Author and Inspired Writer

Yup, well, I wasn’t going to post the second part to “When one faux pas isn’t enough” until later, but it seems a certain faithful reader who shall remain nameless but is my next older sister isn’t going to give me any peace until I do.  So fine.

My second stroll down Colour Me Stupid Avenue began with what I thought was a very good intention.  A member of my choir, L.,  had just come through a very serious illness and I suggested to The Mister we send her a bouquet of flowers as a ‘get well soon’ gift.  We went into our favourite florist shop and order a nice arrangement of “the brightest flowers you have.”  No problem!  Later that day, our friend called to thank us for the lovely flowers, and that night at choir L.’s girlfriend, who happened to be there when the flowers were delivered, reiterated how thrilled L. was to receive them.

Well, we were feeling prit-tee pleased with ourselves when we got back home, I can tell you, and I was running the day’s events over in my mind as I brushed my teeth when it hit me!  Oh my god!  I ran into the TV room where The Mister was, realized I still had a mouthful of toothpaste, ran back to the bathroom, spat out said toothpaste, scurried back to the TV room and blurted, “How stupid are we?!!”

The Mister took a second, a rather long second, to slide his eyes off the screen and over to me.

“Something wrong, dear?”

“You know how sick L. has been?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And do you remember her allergies…her terrible, terrible allergies to…”

He blanched.  “Flowers.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.  “She must think we want her dead.”

“We may as well have wrapped them up in a nice wool blanket,” he added.  (Next to flowers, L. has the worst wool allergy I’ve ever seen.)

“I’ll call her tomorrow and apologize and tell her to throw them out.”

Which I did.  And she was so sweet and understanding!

“Not to worry,” she said, “everybody’s been sending me flowers, even my son, the doctor!”  She added that they weren’t bothering her if she kept the windows open and she put them in the spare room at night.  I insisted she throw them out, but she refused.  “They’re just too beautiful!  But if they bother me, I’ll bring them down to the church and leave them on the communion table.”

I apologized a couple more dozen times and promised to send her a goldfish next time, or a rock, something non-allergenic.  At least I left her laughing.

So there, gentle readers and pesky older sister, there is my sad story of my misadventures on Colour Me Stupid Avenue.  My consolation?  At least I don’t live there.

Not yet, anyway.

Ah gentle readers, stroll with me for a moment down Colour Me Stupid Avenue and let me tell you what Yours Ever Faithfully has been up to.

I have a friend and colleague I greatly admire – a superb poet and keen wit. Even though I’m pretty sure he would not mind my using his real name, I’m going to call him Richard instead. Richard has had a problem with his weight for as long as I’ve known him. That basically is all you need to know about him for the purposes of this story. That, and he has the sweetest, most resonant voice in all of creation. See what happened was, I was asked to read (along with two of my sister poets) at an award ceremony for Marty Gervais when he won the Queen’s Jubilee Medal. As I was waiting to go up the the mike, I heard what I thought was Richard talking to someone behind me. I turned, we made brief eye contact, but nope, it wasn’t him. So I turned back around and remarked to The Mister, “I didn’t think two people on this planet could have that voice, you know, since Rod Serling passed away.” He turned around and then responded, “You’re right! That guy sounds just like Richard!”

No doubt you’ve already figured out where I’m going with this, haven’t you, clever readers? Yes, of course it was Richard, only a pared down version of Richard. He’d decided to get fit a few months prior to the awards ceremony, and I honestly didn’t even recognize him! And I only discovered my error a few weeks ago when I read with him at the public library. The other day I apologized by email, told him he must have thought me so arrogant to not even say hi to him and Marty’s shin-dig, but that I hope he took it as a compliment that I didn’t recognize him. He was sooo gracious about it and said that happens to him all the time now! Even his father, who’d been out of town for five months and didn’t know about Richard’s plan to lose weight, was stunned to see his son, minus 80 pounds.

That though, was only my first faux pas. The second one was potentially more serious, but time has gotten away from me, dear readers. Please join me again (soon!) for another amble down Colour Me Stupid Avenue.

Last night, I joined a gaggle of amazing poets to read our poems from the Windsor Review’s recently published Whiskey Sour City anthology. My poem is entitled “crazy over ninety,” and it deals with the time I lived downstairs from a man who was abusing his wife and how I had to call the police more than once because I feared for her safety. This took place in the midst of the “dog days” of a torrid summer – hence the reference to “over ninety”.

Anyhoo, I was sitting there, waiting for the event to begin, when one of the other poets (whom I had never met) sat down next to me and said how much she enjoyed reading my poem in the anthology. When I thanked her, she added, “By the way, I’m a cop. Twenty-eight years on the force.” That’s quite a coincidence, but when she added, “And I work in the Domestic Violence Unit,” I nearly fell off my chair! What are the odds, I ask ya, what are the odds?!

Gotta love the synchronicity! And for those of you who don’t subscribe to the Review, my poem is posted below.

crazy over ninety

heat and humidity hang over the city
with the weight of a dead body

an impotent fan has been pushing stifling air
around my bedroom all night
its sorry efforts disguised by a rhythmic loudmouth clatter

exhaustion finally kicks in
and i feel myself slipping away
drifting off
when the couple above me
start shouting and throwing things

well
he shouts, she pleads
he throws punches, she cries

and me?
i call the cops
again

the dispatcher knows my voice
hesitates a second before asking
does it sound serious this time?

i say
do you want me to call back
when i hear a body hit the floor?

no, i didn’t mean… she’s embarrassed
weary
no, of course not
i’ll send a unit

yeah, why don’t you just do that
and i slam down the receiver

damn

damn damn damn damn damn

my hand’s still stuck to the phone
i should call her back
apologize
tell her i’m not a rude person
not usually
but i haven’t slept much
in three days
and those idiots upstairs…

and she’d say
oh i know honey
(she’d call me something nice like that –
honey, baby, sweetie)
i know, she’d say
this heat’s getting to all of us
it’s just i hate sending my boys
(that’s what she’d call the officers – her boys)
i hate sending my boys on domestic calls
they’re the worst
you never know if the guy’s crazy or on drugs
or if he has a gun

i don’t think you need to worry about that,
i’d tell her
he’s never had a gun before

uh-huh, she’d say
and can you swear he doesn’t have one now?

and she’d tell me her name is sharon
(or karen, or janet, or pat)
and that she’s been working dispatch for eighteen years

and i’d tell her i just moved to the city
and can’t afford an air conditioner
and how a fan doesn’t make one damn bit of difference
when you’re a rotisserie chicken roasting on a spit

and she’d laugh
tell me to hang in there
the heat can’t last forever

and i’d tell her about the other day, when i was coming home
on the bus
and there was a car ahead of us
and a truck ahead of him
and how we all stopped for a red light
at seminole and walker
and the guy in the car got out
ran ahead to the guy in the truck
and started punching him in the face
right through the open window

now that’s not something you see every day, i’d tell her

and she’d make a little sound
a dry chuckle and mutter
huh, you’d be surprised

then she’d say it’s been nice talking to me
but she has to get back to work
and i’d say, yeah, thanks for listening
and she’d say sure and then listen baby,
you go get yourself a nice big bowl of ice,
set it in front of that fan of yours,
and see if that don’t cool things off a bit
and i’d say, thanks for the tip
and she’d say the cruiser should be there in a few minutes
and call back whenever you need to
and you take care of yourself now sweetie
and remember, it’s a crazy city over ninety

and we’d hang up
friends

i should call her back
my hand’s still plastered to the phone

instead
i lay my damp forehead on the back of my hand
close my eyes
and wait for the siren

…it’s pretty darn slow! At least so far.

This has been our third week on the Fast Diet, two days a week restricting our calories to a paltry 600, and yes I have lost weight, but it’s coming down veeeery sloooowly, and my body fat percentage even slower. I was disappointed until The Mister reminded me that after gaining a pound a month for nearly a year, the numbers have not only stabilized, but are actually going down, and that I am only two pounds away from the upper limit of my goal range (a five pound range). All true, and on top of that, I’ve lost an inch and a half off my waist, which is a very healthy indicator…not to mention it’s nice to have a waistline again.

There are two things which might accelerate my weight loss. First, I could exercise on an empty stomach, which, they tell me, burns fat. When I was exercising six days a week, I found it just cost me too much energy-wise to do it first thing in the morning, so I started working out an hour after breakfast. Apparently this meant I was burning carbs, not fat. Starting Monday though, I’m going back to the crack of dawn (I exaggerate), since I’m feeling much better than a year ago, and I’ve cut my cardio and weights down to three times a week now.

The second thing I could do, is stick to the recommended 500 calorie limit on my fast days. It’s supposed to be 600 for men and 500 for women. Supposed to be. Buuuut I don’t see that happening any time soon. I love that extra 100 calories and I’m not ready to say farewell to them…at least not yet. When I’m better acclimatized to the fast days, then I’ll think about it. Maybe.

The Mister is doing well and although his weight is up half a pound this week, his fat and hydration haven’t budged, and he has been exercising pretty consistently. So it’s probably muscle. And, gotta say, he is looking leaner. So that’s a good thing for him. And the fact that he’s doing all the calorie counting, food weighing, and meal preparation, well, that’s a good thing for me!