Falling From Grace

I thought about entering the convent.

No, seriously, I did. I prayed on it for at least a year. I listened very closely to see if I had "a calling". From the time I was 9 until I was about 12, I was ultra-religious.

I watched religious movies about saints and martyrs. I considered cutting my long hair very short so I could wear the headgear required to be a nun. The nuns at my school wore old fashioned habits and I loved those long black garments. I relished the idea of being a "Bride of Christ", but there was a catch.

There was no way I was giving up my high heel shoes. I got my first pair of heels for my 12th birthday. My dad took me shopping, and from mental exhaustion from listening to me plead, he finally let me buy a straight skirt and a pair of black pumps.

My mother was not pleased, but I certainly was. I still viewed myself as a candidate for the convent, but I had to find out about the shoe situation before I made a final commitment.

I talked to my spiritual counselor, a nun who was in her early 20's named Sister Geraldine. She wore black, flat heeled shoes that looked like they should be worn by a man. I explained to Sister Geraldine that I was almost certain I had a calling to become a nun, except I would not wear the kind of shoes she wore. I asked if the Church ever made exceptions for things like that.

Sister Geraldine told me that if I was so concerned with matters of vanity, perhaps I did not have a calling after all. While I found her remarks very disappointing, I certainly did not want to be a bride to anyone who would not share my appreciation for high heeled shoes.

The following year brought about several major changes. My family moved and I transferred to a public junior high school for the 8th grade. I turned 13 in January of that school session and I went to my first dance. (Yes, I wore my high heeled shoes.) A boy named Tyrone asked me to dance. He was tall and very thin. I really liked the way it felt to have a boy's arms around me, and I really liked being a little taller and more grown up in my high heels.

I went home and said a quick prayer telling Jesus I was sorry. I had changed my mind about being a bride of Christ.

And frankly, I've never looked back.

They Are Never To Big To Sit On My Lap

They are never too big to sit on your lap!

My daughter Sheila turned 40 last year. She's the mother of two beautiful children, the eldest is an 18 year old boy.

She's grown into a lovely woman. I don't know how this has happened so fast. (Her brother John is 3 years older than she.) I still dream of them as children, but now I mix them with my grandchildren in my dreams.

I remember my mother telling me that "children never grow up to a parent" and I think she meant that. When I was 50 years old, my mother would still refer to me as a "girl".

I never refer to my children as girls or boys. I feel that they are responsible adults and it would be wrong to think of them as "kids".

Maybe thinking of our children as "children" when they are grown is normal. I just don't feel that way. As an adult, I resented being called a "girl" by my mother. I felt she was saying that I was insignificant or immature. (It may have just been mom's way of feeling younger herself. I don't know.)

When my kids come to me with problems, I do everything I can to help them, except suggest solutions. I encourage them to work out their own solutions to issues. It's part of being an adult.

My own mother would bombard me with advice and her advice was more than a suggestion. Mom was quite forceful in her opinions of what I must do. I very seldom followed her instructions.

There is nothing I would refuse my children. But since they are no longer children, they have to make their own way in the world with the tools they have. They've done a very good job of it so far.

Your love for your children lasts forever, still they have to make their own way in life. I respect my children too much to doubt their decisions.

"I Don't Smell Funny Either"

Last evening, Michael from Too Many Mornings and I were exchanging a silly email and the words "I don't smell funny either" were written.

It set me off telling him a little saga that had occurred the day before. Michael said it would make a good post, so here goes.

I had lunch with a girlfriend on Tuesday at Jack London Square in Oakland. After lunch, we went our separate ways and I was waiting for the bus to go home.

A homeless man walked over and sat down next to me on the bench where I was seated. I wasn't sure he was homeless, but he was wearing a pair of bermuda shorts over a pair of sweat pants and he looked like his clothing was layered.

It has been about 75 degrees in the Bay Area since Monday. The man asked me "How do you like this weather?" I told him that I loved it! He went on to tell me that he was from New Orleans originally but had lived in Oakland for the last 40 years. I responded that although I love New Orleans, the summers are dreadful because of the heat and humidity. He agreed.

The man then said "I like the way you're dressed" and I thanked him. He asked me if I worked in Oakland and I told him that I used to, but now I am retired.

I asked him what he did and he told me that he had trained Arabian horses for many years, but that he was currently homeless. I said "There's a lot of that going around." He agreed, but also said "I trusted the wrong ponies and the wrong people." I nodded my head at him.

"I like that perfume you have on," he said. "How much does it cost?" I told him it cost about $100 and he whistled in amazement. "I knew it was expensive! How many ounces do you get for $100?"

I laughed and said "Not very many" and we both laughed. He looked at me still laughing and said "You're funny!" so I said "No, you're funny!" and we continued giggling.

"Why are those guys in cars all looking over here?" he asked. I responded "Oh hell, Honey, who knows!" and we cracked up again. He told me his name was Ron and I told him my name.

I saw my bus coming and I quickly slipped him a bill and told him I had enjoyed meeting him. I got on the bus, found a seat and saw Ron sitting on the bench in the sun looking at me smiling.

He blew me a kiss and I blew one back to him. It was worth the ten-spot.

Double Your Pleasure

If you've visited San Francisco, you may have seen a fairly wide range of colorful characters.

Identical twins, Marian and Vivian Brown were born on January 25, 1927 in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I began seeing them around town in the mid 1970's. They were pretty hard to miss.

The women dress identically and in their own distinctive style. They have identical hairdos, identical arched eyebrows, as well as identical smiles. They are greeted like royalty by San Francisco residents and business owners. Tourists frequently gawk and want to photograph the pair.

The Brown sisters are possibly a little goofy, but in such a delightful way, who cares!

The last time I saw them was in a restaurant in Union Square a couple of years ago. People came up to them and asked for their autograph and they cheerfully complied.

I love that some people can bring a smile to so many faces just by being themselves.

If you do visit San Francisco, keep an eye out for them. Be sure to say hello. They will smile and give you their "queenly" wave.

I hope they are around for a long time. They always make a foggy day a bit brighter.

Wedding Dresses

Considering all the weddings I've had, it's weird that I have never tried on a wedding dress.

There is something about those fluffy, slinky, opulent and expensive dresses that scares me. I have never even dreamed of wearing one. Of course, it's not too late. I guess I still could, but I have a strong feeling I never will.

For my first wedding, I wore a white "cocktail dress". Another wedding I wore a cream colored tailored suit. Another wedding I wore a pale blue leather dress. I just could not imagine myself in any confection anything like the photo above.

I've been married in judge's chambers, and by a justices of the peace.

I did have one "church" wedding performed by a lovely Episcopalian minister named Max. There were a number of family members present and some friends. I've never felt so stupid in my life. I felt like a fraud and if I had been wearing a big billowy dress, I would have died of embarrassment right there at the alter. (If I had known where the marriage was headed, that might have been preferable to going through with it.)

After Alex and I married in Lake Tahoe, we went directly from the chapel to a place called "Carlos Murphy's" and downed double shots of tequila. We then went back to the condo where we were staying. I put on my gold lame teddy that was designed by Cher's stylist, Bob Mackie. We drank champagne and watched movies. I'm not traditional bride material.

My neighbor, Mary, called me this week. She wanted to invite me to her wedding. Mary's husband of 25 years passed away about a year and a half ago. She met a man and they are getting married in May. Mary is having a traditional formal wedding. It's her third marriage.

Mary will be wearing a long wedding gown with a train and a veil. She will have three bridesmaids and a matron of honor, plus a flower girl and a ring bearer. I was somewhat astonished when she mentioned there would be about 150 guests for the wedding and reception which would be held at a lovely local hotel.

I am thrilled and shocked in equal measures. A woman of 60+ does not usually have a big formal wedding. Nor do women usually have a big formal wedding for their third marriage. But if a woman wants to, she certainly should.

You Always Remember Your First True Love

At ten years old, I fell madly, deeply, passionately in love for the first time.

The moment I saw Elvis Presley on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1956, my heart nearly burst in my chest. I felt amazing twinges in places I never knew I had.

My mother complained that he was "dirty" because of the way he moved. I wasn't sure what she meant but I certainly liked Elvis's brand of dirty. He sang "Don't Be Cruel" and "You Ain't Nuthin' But a Hound Dog" (containing such profoundly meaningful lyrics I nearly cried).

I used every dime of my allowance to purchase 45 records so I could listen to Elvis over and over and over again. I dreamed about Elvis and I wanted to marry him. I stole money out of my mother's purse and bought movie magazines that had Elvis on the cover. I saw all his movies more than once. I knew if I were to actually meet Elvis, I would faint dead away, (and not be faking).

I was obsessed with Elvis. He was in my thoughts, day and night. I was sure I would love him forever. And I did love him for at least two years, maybe two and half years. It's sad, but fervent as young love can be, it can also be somewhat fickle.

By the time I was 13, Elvis was history. Oh I still "liked" his music, but I no longer thought about having his children.

Oddly enough, my mother developed a major crush on Elvis just about the time I was through with him. Mom and her sister, my aunt, actually went to Graceland in Memphis just to look inside the fence. My mother even liked him when he wore the sparkly jumpsuits and played Las Vegas.

I really sometimes wondered about her sanity.

Fascinating Women

Many years ago, I worked in the field of "high tech" at a start up company in San Francisco.

The Taiwanese owned company was an OEM (original equipment manufacturer) that supplied computer monitors and keyboards. The president was a very interesting Chinese guy named Jack.

Jack hired a young lady who was an instant enigma to all of us. Her name was Gladys Ho and she was hired as an office manager. She looked a little out of place in the office because of her extreme glamorous style which every day included false eyelashes and amazing cleavage in very expensive clothing.

Gladys was not friendly in the slightest to most of the employees. She spent most of her time in Jack's office. Nobody ever saw her use a keyboard or answer a telephone. Three or four times a day, she would come by my desk and hiss "Come with me!" I would follow her out to her new Mercedes convertible and we would drive somewhere to get expensive coffee drinks.

I was about 37 or 38 at the time, and I think Gladys was a few years younger. She came from Hong Kong and lived in San Francisco's Chinatown were the only two things I actually knew about her. Oh, and she was boinking the company president. That was it.

I have never seen a wardrobe like Ms. Ho possessed outside of a movie. Nor had I ever met a woman so consistently glamorous. She sort of fascinated me.

About a month after Gladys was hired, a series of thefts occurred in the office. Wallets went missing out of bags and suit coats. A security team was brought in to talk to the employees. If the culprit was ever found out, nobody told me.

Another month passed and Gladys abruptly quit the job and was never seen again that I know of. Police officers did come in at one point to question people about her whereabouts because she was "wanted for questioning" in a police matter.

Who was this woman who had a taste for expensive clothes and coffee?

The photo is of some Chinese actress. But I wanted you to get the general idea of what she looked like even at 8 AM.