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His Father’s Funeral and My Mirror Poem

  • Posted on March 11, 2013 at 1:50 pm

beautiful-16736_640Several months after reconnecting with Biker Prez (the crazy specifics of which I’ll describe in a future post), his father became ill. Biker Prez flew back to the East Coast from California to see him. Within a couple of days, his father passed away. I attended the funeral which took place at the same cemetery where my grandmother is buried.

It’s an old cemetery.

After his father’s service, Biker Prez and I wandered around the crooked headstones looking for my grandmother’s grave. It took us a half hour to locate it, even though I had written down the section and row numbers.

A few days later, in my weekly writing group, we worked on Mirror Poems. You write 7 lines and then reverse them. Here’s mine:

She’s buried here, in this old cemetery
with its weather-worn headstones in uneven rows.
After his father’s funeral, I took off for Section Five.
She was somewhere, there, lying in peace.
But I couldn’t find her.
The ground creaked
as the ice cracked beneath my boots.

As the ice cracked beneath my boots
the ground creaked.
But I couldn’t find her.
She was somewhere, there, lying in peace.
After his father’s funeral, I took off for Section Five
with its weather-worn headstones in uneven rows.
She’s buried here, in this old cemetery.

Try writing a Mirror Poem and post it in my comments! I’d love to read yours.

It’s Working Out

  • Posted on March 3, 2013 at 12:04 pm

heartAnd so am I.

Getting up at 4:30 isn’t easy. What’s easy is shutting off the alarm and going back to sleep for another three hours. But I’m done being easy (that doesn’t sound right). I’ve been dragging my saggy butt out of bed. Once I have coffee, I’m good to go, and once I’m at the gym and in class, I enjoy myself (really).

Fortunately, my fear of getting nauseas working out in the morning hasn’t manifested (that’s not just a fear—embarrassingly, I almost fainted during a 6:00 a.m. group workout about a year ago). Now, after only a week of consistency, I’m feeling good. I’m feeling stronger.

roseThis morning in Step class, from my vantage point at the back of the room, I could see a tattoo of a thorny red rose on the back of the ankle of the girl in front of me. Her tattoo was visible because her pants were three-quarter length and her socks were completely inside her sneakers (I wasn’t sure she even had socks on because it looked like she had a blister underneath her tattoo—but that’s besides the point). I wonder if she struggled with the decision to put something permanently on her body.

 I wish I was brave enough to get a tattoo. I’ve designed it in my head—the infinity symbol, looped together by a strand of fresh water pearls—the idea being something tangible from the ocean, from water, the source of life, together with the intangible, with forever.

If I wasn’t afraid (of what, though?), I’d get that tattoo. I wish I could decide where—not where I’d get it, as in which tattoo parlor or from which tattoo artist (California would be the perfect place, don’t you think?). But where on my body I would put it—the outside of one of my ankles, maybe, but right or left? On a shoulder? I’d worry, then, about my sons, or worse, my mother, seeing it. And what if I had an evening affair to attend, where the guests were conservative and judgmental? I’m not sure how I feel when I see a woman at a black tie affair, skimpy little black dress, dangling earrings, spiky black heels, standing among other little black dresses or floor length gowns, champagne flute in hand, and then, on the ankle or back of the neck, visible because of an up-do, a butterfly tattoo or red rose or blue letters spelling something in Japanese. (Not that I hang out at black tie affairs, but you know what I mean.)

I’m not sure how I feel. I wish I didn’t wonder about it, wish it didn’t matter. I wish it wasn’t about having the guts, or the balls if I had those, to do something unconventional.

I can see my tattoo, a string of fresh water pearls tinged with pink, swirling around my right ankle, testimony to my infinite courage.

But I’m Not A Morning Person!

  • Posted on February 26, 2013 at 5:25 am


The only way I’m going to be comfortable with my body is if I tone things up. And the only way I’m going to do that is by being consistent with my workouts, something I haven’t been in, well, years.  My slacking off at the gym wasn’t really my fault (who am I kidding?). I let myself believe that the full time job I took after my divorce left me little or no time to exercise. Truth is, I got lazy. And now I’m paying the price. If I had only maintained…

But I didn’t.

So now I have to do something. By April. I’ll tell you one thing—putting this out here on my blog, for anyone to see, is mortifying … I mean motivating. I can’t very well say I’m going to do something and then not do it. Well, I can, but …

My plan is to get my workouts in before work, and since I don’t do well on treadmills (I get dizzy), I need to be in an exercise class with an instructor telling me what to do and when to stop doing it. I need loud music and people around me doing what I’m doing (and letting me know I’m not the only one out of breath or having trouble with that final rep).

Since I work from 9 to 6 and sometimes later every day, I’ll have to get up at 4:30 a.m. to get to a 5:30 or 6:00 class. Do you think that’s enough time (first I have to take the dogs out, drink coffee, eat a banana and brush my teeth)?

Even though I’m not a morning person, I’m determined to have a biker babe body (my version of one anyway) before I head out to California. I’m sharing my quest for a body that weighs less than it does at this moment, a body without triceps that flap when you swat them, a body that looks good in a short skirt without Spanx underneath (or any underwear for that matter—OMG, I didn’t just say that!), in order to hold myself accountable.

I start tomorrow at 4:30 a.m.  Who’s with me? 

I Want To Be A Motorcycle Mama

  • Posted on February 25, 2013 at 12:00 am

face-66317_640If you had the chance to act out a fantasy for a week, would you do it? I’ve got that chance and I want to take advantage of it—to spend a week pretending I’m someone else—to go from the fifty-something, divorced, suburban woman who defines me on the outside to the biker chick, motorcycle mama, badass babe I know I am on the inside (well . . . somewhere on the inside). I have a chance to act out the role of “old lady” to the President of a well-established motorcycle club in California (who, me?), the kind of club like the one on Sons of Anarchy. 

I’ve always had a thing for motorcycles (but please don’t tell my mother). And I used to have a thing for this particular Biker Prez—but that was thirty years ago, way before he started hanging out with bikers, before I moved back to the East Coast from L.A. where I met him, before I married a man who never rode a motorcycle and who I raised two kids with before divorcing after twenty years. 

I reconnected with my old flame from California last year and have plans to fly out to visit him at the end of April.

There’s always been a bit of biker girl in me, and now, in my fifties, I’m going to let her out. The only problem is my body. I’ve got two months to lose those extra pounds I put on over the holidays (you know, the ones that come in handy every year as an excuse for gaining weight).  

I know myself—if I’m not comfortable with my body, this fantasy won’t work. I mean, part of being a biker chick is dressing the part, right? Short skirts, tight jeans, little tank tops that show lots of cleavage and arms (my triceps need toning!). Everything skimpy, tight and sexy. Even a little sleazy. Everything black. 

I’ll need a new wardrobe. And a new body.