming Values and Real Entertainment!

Hill Street Blues brought raw, real police drama to television for the first time ever.      The complexities, the underlying issues, the personal problems, everything that affected the job -- including the job -- were dealt with in layer upon layer of character exploration.      It sent chills down my spine every time Sgt. Philip Freemason Esterhaus would utter those words, "Now, let’s be careful out there."      Being privy to the "inside" of police work during the time of this show, this show was more than an accurate depiction of many of the "average-Joe" cops I knew.

Even though Barney Miller was classified as a comedy, it had a dark gritty undertone that gave it credence as a depiction of a viable Precinct in New York City's Greenwich Village with an array of eccentrics interacting with the multi-ethnic detectives (representing Jewish, Puerto Rican, Polish, Asian, African-American), and women (Linda Lavin and June Gable).      The humor usually had some sort of "edge" to it.      And, even as you were laughing, you were seeing the reality underneath.

I am a totally addicted Law and Order fan -- TOTALLY!      From the original series, to L&O, Special Victims Unit, to probably my all-time favorite, L&O Criminal Intent, Law & Order brings the dimensions of the crime to light from both sides of the investigation, and doesn't always wrap it up into a neat little package in the end.      Each of Dick Wolf's creations stands on its own, with just enough of the same glue of gritty reality to let each one play off the other if necessary.

Pure Velveeta -- Cheesy Then, Still Cheesy Now

Star Trek (the original series), even for the 60's, had some of the worst set design in the history of television.      And, it is no wonder that the other cast members resented Shatner -- Jeez!, his monologues were so monotonous, and his overacting was obscene!      I saw a bit once by The Groundlings comedy troupe where they did "every episode of Star Trek in three minutes."      It was utterly hilarious!      At one point, an alien stopped Kirk in the midst of a rambling with this statement, "SHUT UP, KIRK!, You go on, and on, and on!"

I could have taken a group of second-graders, given them an art-box filled with glue sticks, rolls of felt, construction paper, and a few odds-n-ends, and probably gotten the same caliber of set design as the original ST series.

With that said, I absolutely LOVED the show!      Cheese and all!

Television -- it is an everyday part of most of our lives . . . just HOW influenced have we been, and are we still, by what we see on television?      What commentary on our lives does television provide to those around us?

WHAT a Reason to be Detained by Airport Security

2004-08-03T10:31:00.000-04:00

I admit it.      I’m a bit anal-retentive when it comes to packing a carry-on bag for traveling. I worry that the airlines will lose my luggage (after many travels *knock on wood* my bags have only been delayed by hours or days, never forever lost – Thank Heavens!).      But, I always worry that I will be without some critical item when I reach my destination.      So, the task of packing my carry-on has been perfected down to a very fine art.

In mid-December, we were heading to Boston, MA for the weekend, and a very special Christmas party.      Flying out of BWI (Baltimore/Washington International), I checked my large bag and headed toward the security gate with my carry-on in tow.      Granted, the airport was bustling with early holiday travelers, as well as added security.      Needless to say, there were lots of people in the airport that day.

Perhaps I should explain the usual contents of my carry-on . . . my Franklin Planner (I never leave home without it!), a digital camera, a 35mm camera, a notebook and pen (I’m a writer and photographer, you never know where inspiration will strike), extra lingerie (in case my luggage is lost), my cosmetic bag, my medication, hot rollers, styling products, a toothbrush and toothpaste, assorted toiletry items, and a few miscellaneous things in the event my luggage is delayed.

When I arrived at the checkpoint, I passed through the scanner, but my carry-on bag was being sent through the x-ray machine over, and over, and over again.      They kept calling more security over to view the screen.      I heard someone say, "It looks like a flashlight."

That's when I realized what they were probably viewing was the long, thin, cylindrical Vidal Sassoon can of hairspray in the front zippered pocket.      I said, "That's just a can of hairspray."      To which one of the security guards pulled my bag down to the end of the conveyor and asked, "Ma'am, do you mind if we search your bag?"

Well, knowing I wasn't carrying anything illegal, I immediately granted permission for a search.      Of course, airport security searches are not known for their consideration of your belongings - they just pull and toss with total disregard.      I kept "suggesting" to the man that he should check the front zippered pocket, as that was where the can of hairspray was stored.      He continued to concentrate on the large main compartment.

By this time, my planner, my cameras, my notebook, my cosmetic bag, and my lingerie were scattered all around on the conveyer belt outside of my carry-on.      Suddenly, from inside the bag, came a low, steady humming noise.      The security guard's eyes widened, he stepped back quickly, and he turned to look at me.      He stood there, motionless, as if unable to move.

I looked at him and said, "That's just my electric toothbrush."

He began immediately shoving everything back into my bag, with no care or concern.      Once again, I said, "That’s just my electric toothbrush.      Do you mind if I turn it off?      You must have accidentally bumped the 'on' button."

He zipped the bag, shoved it toward me, and said,     "You're free to go.      Have a good flight."

So, here I am, walking through the airport toward our gate, with my carry-on bag vibrating against my leg, still making a distinct humming noise.      I wanted to stop and turn off my toothbrush, but my s.o. said, "Just keep walking!"

So, on that day in mid-December, I guess airport security, and everyone in line behind me, thought that "flashlight" object that showed up on the x-ray machine was some giant dildo I was transporting across State lines.

I hate to disappoint everyone - but, honestly, it was it just my electric toothbrush!

Since that incident, I've found a new toothbrush for traveling - I bought the battery operated one, and always remember to remove my batteries before packing.

House-Hunting in the Middle of Winter

2004-08-01T17:02:00.000-04:00

Okay, go ahead and ask - "what were we thinking?"      But, we found an utterly amazing 1898 Victorian farmhouse that just SCREAMED our name so, after our Realtor fleshed out the other listing agent and found that four offers had already been made, and the Seller rejected all of them because he refuses to take a "contingency" contract, we took the plunge and listed our house for sale.

In this whole convoluted scheme of things, we have to orchestrate the sale of our house before we can make the offer on the other house, and all within a time frame that occurs before someone else makes an offer on the other house without any contingencies.      Talk about SCARY!

And, in the midst of all of that, we have to have our house in perfect condition for showing at a moment's notice.      Do you just how difficult that is with six cats and two dogs in the mix?

So, now I'm in the process of packing – not only packing, but also downsizing.      Downsizing, as in weeding out so that we can transfer the contents of an approximate 3,700+ s/f house with a full basement and garage to an approximate 2,100+ s/f house with no basement and no garage.      Okay, go ahead, you can ask again - "what were we thinking?"      But, this house truly spoke to me . . . perhaps it was the ghosts from days gone by . . . all I know is that the moment the front door creaked open and I stepped in, I knew I was home.

Can you imagine what that house has seen in 105 years?      Granted, I probably won't be finding any hidden treasures, or historical artifacts worthy of HGTV's "If Walls Could Talk," but - the beauty, the character, the charm, and every creak of the floorboards just seem to say "home" to us already.

I should say that there is a so-called guest-house/studio behind the main house that is approximately 1,000-s/f.      But, the renovations it will take to bring it to inhabitable condition will have to be pushed to the back burner while a few renovations take place in the main house first.      But, the acreage is vast and rolling, the setting is quiet and peaceful, the barn and silo are situated far enough away across the field that when my s.o.'s woodworking projects begin, my teeth won't be rattling from all the noise.      And, oh-what-fun my dogs will have running through the pasture!

So, daily, I light a few candles (what can it hurt?), I say a few prayers (my Baptist minister father will be happy to hear that!), and hope upon hope that the stars will align, that the forces of nature will smile down on me, that the perfect buyers for my home will arrive soon (pre-approved for a loan!), and that no one will have made an offer on my dream home when everything else falls into place!

Stereotypical Elitists

2004-07-31T17:28:00.000-04:00

Although this heading may seem a little misleading (at first), it is definitely a dead-on description of a large group of people.      This group, the very group that will argue the fact that they are not racist, or biased, or chauvinistic, or iconoclastic, or obdurate, or dogmatic, or judgmental, but, will instead, claim to be fun-loving, slightly liberal, easy-going, easily accepting, conformable, mellow, sociable, and even warm-hearted, are actually "Stereotypical Elitists."

What, you say, is a "Stereotypical Elitist?"      That is someone who, either blatantly, or covertly, discriminates against others by their own inflexible, misguided, and totally inferior sense of virtue of their own perceived superiority, of intellect, social status, and/or financial resources.

And, I have definitely been the recipient of discrimination by stereotypical elitists for most of my adult life.      Okay, so I'm a blonde, well-endowed, Southern Belle.      But, have most of these elitists taken the time to discover that I'm also a well educated, well-traveled, entrepreneur, blonde, well-endowed, Southern Belle?      No!      Most just hear the accent, see the hair and boobs and think - BIMBO!

Granted, I can crank up the accent a few shades a'la Scarlett O'Hara if the situation calls for a Steel Magnolias moment (such as if I need some burly guy to carry something heavy to my car!).      And, certain occasions call for the true talent - the accent combined with a hair flip and a giggle - please note, this requires an 8.2-degree of difficulty - but I have mastered the maneuver with true Olympic flair and finesse!

So what if my hair is blonde, and my boobs enter the room before I do?      And, so what if I open my mouth and there's a bit of Southern twang to my voice?      Does that make me stupid?      No!      Does that make me a bimbo?     No!      But, do my degrees, or my travels, or my business accomplishments make the stereotypical elitists see me any differently?      Sadly, No!

But, for all their prejudice - and, no matter how they might argue - it IS a prejudice; I say . . . their loss.       They're missing out on knowing a real special person - ME!