Art Met Beauty at the Grand Opening of HB Salon

Due to local popular demand, here are a few more photos (courtesy of Mikey George and Six Degrees Magazine) of the HB Heidi Bashar Salon Grand Opening benefiting the Detroit Institute Of Arts.

The VIP portion of the event, which took place from seven to nine on the evening of Thursday, January 25, 2007, in the newly remodeled third floor salon in Somerset North Collection, Troy Michigan, was shoulder-to-shoulder (or rather Gucci to Prada to Cartier) deep with Detroit's A List crowd. The salon was transformed, for a few hours, into an upscale club with live music and a complete bar. Gorgeous models, including our own Tika, who is also a makeup artist at Bashar Salon Birmingham, greeted the guests upon arrival. Trays of sushi appetizers, courtesy of Kahlil of Crave in Dearborn, were served to the delight of the crowd. (below: me with my friend and co-worker Kennice, stylist, platform artist, educator and makeup artist whose work is featured in many national and local publications including Detroit's Ambassador Magazine; Kennice's assistant,Vincent Sherk)
The event continued from 9:00pm to 1:00 am in the center court of Somerset North. I was told by Nate Forbes that this was the first time that an after hours event like this has ever taken place within the collection. Tents, elegantly draped in white linen, created a summer feel on one of the coldest nights in January. Special appearances by DJ's Mike Anthony, Matt A, Tom T and Captn 20 created the rhythm and kept the elevated dance floor spinning with the sole-full sounds of Manolo Blahniks. A strolling buffet of gourmet delicacies was provided by some of the finest metro Detroit and local area restaurants: Mosaic, Crave, Big Rock, Mon Jin Lau, Lot 1210 and Sweet Georgia Brown.






Bashar (left) definitely knows how to set a mood and create an experience. Rather than just putting on (one of his many) parties or organizing major city events in the usual way, he adds his eclectic style and unique touch - his worldly travels to Paris, Milan, Brazil and Miami are evident in all he does. Bashar's multi-talented abilities - successful hairstylist to local as well as national celebrities; coordinator and contributor for many fashion and cultural city events; architectural designer and interior decorator (he designed both salons) is proof that a boy who came from modest beginnings - but who had a creative vision, a strong desire and much ambition, (along with hard work and plenty of risk taking) - can transform his life's dreams into reality and become the man (an extremely good-looking man at that) with a Midas touch.



(above) Fashion reporter WDIV Local 4 Jon Jordan; The Managing Editor of Clear and Creative Director of Ambassador Magazine; Stylist at Bashar Salon (and Bashar's brother) Ricky Kallabat; and very beautiful friend.


Among the many party goers were my daughter - Alexia Hadjiveloudos of Dawn Owen Design and Nancy Dabish (Bashar Salon's right hand and welcoming smile).

A whiter shade of cold

A few weeks ago the grass was still green, the squirrels were still dashing between cars to cross the street: I think I even saw a mosquito still flying around . . . and I was blabbing, I mean blogging, about the strangely warm temperatures. Well, subzero has finally arrived. I thought I'd be better prepared given all the unexpected extra time. I thought I'd have all my acorns in a row. But all the extra time gave me was the illusion that I had a lot more extra time. I guess true preparation needs a deadline of sorts . . . it needs a reason, real or imagined. I used to have the Girl Scout mentality and discipline of preparedness. I carried, with me, everything I thought I'd need 'just in case.' I could have lived out of the trunk of my car. Of course, it never rains when my car is dirty. I never got to light my emergency flares. Of course, I always remember the way when the map is in my hand. I never needed my water-proof matches. Of course, my emergency overnight supplies are only used at my girlfriend's house. So I have changed my attitude, leaning towards the superstitious beliefs . . . and now I float through life with nothing more than the basics. I want to feel surprised, occasionally caught in the rain without my umbrella, without a definitive plan or hopeful agenda. (But not caught in the lady's room without a spare square, please!) I want to open myself up to possibilities that only exist under Murphy's warped Law . . . the day I don't shave my legs . . . Mr. Right (or now?) will show up to my horror! Reverse the curse of the expectation. I expect it will be mighty cold in the coming weeks!
(The photo is Lake Saint Clair, Michigan)

Lights, camera . . . lots of action

So many events, weddings, parties lately. For me, it's either all or nothing . . . feast or famine . . . I love the night life and I love social events, but I also love kicking back back on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a good movie (and a friend, too, when possible). Seems like I have been spending a lot of time putting outfits together, makeup on, blowing out my hair. But, I take what comes my way because it's life in motion. Things are always changing, including my moods! I'm a woman . . . and like a Viper - I can go from zero to sixty in 3.8 seconds!
Although, I think things are beginning to calm down for a time . . . I don't see any more invites laying around on my desk or stuck to the refrigerator door. Soon, I will begin to feel a bit unloved and forgotten about, and I will have forgotten my own wishes for quieter days . . . but until then, I am breaking out the face scrub, moisturizing mask and a good book.
The photo above was taken (with a camera phone) at a DIA fund raiser / grand opening of our new (Bashar) salon, HB, in the Somerset Collection last Thursday evening. I had a great time and the event was a huge success. Last night I attended a friend and co-worker's wedding. Today, I have a a few errands to run and some other catching up to do. I have some popcorn stashed away (my house is a revolving door, so I have to hide the goods sometimes!) I think I will watch an on demand movie . . . maybe "My Super Ex Girlfriend" or some other light-hearted chick flick comedy. I hope my eyes can resist scanning my calendar as a child scans the inside of the refrigerator . . . again and again . . . just in case something should appear that wasn't there before.

The Beauty - Pain Relationship

When I die, I want to be buried in my Dolce & Gabbana boots, as long as I don't have to climb too many stairs to get to the pearly gates - because, unlike Nancy Sinatra's famous go-go boots - these boots were not made for walking! They are just a small discomfort and only one example of what I endure - the quietly suffering aches and pains - in the name of fashion and beauty. I'll suffer with the most of them, but not with he best of them. For example, I won't go as far a having surgery on my feet, like some of the women I know, in order to continue wearing extreme stilettos. No . . . I put my foot (my God-given foot) down on that one.
Throughout time, and as early as the Egyptians, women have endured discomfort and pain and have even risked death all in the name of beauty. In this twenty-first century, botox injections (a form of botulism to temporarily paralyze expression lines, minimizing wrinkles), starvation diets, breast and buttocks implants, to name a few, almost pale in comparison to the Victorian days when pale skin - the sign of an aristocrat (while the working class were marked with tans) - was achieved by using toxic combinations lead oxide and arsenic in powders to whiten the skin. Leaches were even used to bleed the skin to give it a paler appearance. (Dracula may have been the first doctor of beauty) For that dreamy look, women dropped Belladonna, a poisonous herb, into their eyes to dilate their pupils. Metal-framed corsets that impaired breathing and restricted circulation in the 1870’s (just two of ninety-seven listed corset-induced ailments), gave way to the modern girdles of the 1970’s. The highly flammable, rash inducing horse-hair and straw-filled crinolines were improved upon in the 1860’s by using a cage-like frame of steel or whalebone hoops that measured ten yards around and made it almost impossible for a woman to maneuver in. One hundred years later, women traded up by wearing five inch platform shoes that made walking an activity that should have had its own separate insurance policy.

Getting back to these modern times of today, the desired looks may have changed, but our means of achieving them, and the dangers we knowingly and readily submit ourselves to, have not lessoned with time and experience.

Today, we risk skin cancer to look like we can afford wintering in Palm Springs or at least monthly weekend trips to South Beach. We voluntarily starve ourselves and vacuum out our fat - because unlike the days when plumpness was a sign of abundance, being anything more than skinny today means that one cannot afford a nutritionist or a personal trainer and can only afford a Big Mac and fries.

Who sets these standards of beauty? Is it the collective consciousness of society? The fashion houses of Paris, Milan and New York? The A list pawns who must play the game to be queened in the socialite and Hollywood circles?

Can beauty be achieved without pain? According to some writings, thoughts and research, beauty and pain go hand-in-hand. Pain is a reoccurring theme in the study of beauty, aesthetics and life experience. Pain brings, with it, gifts. The pain of childbirth brings a beautiful life into the world. The pain of a broken heart births poetry and beautiful stories. Pain makes us more receptive to life and more alert to beauty. Pain protects us. Pain brings growth. Pain is a teacher. The hero or heroine must suffer to win the love and respect of the people. Beauty, love, pain . . . are all in inhaled in one breath.

"Beauty and pain are linked," poet David Bergman says. "Sometimes beauty is the compensation for having experienced pain. Sometimes beauty has its own pain because it's not going to last. If we're only willing to experience pain or experience beauty, then we're going to live on only some of our gears."

So, as I was saying earlier, please, when I die, bury me in my boots . . . for the pain I will have endured while wearing them as I walked my path in this life (though, nothing compared to the pain of their price tag)is my ticket straight into heaven without having to stop in purgatory.

Truth

Steven Hawking was on one of those Science Channel programs to disprove his thirty-year theory about black holes. He once believed that black holes, swallowed up and absorbed information, hiding that information, forever, from the outside world. He was now out to prove that black holes actually keep emitting radiation and eventually open up and reveal the information hiding within. I find this to be fascinating and parallel to human life and experience. We are all essentially little universes. And while not every universe or person has a black hole, the ones that do . . . well . . . that information is not, after all, hidden away forever. In other words . . . the truth (as information) is always revealed because the TRUTH wants to be revealed. The black hole in one's soul that hides that truth emits clues (hence the radiation) and reveals itself. It is a beautiful thing: The TRUTH cannot be swallowed up and forgotten about. The TRUTH cannot be hidden away forever. The TRUTH is not revealed, the TRUTH reveals itself!

Knocking on Heaven's Door

"There's a lady who's sure, all that glitters is gold, and she's buying a stairway to heaven . . ."
The grand illusion of depositing money into that heavenly account happens every Sunday in church. But the fact is, buying a trip on a stairway to heaven, or rather an elevator to the stars is not as impossible as it sounds. A space elevator, a concept popularized by Aurthur C. Clark in "The Fountain's of Paradise,' is actually closer to reality than science fiction - according to a recent Nova program I watched. I wonder how much a ticket to ride will cost? I wonder how safe the ride will be? But it might be a fairly good investment - I mean, even if the elevator doesn't make it safely to the top, the rider will be about 22,000 miles closer to heaven.

a thing in motion . . .

movement. for every action . . . a reaction. perpetual motion. connecting. interacting. brushing. passing. bumping. crashing. the ripple effect.
i look around. i see people everywhere. going here and there and about. i wonder . . . where do they come from, where are they going. what do they carry inside, what do they hide? what things do they know , what have they seen, at which degree are we separated from each other and from reality? what was that? did he look at me or through me . . . or past me? we have more in common than not. from our place in human race to a shared bed. i feel the ripples from when it first dropped.

On Becoming My Own Product

SELLING OUT . . . What is the modern meaning of "selling out" these days? I used to tout the fact that I would 'Neeeeeeeeeeeeeever sell out!" Selling out was a sin. It was a lowering of one's standards. It was crossing the picket line of integrity and good taste. Looking back, I think I was setting myself up for a life of hardship, debt and privation by holding onto my arrogant and self-righteous claim.
I had girlfriends who 'sold out' and left our modern dance company to dance in 'Gentleman's Clubs.' (One went on the Vegas.) A couple of my girlfriends admitted they would never settle for anything less than a man who was very financially well of. (Which, by the way, my romantic ideals of love left me a single mother, while 'some' of my girlfriends are living in houses too big to clean - but that's what their housekeepers are paid for.) I swore if I ever went into show business I would never be in a commercial for something like hemorrhoid cream or that bad fire breath. I held strong to the belief that one day people would appreciate my ancient poetry and poetic prose because to admit I could write a mean Sara Lee jingle would be a nightmare in the literary community!
Well, well, well, could I have been wrong all along? I mean, maybe writing instruction manuals and information guides could have led to publishing my first book!
I am questioning my old beliefs, re-examining my ethics, morals and standards - maybe they are all TOO high.
My question has changed from, "What would I do for love?" to "What would I do for money?"

Thank you for the flowers

In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends - Kozuko Okakura

Where flowers bloom so does hope - Lady Bird Johnson

The Earth Laughs in Flowers - Ralph Waldo Emerson

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream - Ernest Dowson, 1867 - 1900

There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom - Anais Nin

It is at the edge of a petal that love waits. - William Carlos Williams

I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers - Claude Monet

We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses - Abraham Lincoln

Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive - John Keats

And 't is my faith, that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes - William Wordsworth

One of the most attractive things about the flowers is their beautiful reserve - Henry David Thoreau

Flowers leave some of their fragrance in the hand that bestows them - Chinese proverb

Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose garden - T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

Blood and Water

My dad always used to say, "blood is thicker than water." What he meant was that blood, the family, is all we can trust and count on. This kind of scared me as a child, especially growing up around the insanity of alcoholism. I love my family, but a part of me knew, even as a young girl, that I couldn't count on them for everything at all times.
Then I wondered about the 'thicker' part of that expression. What did that mean? Thicker meaning more substantial? But isn't thicker also slower? Thicker can clog and back up on itself.
Anyway, that expression always stayed with me through my growing years, even though it felt more like a subtle threat or gentle warning than parental advice. And for a time, I did not look to the outside world for much support or understanding. I kept myself surrounded by a thick skin of family. I remained safe within the familiarity of the dysfunction.
As I got older, I started looking at the 'water' part of it. If blood represented family, than water must represent the outside world . . . like friends. It made sense to me. We can't choose our blood, the type, or from where it came, just as we can't choose our family, its type, or from where it came. (Excluding the karmic and spiritual explanations.) But we can choose our water (and there are a lot of choices these days) . . . where we get it from, how much we want, when we want it. And it is just as important as our blood. It is a life sustaining element.
In fact, I am very much a water person. Water calms me, inspires me and exhilarates me. We are baptized in water, we cleanse ourselves in water, we cool ourselves in water, we swim, we dive, we explore, we float and yes, we can also sink and drown.
There are many things that are all equally important in the grand scheme that is life. At certain times and under certain circumstances, we may need one of those necessary things a little more than the all the others.
I guess I'm feeling a little anemic these days.

Humpty's Dangerous Fall

Broken coffee cup handles broken vase stems broken teeth broken bones broken bank accounts broken fingernails broken tree branches broken vows broken promises broken spirits broken dreams broken hearts broken lives


Can things that have been broken ever really be repaired to their original state and strength? Will the cracks always be visible? Will the glue eventually come undone? Will the broken thing be more susceptible to breaking again? What can be fixed and what must be discarded and forgotten about?

Where have all the king's men gone?

The Nine Lives of a Cat Lover I Knew

He pretends he is everything he wants to be, but he is, in actuality, everything he says he despises.

I knew a guy who loved cats. Now, I love cats and dogs and animals, in general. I presently have two cats and one dog. But this guy, he especially loved cats.

Cats have always represented to me free-spirited, independent little beings. Whereas dogs, well, I have heard it said that a dog if left alone in the yard would wait, faithfully, until its owner returned home to feed it, while a cat would not wait long before leaving the yard to find food on its own. Now the latter sounds like a smarter choice . . . but maybe just an instinctual, primal one. The former sounds like a ‘not so smart’ choice . . . but maybe that choice is based on loyalty, trust and love.

I have often wondered what was meant by the saying, “a cat has nine lives.” I used to joke that one of my cats (may he rest in catnip heaven) was using his nine lives up one by one because of all the trouble he used to get himself into. I thought maybe that was what the nine lives thing was all about. But, I think I may now have the real answer to that riddle.

Two years ago, and after the second of my two cats (my previous pet generation) died, a new cat, a beautiful one year old Siamese seal point showed up meowing at my door. I began feeding it outside, on my porch, and when it kept coming back to see me and to eat I assumed it to be a stray, probably abandoned because the owner could not have a pet in his or her new place. (There are a lot of new lofts and condos that went up in my area.) So, with the urging of my children, we took the cat into the vet for a checkup and vaccines and then home with us. But all the while, I had a sneaking suspicion that ‘my’ cat was also being fed by a neighbor across the street. My kids and I would jokingly laugh that ‘our’ cat had many houses to go to for food, and he would choose whichever house offered him the better meal at the time. Well, this joke of ours may be how outdoor cats really operate . . . in other words . . . they could be leading nine lives – nine different lives simultaneously.

So, back to my story about the cat lover . . . he was also my lover. And I recently found out that he lived, does live, different lives . . . many lives . . . perhaps nine.

It’s sometime difficult, if not impossible to know if a cat on the street is a feral cat, a stray or somebody’s pet. I have collars on my cats, the safety breakaway kind, so if they get caught in something the collar opens allowing them to break free. So, many times my cats come home wearing no collar at all. It became a joke in my house so I bought them each a few collars with engraved name tags that spell out where they live and to whom they belong: me.

Some men are very similar in that way. They wear ‘break away’ wedding rings and many appear to be strays, even feral, when in fact they do ‘belong’ to another.

I took my ‘stray’ man in a year and a half ago. I fed him and took care of him and loved him. Now, I find out that he, like my seal-point Siamese, was out looking for the best breakfast, lunch and dinner he could find in one day.

Please, I am urging all women if you have the slightest feeling in the pit of your stomach that things are not 'right' - because the signs are always present, but we may chose to either ignore them (go into denial), qualify them with 'reasons.'

A couple of months ago, a friend of mine said, "It only takes one red flag for me anymore." How very wise, time and energy efficient and self-loving. I now have learned to see red flags as blinking red traffic lights at possibly dangerous intersections . . . they mean stop and look all around you before proceeding. Even when they (the warnings) come as a whisper, or a light tug inside the heart, they are REAL signs that something is not right.

Well, I named it to the Universe - my first and most important New Year's resolution: To heal myself into wholeness . . . into oneness. This is a huge step - a giant leap on my new path of relationship (including the relationship I have with myself) enlightenment.

It is no surprise that my old ‘cat-lover’ friend does not let his cat outdoors. He knows what really goes on when cats are ‘trusted’ to roam the streets.

Chasing the Dragon

A few nights ago, the phone rang and woke me up at 3:00 in the morning . . . the sound of the phone in the middle of the night almost always means trouble or disaster. My twenty-one-year-old son, Adam, was on the other end of the phone.
"Are you alright?"
"No, not really."
My heart sank. "What's the matter? What happened?"
"I just found out a friend of mine died."
"Oh, Adam, I'm so sorry. Who?"
"I don't think you knew him. He died while I was in Chicago and I just found out."
Adam had been in Chicago for New Year's Eve.
"How did he die?"
"He overdosed on heroin. I didn't even know he did heroin. I haven't seen him in a while."
We spoke a while longer. I tried to console him the best I could.
"I'm so sorry that I called you this late. I just needed to talk."
"You can call me anytime of the day or night."
"It makes me sick that herion is making such a big comeback, and especially here . . . it's gotten even worse than Detroit. Hey, if you wanna do some heroin, just come here to Royal Oak!"

I remembered reading about the three eighteen-year-olds from Royal Oak who were taken to Beaumont Hospital over the Thanksgiving weekend and treated for heroin overdoses. They had mixed heroin with another drug, Klonopin (an anti-seizure drug).

Mixing or following heroin with another drug like cocaine, or a prescription drug like methadone; Klonopin; OxyContin ( a narcotic drug used in the treatment of moderate to severe pain); Xanax (for treatment of anxiety); Adderall (a stimulant used to treat hyperactive children) to amlify the high is known as "chasing the dragon," and has become dangerously popular among teens. Unfortunately, Narcan's effects (heroin's antidote) are limited when heroin is mixed with another drug.

Sheriff Michael Bouchard stated that Oakland County has seen a 50% increase in heroin cases in 2006 compared to 2005. He also noted that these cases were not just traffic stops where narcotics were found.

During 2005-2006, about 133 people died, in Metro Detroit, as the result of heroin and cocaine overdose - the street drugs were laced with fentanyl (a dangerously strong narcotic analgesic used in the treatment of severe pain such as cancer pain). In May of 2006 alone, the problem reached a crisis level in Wayne County when 33 people died in one week.

Heroin is gaining popularity among teens in the inner ring suburbs, like Royal Oak, to the rural areas, like Almont, because it is inexpensive and readily available. The teens are snorting it now, and so the old stigma that was once attached with heroin use in earlier generations is gone.

I asked my seventeen-year-old son, Luke, who attends Royal Oak High School, about heroin use in school. He told me that he can't count on his hands how many kids he knows who are doing heroin. He also knows of kids who have died from over-dosing on the drug.

With everything we now know about the real dangers of drugs, alcohol, tobacco and sexually transmitted diseases, why is it that our children are putting themselves more and more at risk. Are we as parents, teachers, adults, society and the media putting too much pressure on our youth of today? Are we all living in denial of what is really going on? Are these kids crying out for our help? And are we all too busy to stop, listen and act? Or are these teens playing this Russian roulette because death looks lovlier than the lives they are living?

Well, the dragon has been named. What can or will we do to slay it?

Six degrees of Chuck Woolery

My friend, Mike, went a little 'click' happy with Kim's new camera toward the end of Kim and Chuck's wedding reception last July. I guess one could call this my "official MySpace weird angled photo." (MySpacers will understand) We all snapped a lot of photos during that weekend in Vegas . . . CLICK . . . "This one's going on my MySpace."
A small gathering of close friends stayed at the Bellagio in Las Vegas to witness and celebrate the wedding of my best friend, Kim Barnes to (my new best friend) Chuck Woolery.
I remember when she phoned me a few years ago to tell me that she had been on a blind date with Chuck, We never would have thought that this was her true Love Connection (of course, fun/pun intended).
For anyone who saw the wedding clips on Entertainment Tonight, I was the woman in the mint green dress, front row left, snapping photos of the ceremony.
What a great and memorable time. Chuck has now become my (ever so frustrated) date/relationship adviser and worthy political/religious debate opponent.
If you like Metal Rock check out my friend Mike Fasano's music page on MySpace
Due to popular demand - I have added my YouTube video

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qs4K5T4OiJw

Still Waiting for the Winter Fairy

January 3 . . . this is winter, right? I do love the sun and the heat, and I am not a big fan of freezing temperatures, but I did grow up here in Michigan. Winter time always conjured up words like blustery, sub-zero, wind chill factor, snow flurries, ice storm, ski conditions, snow days, etc. And although my body is never truly prepared for the arctic blast, my mind is feeling out of sorts with this warm weather.
I let my dog outside this morning, sun shining, grass still green, and something did not feel right.
Winter has always been a quiet and peaceful season for me. I slide into a state of hibernation both within myself and within my home, my cave.
Some may call me crazy for actually liking the winter season (and I can't say I actually like it - it forces me to let it in and live with it), for it represents death, gloom and a sense of aloneness for many. But for me, it is a time to slow down and rest, to take inventory of my life, regroup and then recharge in time for the arrival of spring. There are no high expectations during the winter. If one doesn't like to ski or sled or ice-skate, that is acceptable. If one does not want to venture out into the ice and snow and cold, it is understandable. We live at the mercy of the weather conditions (which takes the pressure off of having to make so many choices throughout the rest of the year). And we all have something worthy to collectively complain about if we so desire.
The winter, ironically, brings us together - the commonality of our feelings of separateness. We come together to help each other during the snow storms, we care about the elderly living alone, the homeless living in the cold streets. We shop and shovel or blow snow for neighbors who can't get out (I don't think I've ever seen anyone just mow a neighbor's lawn as a favor). No pressure to keep up the yard, keep up a tan or look good in a bathing suit. Just throw a big sweater over the extra pounds, curl up by a warm fire, wrap up in a down comforter, embrace a hot cup of coffee and read a classic (See Stewart's blog).
Now, when this winter weather kicks in, as I'm sure it will (this anticipation is worse than the plummeting temperatures and icy conditions will ever be) please . . . I don't want to be reminded about how great (I said) the winter can be. The pain and the hate are part of my process.

The Sum of my Parts

My first resolution of the new year (yes, before dieting and daily exercising and all of the other little procrastinations) deals with the adage: "The whole is greater than the sum of its parts." I have come to realize that my biggest issue with mySelf and with my (mostly unsuccessful) intimate relationships is the fact that I am but a sum of my parts . . . I am not whole. Somewhere in my past I fragmented mySelf. I disintegrated into the roles that were "expected" of me either by society or by my family or by me and my unreasonably high expectations. I became an expert at each individual role . . . polishing them to perfection. I thought of myself as a chameleon . . . going from Estee Lauder to June Cleaver to Saint Therese to May West with record speed . . . leaving even Mario Andretti in the dust. But, a chameleon knows what it is. It adapts for protective reasons. I, on the other hand, though my reasons may also have been of the protective nature, I lost my point of reference. I forgot who I was . . . unlike the chameleon.

So, in my pseudo-chameleon ways, I eagerly and enthusiastically changed colors time and again over the years. At times, I was accused of no longer playing the role but becoming the role . . . no longer a stereotype but now the archetype. The part of me that had surfaced, dominated and cried out to be healed - would then melt into the role / person that could "see" it, feed it and meet its needs.

Looking back over the many faces of me throughout my years, I can now make sense of my extreme choices. The child in me whose ideal perfect family was shattered by familial alcoholism set out to become the perfect wife / mother by creating the illusion of a perfect family with the perfect family man . . . until the day the spiritualist in me emerged, starving, and found a twin soul spiritualist in another who recognized that part of me. Unfortunately, he was not the family type (which still was and is a big part of me) and so, eventually, that union also ended as the rebellious teenager in me - the one who was stifled by my stern father (not unlike my former lover - no blame intended) broke free and found a teenage man to hang with. My teenager grew up and soon tired of the boy/man who was not merely playing a part . . . he chose to remain eighteen.

Now, I find myself a bit exhausted but ever so enlightened by my self-discoveries. I can move on with the knowledge I have gained and I can begin to integrate my selves into my Self and become one being . . . a whole being and a whole woman.

This, is my first and my most important resolution for the new year 2007: to heal myself into wholeness . . . to become greater than the sum of my parts.

Everything old is new again

Well, I don't know what to call this . . . it's not my first time anymore, but I have not been at it long enough to be making a "comeback." So, I will just quietly slip back into the blog scene, hopefully not unnoticed, but definitively without a bang or a scandal or rehab discharge papers. I missed all of you - my readers and my fellow bloggers - and I appreciate your comments over the holidays. Things are better: my son has one last doctor appointment today for a final chest ex-ray and the official "ok" to return to school; and I have set up a mini camp in my private quarters where I can write / blog on my new laptop without being disturbed by the natives when they become restless (I now have a desk in my bedroom!).

Everything old is new again . . . from blogging to resolutions. HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Ok, a break from my crazy life!

Hey y'all, I will be back to posting daily after having been on a week-long "medical and MENTAL leave" from blogging. I was having some health issues along with leading the very busy life of a working-mother-approaching-the-holidays!
Good news, my health is good - all of the tests came back good:) I am scheduled for an outpatient surgery January 8 and hopefully, that will be that!
My car is finally fixed! Hooray! And my new laptop just arrived and I am trying to learn how to work it - it's all so high-tech!
I am getting organized for Christmas and the New Year. I am also hosting an out-of-town guest (my really good friend, Kim) for a few days next week . . . I have cards, baking, cleaning . . . I'm feeling more than a bit overwhelmed with all I have to do within these next few weeks!
And tomorrow is my Birthday!
Whew! badabadbabdabdba . . . that's all folks . . . all least for today!
Oh yeah, a PS: My grandson, Nathan, was "fan of the game" at last night's Red Wing game! He has so much energy, that even in a huge crowd, he was singled out! He got to on the ice and receive a practice jersey!

The clothes on my back

"All you own are the clothes on your back." Father Michael said during the Homily a few weeks back. "Everything in your closet belongs to those less fortunate." He was speaking about the life and words of Saint John Chrysostom who lived a modest life and gave a large portion of all he had to the needy; and Saint Paul's second letter to the Corinthians 9:6-11 which says: 'he who sows sparingly will also reap sparingly . . . "
I started thinking about all the stuff I have . . . stuff that I keep 'just in case.' I felt greedy and selfish having so many extra things, especially clothes, coats and blankets packed away when so many people are in need of those things to keep warm during these brutal winter months. (As I wrote in my very first blog here, I have trouble cleaning out my closet.)
Then, a few days ago, I learned of the fire that destroyed a Saint Vincent de Paul warehouse, and at a time of year when so many people depend on it. Channel seven news announced that they were having an emergency donation drive all day Wednesday to be held at Lawrence Tech. Well, that's all it took - a reason beyond any excuse and a deadline. I have always worked better under the pressures of deadlines.
It took me less than two hours to come up with ten bags along with some other miscellaneous items. My son and I loaded two cars (not mine - it's still kaput) and we drove over to Southfield, waited in the long line of cars. So many people brought donations. As we pulled up and parked, young volunteers helped us transfer the bags and boxes into huge Art Van trucks. The snow was gently falling and sparkling under the lights that illuminated the parking lot. I felt the true meaning of Christmas.
I felt lighter . . . my closet, my home, my heart, my spirit.
I did not post this for anyone to comment on how great it was of me to do this. This was nothing, but helpful to me as much as to those who need help. I posted this in the hope that someone reading it may be inspired to do the same. Give what you can. Give what you have that is not of immediate need to you. Give the best, not your leftovers.
Countdown to Christmas . . . 18 days!
God Bless Everyone.

Good Intentions

Today was a test. A true test. My mom always said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions . . . and I had good intentions today.

I was to leave my house by 8:00 am - my son, Adam was to supposed to pick me up - then we were heading for the east side of town to pick up my sister, Judi.

But, before I go any further, none of that happened as planned: My son over-slept and I could not reach him because his phone was not working. I waited, then phoned my sister at 8:20 to tell her that I was not going to wait any longer and I would be driving my car to her her house (even though the fan in my car was not working properly and therefore no heat would be pumping out on this frigid morning). As I drove down 6-96, all of my dashboard indicator lights flashed on and off a few times. I said a little prayer requesting of God that I not break down on the freeway.

I arrived at Judi's house at approximately 8:47 am and we headed for the grocery store.

"OK, we have to do this as quickly as possible," I said. "I told her we'd be there at 9:30."

"Don't worry, I know this store like the back of my hand, just read me the list." Judi replied.

"Bananas, bread, eggs, sausage, orange juice . . .' I rattled off the items on the list.

We hurried through the market filling our cart until the last of the items, paper plates, was crossed off the list.

Thankfully, there were only a few other shoppers and we didn't have to wait in a long line. But we did have to wait behind a women who obviously worked at the store years ago and was inquiring about which of the employees were still around. Patience, I reminded myself. All good things in time.

I couldn't get my trunk to open with the automatic remote as we walked toward my car. Hmm, must need a new battery. But, it would not even open with the key. So I unlocked the doors and we piled the bags into the back seat. I handed Judi the directions, I put the key in the ignition - turned it. Nothing. Turned it again. Nothing.

"Oh my God. You have got to be kidding me!"

"The devil must be trying to stop us from doing this." Judi laughed a little.

"I have to call them and let them know what's happening." I dug my cell phone out of my purse and dialed.

That's where the part with the 'good intentions,' comes in. I had volunteered to make breakfast for the families at the Ronald McDonald House - which was scheduled for 10:00am. At least thirty tired, hungry, worried parents were going to be waiting for us. But, it was now 9:18 and we were stranded in the grocery store parking lot freezing our fingers and noses off.

"Hello, this is Lindy and I am supposed to be there making breakfast right now, but I am stuck in the grocery store parking lot and my car won't start."

"Do you want to talk to your son? He is here waiting for you." The voice on the other end asked.

Oh yes, I want VERY much to talk to my son. I was thinking.

"Sure." I said, instead.

Adam came to the phone, "I'll be there in fifteen minutes to get you." Click.

Adam knows the city better than most, so I knew it would not take him too long to pick us up and get us back there. In the meantime a man who had parked in the space in front of us, hooked up some jumper cables. His wife smoked a cigarette as he gave me the go ahead when it was time to turn the key. After about ten minutes and a few tries we got her started.

"Probably the alternator or the battery." He told me.

I hate cars. I love the big city and mass transportation. I have always had bad luck with cars. I hate cars and I hated Rich (my recently 'exed' boyfriend) even more because he is a mechanic.

Adam followed us to Judi's house, down the street, where I left my car in her driveway. We transferred all of the bags and headed for I-75.

OK, so what if we got started a little later than planned and breakfast was not ready until closer to 11:oo am. And so what if the first man we saw when we walked in mumbled, "You're late."

Late for what I thought? And, I let it go. The stress level is high here. I know. I stayed at the Ronald McDonald House when my grandson spent the first weeks of his life in Children's Hospital.

It wasn't long before the smell of coffee, French toast, and sausage lightened all of our moods. Something about breakfast . . . it is so comforting.

And seeing the faces of the worried parents smile, however brief, felt good.

6 weird things about me - I have been tagged by Laura

6 Weird Things About me

I have been tagged by Laura to write 6 weird things about me.

Rules:
Each player of this game starts with the 6 weird things about you. People who get tagged need to write a post of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list there names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says they are tagged in their comments and tell them to read your blog.

6 weird things about me:

1.) I had trouble doing this because “weird” is normal for me and “normal” is weird for me. (That’s why it took me so long to do!)

2.) I talk to trees and plants and they talk to me.

3.) When I was growing up (a young Catholic girl), I wanted to become and Nun, live and die a Martyr, and then be Canonized a Saint. Or, I would settle on being a famous dancer/actress.

4.) I both love and fear the full moon . . . it illuminates my madness and brings out my paranoia all the while I stare at it in awe.

5.) I do not like labels and I myself cannot be labeled. I am a rebel that way.

6.) I am the most private “open-book” you’ll ever meet.

My tag list is:

Stewart; Jon; Susan; Steven . . . I will have to find 2 others who have not yet been tagged!

I can't wait to read this!

Beyond the Blurred Images and Holiday Guise

Well, my Christmas trees are lit up and decorated. My home sparkles of gold and smells of pine. I am a ‘home for the holidays’ type of gal. I know, old-fashioned and completely un-cool.

Now, I know the “in” thing these days is to point out all the commercialism that encompasses the holidays, kind of like a word search or a Where’s Waldo. It has become almost amusing to sit over a Starbuck's latte complaining about the holiday shit this and that while watching people do the hustle and bustle. Ahgggg . . . there’s the shoulder-to-shoulder shopping in the crowded malls; the bumper car parking lots; Santas who are too skinny; the one hundred or so renditions of “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” played over and over again; higher rates of suicide and depression; news papers exploding with advertising inserts; pounds of catalogs; no friggin’ roasted chestnuts or open fires anywhere to be had; long lines; long lists; short tempers.

I realize that this time of year brings out extremes in behavior, character flaws and a Pandora’s Box of emotions. Oh, the pressures. Oh, the headaches. Oh, the heartaches.

So what am I so happy about? I definitely feel the financial strain, the pressures to get it all done and still look shiny and new - to get my cards out on time, my cookies baked and my gifts bought, wrapped and hidden away. I have many moments of nostalgia, thinking about Christmas’ past and all of my loved ones who are not here with me to celebrate the present one. At times I do feel melancholy and a bit overwhelmed. Wow, I think I am beginning to convince myself that the holidays suck!

But, on the other hand (the one still resting in a full and quiet pocket) I love this time of year. The crazy holiday pace dizzies me just enough that I step off and rediscover my real point of reference . . . mySelf. And in doing so, I stop the planet. I see beyond the blurred images. I see the beating of compassionate hearts. I see the gift of the Nativity. I see God incarnate.

This time of year evokes the virtues of compassion, helpfulness, thoughtfulness, thankfulness, love and generosity lifting the human spirit to the place it really lives. ‘Tis the season of giving. Volunteer services are filled to capacity; people are donating to organizations such as Toys for Tots, Coats for Kids and homeless shelters. Soup kitchens have more than enough help; hospital and nursing home patients are entertained by carolers. There is a lot of good in the air . . . even if some of that good air does get blown around by high pressure gusts of fervor.

If we could extend those giving hands and compassionate hearts into each New Year, Christmas would not come in with such a bang (and on the tail wind of a witch’s broom November 1) only to leave in the blink of an eye and ten pounds later. Christmas would become state of mind rather then a time of year. That is what the spirit of Christmas is really all about.

For a beautiful and heartfelt posting on Christmas, visit Laura’s blog

Filters

Filters are good, right. For example, tobacco filters protect smokers from inhaling some of the toxic chemicals found in cigarettes and furnace filters prevent the dust and mold and pollen from blowing into our homes. There are coffee filters, water filters, ultra-violet ray filters, lint filters, charcoal filters, camera filters, e-mail filters, and the list goes on. So, filters are good. Right?

Well, I have a box of filters . . . writing filters. And I really don't like to use them, but I feel I have to. I have father filters, sister filters, general family filters, 'ex' filters, lover filters, friend filters, co-worker filters, moral filters . . .

Ideally, I would love to write with NO filters at all. As a writer, I want to be as honest and as open as possible. I want to write from the truth whether I am writing fiction or non-fiction, for even non-fiction has elements of personal experience, real people, and honest emotions.

But, I feel I need to choose my filters wisely and use them as one uses manners and tactfulness in verbal conversation. I don't speak to my father in the same way I speak to my friend or lover, etc. so I feel I need to adjust the content and context and details to fit accordingly.

This whole process wastes energy, steals from the truth and destroys a lot of creativity . . . but saves a lot of relationships (I suspect).

I think that is why I grew up writing poetry . . . I could express my feelings openly and honestly by using verbiage in unorthodox ways . . . a sort of private code that almost no one understood, but me. I had poetic license.

I don’t know . . . maybe it gets easier with each unedited truth that escapes the tap of my delete button.

Does anyone have any comments or suggestions?

Ghosts and Memories

About a month or so ago, I had a dream I was sitting at a table for two on the veranda of a cafe. The table next to me was empty, but two tables over sat a person from my past. Then, that person vanished and another person from my past sat in that same chair. This kept going on. More and more people from my past sat in that chair. I began to wonder, am I dying? Is this how my life is going to flash before me - in a coffee house?

The dream stuck with me and I began thinking about the mother of my first love. She was the last person to sit in that chair. In the dream, I walked up to her and hugged her. Then, she handed me her toddler boy, Steve, who grew up right in my arms. Well, dreams are that way . . . strange.

Within a few days, guess what? Steve had looked me up and sent me an e-mail. Now, I almost fell over when I saw the e-mail, for I had not seen nor heard from him in twenty-five years. Even with the world getting smaller and smaller as global networking grows bigger, I never once ran into him. But, I often thought of him throughout my life.

Steve and I have a lot of history between us. We were basically inseparable for over three years while in our late teens and early twenties. Really, inseparable. I don't remember doing anything unless it was with Steve. And our entire world revolved around dancing (and eating his mom's homemade Italian food). The Disco era was in full groove and we were the King and the Queen. From dance contests and exhibitions to fashion shows to television and newspaper interviews, to The Auto Show, to Hollywood and Dance Fever . . . we did it all. We had it all. Or so it seemed to a couple of twenty-year-olds at the time.

Since that time, Steve and I have been catching up through a series of phone calls. It was weird how, until I heard his voice a few times and it became familiar to me again, I could not find it in my memory. I was trying to remember certain things about him, like his voice, his touch, his smell. But, after all of those years and so much happening in between, I mostly remembered the sparkle in his eyes, his genuine smile and his contagious laughter. I remembered his quirky ways and silly sense of humor, and how we both liked to have the best of everything. I remembered the good times.

This got me thinking about memories in general. Do we, can we really remember the details? Was I going to forget all those little everyday things about my mother too. And, were they important anyway? Maybe it is the way one feels when in the company of another . . . those feelings are the only memories one really needs.

Talking to Steve has been good medicine for my soul. He knew me when . . . He knew the girl before she became a women . . . like a parent knows things about his or her child. Those little remember whens. He connected me to my past in a healthy way and I am so grateful. I look forward to more catching up with him.

One of my favorite quotes comes from the Beatles and it sings true to my heart:
And in the end, the love you make is equal to the love you take.

PS Hi Speavy.

Comment Masturbation

Just a quick thought here . . . is there a line between friendly, constructive back-and-forth commenting and comment masturbation? And if there is . . . at what point is it considered crossed?
To be continued . . .

Insignificant Insanities

Well, I made it through Phase I of the holiday season - Thanksgiving - without any noticeable hitches. Could it be that as a family we have learned how to do this stuff better through years of practice, or have I become blinded by large quantities of spiked punch and my own dysfunction so much so that the small insanities now go unnoticed . . . or worse . . . they have become a normal part of the celebration?

Maybe my sisters and I have finally come to realize that we are essentially all we have, and in doing so, we have let go of the small and insignificant things? Perhaps we have grown up and into the fine women we dreamed we could be. But honestly speaking, we were pushed to the front of the line.

This was our third Thanksgiving since our young mother passed away, and things have never felt the same. We are now the elder women of our tribe. I did not want that title for many more moons, but things had already been written . . . and therefore . . . done. We are the mothers and the aunts whom I remember looking to for comfort during my childhood years. Whether we are ready for that role yet does not matter. We are it.

I know I do not have all the answers like I thought my mother to have all my growing days - she did a flawless job of pretending things would always be alright. Things are never always alright. Things are as they are. There are no rites of passage into this role of female elder, aside from promotion by death. There are no guidelines or rules. There is no help.

This is difficult in the sense that I do not come from the generation of women who believed Betty Crocker was creating recipes from her shiny kitchen with chrome appliances; that there was no such thing as pre-marital sex (to speak of); that dirty laundry was never to be aired and linoleum floors shined with polyurethane wax while dust bunnies grew ferociously under the furniture.

I come from the generation where Martha Stewart, as close to perfection as a woman can get on one hand while the other was slapped for five months for fooling us all. (Was she punished for deceiving her shareholders or for deceiving those who held her in perfect woman status?) In other words, I am not good at pretending things will always be alright. I am not the kind of a bosomy role model that can squeeze demons out with a tight hug. I am an imperfect woman fighting off demons daily and praying to be better tomorrow.

So, as a family elder, role model and mentor I have this to say to the youth of my tribe . . . I love you. Maybe that is really all it takes.

On a quirky note . . . while my sisters and I cleared the table after Thanksgiving dinner and began rationing off the leftovers into Ziplock bags and Chinet paper plates, we came upon a bag of empty containers. Apparently, my father was prepared having labeled, with mini post-its, each individual container with its desired contents. (An engineer always) We each grabbed a container and began filling: sweet potatoes, turkey, stuffing . . . I grabbed the one labeled: Misc. Was this a test, dad? Damn it! Ah, maybe pie! No, my niece had the one labeled pie. We all laughed. The only thing left was mashed potatoes. That was our one missing miscellaneous dish. That puzzle solved. We all felt wiser.

Something . . . Anything

"You happy now?" Todd toyed with the audience after he played one of his old songs, "I Saw the Light."

"Me happy now, Todd!" my voice still able to scream at that time.

Since I was twelve, I have had a mad crush on Todd Rundgren. I imagined that one day we would be married (couldn't he feel that this was so right?), so I practiced (over and over again) writing my first name in front of his last name, just in case.

When I was seventeen, I saw him in concert for the first time. Towards the end of the concert I made a mad dash for the stage (storming the stage as we called it back in the day before so much visible brute security). There I was running down the main isle like a teenage bride in blue jeans and a T-shirt. I made it all the way and managed to grab his extended hand. I held Todd's hand. I could live with that if nothing else.

The years went by - boyfriends, husbands, children, life in general - but no signs of Todd. Oh well, I knew I couldn't have everything I ever wanted. Still, deep inside was that teenage girl with a crush and a dream that lived on, and no one could deny me that painful pleasure.

Now, some thirty years later I am sitting a few rows away from the stage at the State Theater and on the stage Todd is playing guitar and singing lead vocals for The New Cars. I am thrilled; a giddy teenager all over again. I look at the aisle. I try to cast the thought from my mind. I am an adult woman now. I can't go screaming down that isle. Stop it.

In the end, I didn't do it. I kept my composure and God rewarded my newfound mature behavior. After the concert, as I walked along the outside of the building towards to parking lot, Todd exited the stage door to get into his tour bus. There were only about five or six of us (fans) around and we called for him to come over. He did, ever so graciously. And in that moment, my teenager with a crush became a woman filled with respect for this man who has gifted the world with his musical and songwriting talents, his creativity, innovativeness and genius mind. And with that, I shook his hand and had him autograph my ticket stub (thanks to a man who had a pen). I met Todd Rundgren. I could live with that if nothing else.

Now, with an hour and a half into the official day of giving thanks, I can add to my long list of things for which I am grateful to God: Todd Rundgren, the end of a very long teenage crush, and, oh yeah, the man with the pen.

So, back to life. Ah, but what a sweet slice of the pie that was, and before dinner. (That's not cheating, that's called living!)

And no matter what happens from this point on . . . wherever life takes me . . . I will still remain hopeful in some quiet way because as Todd once wrote . . . A Dream Goes on Forever.

An old friend all shiney and new

We knew each other back in those unspeakable days of Salem (or maybe it was Warren?). Anyway, I knew her then and I ran into her again, only her clothing was far sexier than in the old days - a lot more red than black. She is still casting spells but with a bit more irony, humor, and sadness and a whole lot more paper, ink and truth. This time, her cauldron is filled with the power of words.
Children gather at her hem hungry for the words to express the emotions she stirs up within them. And she graciously gifts them. She is truly magical . . . a gift to the planet.
Check her out at Michelle's Spell

Today's blah, blah, blahs and yada yadas: Lions and turkeys and yams oh my!

Ok, when I can't be clever, creative or anything in between, I will blah and yada.
So, today is Monday, November 20, already! Thanksgiving is three days away.

Last night I watched a program on the History Channel about the history of Thanksgiving Day. I found it to be quite interesting - most things I did not know. One fact surprised me (though, it shouldn't have): back in the 1920's when football was gaining popularity, it was the good ole Detroit Lion's who combined Thanksgiving Day with the game and made it the big event that it has become. I know that the Lions play every year on Thanksgiving Day, because, coming from a family where football ranks higher than almost anything, our turkey dinner is always after my brother-in-laws return from the game . . . pissed off and hungry.

I am fortunate this year, since I had the big Halloween bash, my sister is preparing Thanksgiving dinner at her home and all I have to do is show up. Sweet!

Poetry, spirituality, and otherworldly experiences

My friend, mentor (I hope you don't mind, Stu) fellow writer and member of the Chesterfield Group; Stewart Sternberg http://house-of-sternberg.blogspot.com/ e-mailed me with some suggestions on blogging. I think they are helpful to all bloggers, especially newbies like me.

Stewart wrote:

I have a recommendation. You are probably getting more hits on your blog than your realize, but people are coming away discouraged because there are so few updates. My recommendation is this: Post to your blog at least two or three times a week. Narrow your topics...so far you have writing...maybe alternate this with personal experiences...and maybe add a pic or two.

Me? My postings are kept to the following subjects: writings (samples and discussion); my school and counseling experiences; things relating to the supernatural and horror; and the Tigers. These help define my blog. People know what to expect and come back with those expectations.

Peace

I realize that, although I write, journal, doodle, and blah, blah, blah . . . I simply don't post all of it because of the wide range of topics. I have no real sense of direction for my Cave of Pythia blog site. So, I birthed another blog site - Sacred Footing - to post my poetry, my spiritual journey, my intimate feelings and otherworldy experiences. Cave of Pythia will be dedicated to some poetry and some daily entries and my attempts at fiction writing.

So, if you are one who rolls your eyes at the idea of a madwoman's journey into madness, the unexplainable creative process, the ideals of love, ancient poetry, automatic writing, extra-terrestrial friendships, conversations with Saints and Holy Masters . . . Sacred Footing is not for you. Stay with Cave of Pythia . . . or not.

Seduction (in Advertising)

To: Michael @ Creativenet. com.
Hello! I am inquiring about the part-time job. I am a free lance writer and I live in Birmingham. I am interested in learning more about the position. Thank you, Samantha Edwards.

To: SMEdwards @ Yahoo. com.
Hey Samantha, thanks for your response to my ad. I run a small, busy, full service ad agency in California. Most of my business is in San Diego but my hometown is Birmingham. As my Michigan business grows, I need an Account Manager to research local prospects; meet with clients; brainstorm ideas; and join me for killer dinners and live music when I’m in town. Now, a bit about me . . . hmm, eclectic, fun, surfer, athlete, arts and music lover, writer, food freak - dining out and cooking . . . kind of hard to label. I like to work with the same kind of people. Did I mention the extra bonus if you know of a good massage therapist or how to give a good massage. The stress of running a business and being an athlete make them one of my regular indulgences. Hey, do have an AIM name? Mine is MKB425. Michael

Hello Michael, thank you for your quick, detailed and energetic reply. After what you have shared with me, my interest has definitely peaked. I have held a few executive positions – my attached resume has the details. As for personal interests: I practice Tai Chi and I have recently taken up Belly Dancing and the Tango. I used to dance and model professionally. I ski and enjoy ccuba diving. I love to travel - I lived in Athens, Greece for a while. And yes, I love food: both cooking in and dining out. Oh, I almost forgot - I am not a massage therapist (though, I know some) but I did apprentice under a shaman for years. My AIM name is "Only1Sammy2." Hope to hear from you, Samantha

Hey Only1Sammy2, I like your eclectic style. You must be quite attractive given your dancing and modeling history. Send me a photo if you have one, I’m curious. So, is your husband Greek? Michael

My ex-husband.

I’m going through a divorce myself. To change the subject: I surfed last night and a big pod of dolphins swam by. I’ve seen them hundreds of times but their fins still startle me. Got to go cook breakfast . . . I make a mean quiche.
By the way, you are by far the most interesting of all the applicants. I’m looking forward to meeting you as it sounds like we share a lot in common. Michael.

I love quiche. I’m getting hungry. Surfing with dolphins . . . how beautiful! Sounds so romantic. I am looking forward to meeting you too. Sam

Hey . . . so maybe we can whip up a delicious meal together when I’m in town? How about penne pasta with goat cheese and pesto Toscana . . . and anything with artichokes!

Ok, so you are trying to drive me crazy with hunger. I am having lunch in an hour. I brought some fresh figs.

Fresh figs, yum! They are quite the sexy looking fruit. Are they a fruit? You tell me what it looks like . . . and what you look like.

I am told by many people that I look like a certain red-headed actress. Any guesses? And, yes, figs are a fruit.

I’m drawing a blank . . .

Julianne Moore.

Wow . . . she is super sexy. Now you have me distracted. I just did a Google image search on her. You had mentioned something about a shaman and massage? Tell me more. I just purchased a nice massage table. Too bad I can’t bring it. I guess I could check it.

The Shaman story is a long one. About massages: I have no formal training, but I have "healing" hands.

Good to know. Hey, I just tried calling you. I left a message with your son?

Yeah, that was my son. I’m at work now. I’ll e-mail you a photo when I get home.

Hey Sam . . . thanks for sharing the photo . . . just as I thought, you are quite stunning. I could use your healing hands today - the surf was big last night and I twisted around in the waves. My back is sore. So what kind of music are you listening to these days? Michael

I’m listening to some old Todd Rundgren right now. What about you? Sam

Marvin Gaye - “Let’s get it on.”

Do you tell all your applicants that?

Depends what they’re applying for. No, really, you’re my first.

Well, I have a few things to do around here, including preparing for a job interview, before I take a long soak in a hot bath. I love water too . . . I love baths.

I love baths as well . . . I need to take them more often. I just had a nice visual of you in yours though . . . OK, with that I’m off to um, yeah, take a cool shower.

Ok, I got a visual. And with that . . .

So, how was your bath?

Only if you tell me how your shower was.

Let’s just say it was therapeutic. How is your interview preparation going?

Got any tips?

You’ve already got the hometown advantage.

What about attire?

I can tell you what not to wear. So, tell me about some things that turn you on.

Like you said, I’ve got the hometown advantage, let’s keep it that way.

Ok, you already have me way too distracted and I still have to get some work done.

Pardon me sir . . . I am an innocent.

Ah yes, oh so innocent . . . So how did this job reply turn into this? Not that I have a problem with it. Let’s meet Monday when I get in . . . I guess I still have to interview you. That is how this all started, right?

Commitment

Beginnings are a constant . . . and they require no real commitment. There he was, my new beginning and I was his. Easy. I did not know at that time that he walked freely from beginning to beginning. He could not commit . . . not to relationships . . . not to their endings. I read between his lines (and his linens)

He told me in the beginning that he would not marry (anyone) and he also said, "I'm an asshole and you'll find out soon enough and go running for the door." I thought I could rescue him . . . me, the filtered ear that I am . . . the wanting heart that I am . . . the student of Jung that I am . . . the mother archetype that I am . . . I heard, “Please love me for what I am.” And I opened wider, and invited him in . . . deeper. So loving am I . . . so God-like am I . . . so, “I know what’s best for you and for me,” am I . . . so arrogant I can be.

It was simple and I complicated it. Things are far simpler and closer than they apear.

I wanted more and he knew it. I wanted more and he could not give it to me. So, I ended it and he agreed. I let go and breathed a sigh of relief . . . he called three times that week. I phoned him back . . . scratched open the scab (hoping he was going to heal me afterall) . . . and I bled for three more days. No word from him.

Now, all I want is his commitment to this ending . . . or mine.