Maggie West

Lightning Never Strikes Twice...

In the eighties, I was physically picked up and thrown out of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City. Apologies to Mr. Van Halen -- I'm a sincere fan.

If you knew me then, you'd understand why. If you know me now, you're most likely scratching your head. But let me assure you, I deserved it.

After many hours of downing margaritas at the bar, Marilee (my boss at the time) and I began discussing life with the aid of pretzel nuggets and stir straws. We lined them up through the center of the table likening each piece to one of our life's chapters and verses until we covered the entire surface. Unbeknownst to me (due to too many margaritas, no doubt), our waitress would occasionally visit, attempting to take a drink order. And we ignored her completely. At some point, I complained about her inattentiveness and approached the bar to register said complaint. And complain is exactly what I did. It was a wee bit too loud; a little abrupt, perhaps; but, in my defense, I felt my ego had been bruised.

Our waitress happened to be standing two feet away and said, "I've been to your table five times! You ignored me." "No you haven't," I snapped back. She called me a bitch and the gloves were off. I grabbed her shirt, the bartender grabbed me, and out the door I went with Marilee not far behind. Naturally, because she was sitting with me, she was at fault as well.

As we sat dumbfounded outside the hotel, our shoes strewn across the few steps that lead to the entrance; Marilee glared at me. She grabbed her shoes, hung them on her boobs, and said: "There are thousands of other places to drink in this town, let's get the hell outta here." And off we went; shoes hanging from our boobs through the streets of New York.

I mention this only because my life was full of such experiences before 2007. There isn't a bar or dance club where the employees didn't know me by name within a three-city-limit radius.

And the me now wonders why. Why was my world so confusing? Why was my behavior so despicable at times? What was I trying to ultimately prove? Okay, so I added a what. There were, however, many whys, whats, hows, and whos in my life. Looking back, my life was nothing but questions -- there were hardly ever any answers. And, at some point, I stopped asking. I stopped looking for the seemingly elusive explanations for my actions and mind-set.

Then in 2005 my world exploded.

A relationship of almost fourteen years came to an end.

At an age when I thought all things should fall into place, pieces of me were blown through time. I scanned the past for reasons, peered at the dismal future, and remained frozen in the present until 2007.

Until the warm winds of Georgia called me home.

I say "home," not because I grew up here, but because a person of like mind, heart, and soul waited through time for me to arrive. His woes, like mine, are difficult to put into just a few words. But let me just say this: In the three years we've been together, a whole person was fashioned from all the little bits and pieces that remained. And today, we still spend most of our days together. It's as if lightning struck on March 17, 2007 -- St. Patrick's Day -- and fused us together.

Or, perhaps, the effects of the moonshine and green beer haven't worn off yet.

Whichever it is makes no difference to me, and quoting Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof: "May the good Lord smite me with [more of] it" all of my days "And may I never recover."

And what of my days bar hopping and swilling the finest drinks two bucks can buy? I now spend most evenings at home watching Jeff chug Colt .45s to his heart's content, and I at his side with my Boones Farm. We're happier than pigs in shit.

I haven't been thrown out of any unfavorable -- or favorable for that matter -- place in the last few years. That's pretty good, huh? I haven't been seen wearing my shoes on my boobs lately, either.

Farm livin' is the life for me.
Land spendin' out so far and wide.
Keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.

We're living a wonderfully simple life. And I love it that way.

And though, we're usually found gardening, building, reading, and/or writing; we now have "respectable" reporter jobs writing for The Beacon -- a North Fulton County newspaper.

Perhaps, this year we'll both find time to finish our books.

One can hope.

At any rate, as Wednesday approaches, I can't help but remember our first meeting: My very first St. Patrick's Day with an honest-to-goodness Scots-Irishman and all the "trimmings."

We're an odd combination to be sure. We call it Mick-xican (Mik-x-ee-can): Our very own culture. Where does that fall on the romantic scale of relationships? -- Pretty damn high as far as I'm concerned.

It may have taken us a whole lifetime to reach each other, but the years since 2007 have been well worth it. Each morning, when I rise, I remember that lightning never strikes twice in the same place. And I say my prayers while I anticipate the new day ahead.

I know now that all the years that led to these were a blessing in disguise; all the minutes and hours that make up the years to come will be just as cherished as that auspicious day we met.

Happy Anniversary, Jeff.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone.

Get The Oil!

I had my share of kinky moments in the past. No one can dispute this fact.

The memories of these times are still among the cobwebs in my brain. And I'm certain if the occasion arises, I can dust them off and put them to good use.

It's like riding a bike. Right?

And even though my husband and I live a rather conservative life, who says that what goes on behind close doors isn't liberal? Not I. He's Scots-Irish for Pete's sake.

Well, last night, Jeff woke shouting: "Get the oil! I need oil!"

I, of course, with an amused tone, asked: "What oil? For what?"

Jeff: "Never mind, just get it. I need it."
Me (laughing loudly now): "Honey, you're sleeping. Why would you need oil?"
Jeff (seething): "Get it woman! I need oil to lie in."
Me: (hysterically laughing): "You want to lie in oil?"
Jeff: "Yes, olive oil."
Me (with a sarcastic tone, but still laughing uncontrollably): "There isn't enough olive oil in this house for you to bathe in. What the hell are you talking about?"

This idea, however, had me worked up for a moment. I almost ran to the kitchen to fetch as much oil as I could carry.

There's vegetable and canola oil in the cupboard above the ovens. There's sesame and olive oil in the cupboard above the stove. I mustn't forget the shortening in the pantry either. I could heat that up. If I put all these together, I'm in for the slipperiest "slide" of my lifetime. This could be fun.

Along with these thoughts, numerous exotic positions come to mind as well. Damn! I'm ready.

Of course, I never know what's in that head of his. I calm down long enough to contemplate the obvious. He could be preparing a meal in his dream, creating a recipe, even making lamp oil for all I know. Why is the first thing that enters my head sex? Well, because I am woman—hear me roar.

Speaking of roaring, he's really pissed by now. I didn't get the oil as instructed. And I sit about two feet away laughing my ass off. He is not amused.

Suddenly, he blurts out what he really wanted: "I said get me a blanket—I'm cold dammit!"

Me (snickering): "Oh yeah, that's what you said honey," adding a smirk and a wink.

So, I get him a blanket, cover him up, and he's as dead as a doornail two minutes later.

I shoulda got the oil when I had the chance…

Needless to say, his words "deglaze" my heated thoughts until they're runny, cold, and dark—like poorly cooked porridge. The warm and fuzzy, "Debbie Does Dallas," visions dissipate. Now I see me reaching for his throat and choking the life out of him. Perhaps even a little shock therapy—using the nearby lamp—would be better (Indeed, a mad scientist grin and slits for eyes accompany my hands as they rub together and I imagine his demise).

Anyway, within a few minutes, it's all gone: the humor, the anger, my hopes for sex, my wishing him dead. All is back to normal. And eventually, I get some sleep.

No kinky sex on this night, people. Stay tuned, though; it may happen—sooner than later. I can't get the damn oil off my mind.

The Good Life

Question: "We have a pretty good life, don't we?"

Response: "We have a great life."

Conclusion: "I'm ever the pessimist, darlin'."

 

This begins our conversation outside, by the garden, underneath the weed of the Tree Kingdom—a crepe myrtle. These trees, however, do furnish a substantial amount of shade. And yesterday, after pruning and rebuilding the lasagna garden for most of the afternoon, a little shade is exactly what the doctor ordered.

A pretty good life?

Because our needs are simple and our wants minimal, our life is amazing. As others go about their "daily grinds," we wake up beside one another content with our world, enjoy a delectable breakfast (which Jeff's creates), garden, and write. And then, we start all over again: day after day; month after month. Who could ask for more?

The expression on some of the faces of the people who listen to my description of our regular routine is priceless. At first, their eyes widen, then, the corners of their mouths slightly turn upward, and their noses crinkle. They can't decide whether it's a good thing or a bad thing. And it shows.

"You do what?"

"You eat what?"

Others, mostly elderly folks, smile and nod: "What a great way to live."

And they're right!

To most, however, we're eccentric and unusual (No news flash there). We seldom shop (Who goes without that?); and never at WalMart or any other Chinese-manufactured-product-filled establishment. We rarely eat out (Yes! That means fast food as well). And we make the gifts we give each other, family, and friends.

Gardening supplies most of the food we eat. Hence, from spring to fall there's very little time for much else. There's tilling, pruning, planting, weeding, watering, harvesting, canning, and freezing to be done. Plus, each year we pick projects around the house to complete. This year: A cottage-garden fence.

This house is filled with innumerable works by many of history's greatest authors and historians. These writings are far more accurate (and in some cases, far more gruesome) than any movie or play has ever been. So, we read (Well, Jeff more than I) rather than watch television or go to the movies. This house is also filled with music—all sorts: From classical to today's retro. So, we listen rather than attend concerts and symphonies.

We both would rather talk to anyone face-to-face than by telephone. We both enjoy people watching (and take notes—so passers-by beware). Long conversations with each other are part of every day for us. And frightening people with our dress and demeanor is our entertainment. Well, that, and putting a microphone in front of Jeff that is plugged into one of his amplifiers—my comedy zone. That shit is stupendous!

Then there's writing. Whatever time is left in the day, it finds us in front of our respective computers. And that's another magical part of our life. One would have to see the masterpieces created by Jeff's hands to understand this comment. One would have to experience the exchanges between us to totally comprehend the delight. Our exchanges, during this time, consist of crying, caressing, disagreeing, laughing, shouting, singing, and getting on one another's nerves. The wonders are endless.

Do we fight?

Hell yes! All the time; many times in a twenty-four hour period; like cats and dogs (I know, too cliché).

Our arguments are enlightening and fierce; mentally challenging and reckless; plus, meaningful and senseless. Some are short. Others last for days. But through them all, we love each other. And it shows.

All my life people have called me crazy. All my life, I have allowed people to change me into their distorted views of a relationship partner. Why? I'm crazy.

If we continually hear something, we believe it—right?

Since the very day I met Jeff, he made me feel "normal" (if there is such a thing) and special. I have often thought that it's due to our combined craziness. He accepts me as I am; I accept him as he is. So, who's crazier? Neither? Both? I like to think of us as unique. The last surviving real relationship: For it is surely a dying breed.

Let others have their divorces, their "newness." I have Jeff. And God willing, we will remain here as we are until our dying day.

A pretty good life?

This life—my life—is far more than I dared to hope and dream would come my way.

Somewhere along the way, I must have done something right. Somewhere along the way, I must have been a really good girl. For God has sent me Jeff. And for that I am eternally grateful.

Christmas Blessings

From the moment I wake, I know today is special.

But what is it that makes any day an exceptional one?

Could it be the warm Southern breeze that now kisses the landscape, in the wee hours of the morning, after the chilly evening slaps of ol' Mr. Winter – night after night, after night? Or, perhaps, it's the stunning spectacle of colors painting the Eastern sky and rendered by the artistic hand of our planet's morning star that supposes the extraordinary adventure at hand.

Ah, no nature lovers in the crowd?

Well, then…

It could be the alluring whiffs of fresh brewed coffee slipping through the bedroom door; the sound of eggs sizzling and bacon crackling; or the slightest hint of pancakes in the air giving us the notion that this is no ordinary day.

Oh, no breakfast types either…

Then surely it's the rare occasion when our "other halves" roll over, pull us closer (rather than leap from the bed as if it were on fire), and gaze lovingly into our eyes while whispering enchanting sentiments. Or perhaps, a morning shower made for two coupled with the occasional, yet always amazing, "submarine races" – who "pleases" who first – that charm our every sense and are our signs of better things to come.

My mornings are filled with such things more often than not. Does this make it more difficult to discern an exceptional day from a disappointing one? Not really. It simply means that the morning marvels I face from day to day, week to week, and month to month may outnumber the "average bear's."

And as I mentioned in the first sentence, today is such a day: One incredible moment after another.

It's Christmas day…

After what seems like a lifetime of the un-merriest of Christmases, I find myself truly blessed beyond belief this year. Not only do the customary daybreak delights fill the air, but they're accompanied by the aromatic promises of what's yet to come.

Jeff is in the kitchen grinning from ear to ear, and a pleasing look of love crosses his face as I enter. The coffee is brewed and ready for me to taste; the day's chopping and ingredient gathering has begun; plus, his courteous recipe questions – however, unnecessary (he knows that, which makes them all the nicer) – all have me feeling warm and fuzzy inside.

We spend most of today right where we stand: Among the smells and tastes of the soon-to-be Christmas dinner. Our decision, many months ago, to have an authentic holiday supper is, to my mind, one of the greatest ideas we've ever had. A goose browns in the top oven; homemade bread bakes in the lower one; our plum pudding steams in a pot on the stove; and Jeff is meticulously basting, seasoning, and stirring. The roasted potatoes, stewed red cabbage, and creamed brussel sprouts follow up this concerto of one of the merriest Opuses ever created in our kitchen. The clanks, hums, and whistles of the various pots and pans are definitely magical in their composition (The recipes are forthcoming on Green Hell – no worries).

All this and amorous attention too…

What more could a girl want?

For a split second, though, a cloud passes through my thoughts. Can this be real? Are all the rainy days really gone? Are this man's actions stirred by sincerity or contractual obligation?

Why is it that female thinking always gets in the way? Why do we always see rain when it's obviously sunny? We frequently grab the umbrella rather than our bathing suits. This is surely the most irritating of all womanly traits: And currently, the one in my head.

Of my short, misplaced thoughts, I can only say this: When the sun rarely shines in one's life, its sudden appearance can be blinding.

My disheartened past catches up with me every now and again and it's hard to believe: Believe, once again, in the existence of delights, desires, happiness, and pleasure.

This man has shown me more love in the last two years than I've felt in all the pre-Jeff years rolled into one. So, what's my problem?

The slightest mention of my un-Christmasy thoughts has Jeff blurting out, "Don't you dare get me out of the Christmas spirit." And with that, I realize how ridiculous I sound – how silly the memories of my bleak past are.

I mentally smack myself in the head: "Wake up, you damn fool. Snap out of it!"

That was then; this is now!

This love, this man, and this life are mine – really mine.

What ever I did to deserve them, God only knows. And today is definitely the day to say "thank you."

So, as the sun colors the evening sky and my day's journey comes to an end, I say my prayers. And thank the Lord for all that he has given me, all that I have become, and the future I now hold in both hands.

What a wondrous journey…

What a magnificent venture…

What a life – my life!

My Pumpkin Pie

Ah, pumpkin pie…

What's Thanksgiving Day without whiffs of cinnamon, ginger, and pumpkin scenting every room in our homes? Scents that can magically take us back in time to our younger days and youthful hearts.

This day of thanks and giving is our time to just "smell the roses", make new memories, and fondly remember our yesteryears. We should look forward to the holidays with delight and enthusiasm; for days such as these are rare. Our 24/7 fast-paced lives leave little room for family and friends, for warm reminiscing and kindhearted remarks. We must strive to keep our family traditions alive while attempting to establish new ones that will embrace the future thoughts of those we cherish. Let the smells and smiles of the holiday season fill the air and the laughter of every child ring through the years to come.

As for me, I can still remember licking the batter off the spoon, watching the steam escape through the cracked oven door with delight, stealing a spoonful of stuffing before my mother dressed the turkey, and the sudden silence before prayer.

Thanks and giving were everywhere.

This year (and last year – come to think of it), I didn't think I'd find myself clamoring around in a Georgia kitchen making pumpkin pie. But, here I am. And as this Thanksgiving approaches, my memories have found a way to resurface and list the many things for which I'm truly thankful.

Oddly enough, a fairly good-sized pumpkin that sits on a shelf in the garage is what prompts these gratifying thoughts. Without its presence, I'm pretty sure that my baking would have included fiddling with the utensil drawer for hours or experimenting with ingredients rather than taking a walk down memory lane.

This, however, is no ordinary pumpkin. It began as a seed that was planted in our garden earlier this year. And Jeff still has its baby pictures on his website to prove it.

As I place it on the kitchen counter, I think: I have no idea what to do with this thing. Really. That's exactly what I think. Until this very moment, to me, pumpkin for pumpkin pie came in a can on a grocer's shelf. Right?

"Hell, a can opener and spoons are the only "tools" I should need for baking. Ain't it?" I say out loud.

The pumpkin sits there in silence.

(Go ahead and laugh, talking to a pumpkin has its advantages: They don't talk back.)

Standing here staring at this orange blob isn't getting me anywhere, it's time to consult the "Julia Child" of the Bean household – Jeff.

Naturally, Jeff is reading in another room. And thankfully, he doesn't pee his pants from laughing his ass off when I ask the "pumpkin" question. "Calmly, coolly," (After watching Equilibrium fifty times, the coupling of these two words appeals to me: They sound good together – don't they?) he instructs me to cut the pumpkin in half, or quarter it, and after preheating the oven to 350 degrees bake the pieces for 25 minutes on each side.

"Oh" is all I could think of to say (and I'm not usually at a loss for words).

"Save the seeds for baking later, though, sweetie," he calls out as I leave the room (Nothing goes to waste in this house. If it's fit for consumption – of any kind – we use it).

Once more, I enter the kitchen, and cut the pumpkin as instructed. Then I start on the crust: By adding a wee bit of vinegar – my mother always said – my crust will be the flakiest in town; so I do.

It is at this very moment (between mixing the dry ingredients and adding the liquids) that I begin to wonder what my life would have been like without Jeff.

Well, there'd be no cut-up pumpkin baking in the oven for one thing.

There'd be no sighing serenades accompanied by the soft sounds of six-strings strumming in the background as I write; no "Snidely Whiplash" snickers (Any day now, I expect to see him start twisting his mustache) from across the room when the proverbial "light bulb" is turned on in Jeff's head (which is quite often, I might add); or no welcome winks of approval when I finally do something right (which is not very often). Moreover, I wouldn't know the wonderful life of matching boonie hats, camo-jackets and scarves. The sun would rise each day to find me without the flavorful additions of Persian omelets, barley porridge, eggs Florentine, just to name a few, and the man preparing these delectable treasures for me.

My world would definitely lack its luster, its shiny-new-day twinkle, without Jeff in my life.

Before Georgia, there were oddities and surprises to be sure. But since Georgia, the oddities make more sense and the surprises, at times, are beyond belief. It's rather difficult to explain if one hasn't had a dose of "RRD" (Rebel Redneck Dave) firsthand.

Therefore, as I stand here looking at the cut pieces of pumpkin through the glass oven door, my thoughts turn to all the gifts I've received in the past two years:

An extraordinary second-mother whom I love dearly
An amazing group of friends
A thrill in every new discovery
A tingle in every thought
A hand to hold through every hardship
A fellow dreamer, explorer, writer, and entrepreneur-minded partner for life
A magnificent garden
An open, trustworthy, and warm heart for me to love
A home
And the greatest love I've ever known

And what of the pumpkin pie?

Like all the "adventures" by Jeff's side, it's incredible – far better than anything I've ever purchased or found in a can. The filling has the texture of custard and the crust melts in my mouth as I take the first bite.

Hell no! I didn't wait. Ma Bean didn't wait either. We couldn't help ourselves.

Happy Thanksgiving honey.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Kime

I did it!

I have as much grace as an elephant; as much coordination as a three-legged gazelle; and as much stamina as a slug. Yet, despite all this, I did it!

It's early evening in Roswell, Georgia.

And it's fall: The sun is beginning to dip closer to the horizon by 7:00 p.m. this time of year. The driveway is shielded from its glare by the nearby trees. And I see Jeff squatting near the end of the garage, in the driveway, doing something. Exactly what he's doing is unclear.

"Whatcha doin' honey?" I ask as I emerge from the kitchen door.

"You were almost too late, "he crossly states as he stands up.

Thirty minutes ago, he came downstairs to our basement office.

"Let's go have some fun, dear," he crooned. At that moment, I was lost in thought; pondering a piece; on a roll. "In a minute, honey: Let me finish my thought, okay?" was all I said.

Now, it's too damn easy to discern when Jeff is disappointed. He doesn't have a good poker face at all. Hell, he doesn't have any poker face. But, he doesn't gamble anyway – with money, that is. So, that's neither here nor there. I'm rambling again.

His dissatisfaction immediately turns his eyes green. Usually, he's mild-mannered; but now he resembles a wildcat ready to pounce. He turns, walks out the door, and up the stairs.

I continue typing: I know, I know – bad Maggie.

A half an hour later, I finish putting the vision in my head on paper. Apparently, that's a wee bit too long for Jeff. Oh well, I let the remark slide and advance towards him.

I can see a six-foot board laid out on the ground in front of him as I approach.

"You'll see," he teases in response while he finishes a number of pencil marks, every twelve inches, across the long piece of wood. "Come over here and help me steady this."

After attacking it with the circular saw, he has six 12x12 squares.

What?

Perhaps, the reader would have used a different verb, thinking that I have misused the word "attack." Nothing could be farther from the truth. A spray bottle in the hands of this Scots-Irishman is an attack weapon. Hell, he can even hold a piece of paper in a manner that suggests a duelist.

So, attack is exactly what he did.

Let's continue, shall we?

Around this house, there's always one project or another to tackle. Seeing Jeff with a hammer, nails, wood, saw, etc. is normal. On this particular day, I assumed my assistance was needed, once more, to construct an object from his mental blueprints.

This was not the case, however.

After a few moments of silence, Jeff meanders over to the half wall that was erected years ago at the end of the driveway. He, then, grabs two cinder blocks, leaving a gap in this partition between the driveway and the grassy hill beyond, and sets them about ten inches apart on the driveway.

As he scrutinizes each piece of cut wood, I wonder: What the hell is he doing?

But I don't utter a sound. I usually ask myself this question while watching Jeff do anything. I realize after almost two years together that there's always a solid reason for any of his actions or ideas. So, I keep my mouth shut, most of the time, until he offers additional clarification.

When he centers a wood square on the separated blocks, at last, a "light bulb" illuminates a couple of the dark recesses – uh, uncertainties – in my head that, to my mind, he put there. Minutes ago, after exiting the house and seeing him, I was baffled. Now I know it's…

Time to break wood!

Jeff explains the different preparations starting with one's hand. One of three ways shown to me is a "knife hand," which is one's fingers extended from the palm, rigid and straight, while the thumb is tightly pressed against the side of the hand. The second is a fist: Fingers rolled tightly towards the palm with one's thumb tucked in against the fist. And the third, a palm strike.

Before each hand instruction, Jeff carefully examines the six pieces of wood and selects one to place on the blocks. Again, my mind has found a dark room in which to play. I carefully watch, knowing, that in time, he'll pass along another light bulb before the darkness consumes me.

And even though, Jeff is very thorough in his instruction, his exact wording escapes me now. I can plainly visualize his expression; hear the tone in his voice; clearly see his every movement, but his exact words have been trapped by my brain's cobwebs, which, as he would put it, are in every dark recess of this pea-sized mind of mine: I forget – a lot.

Allow me, then, to relay the next few experiences as I remember them, and we'll leave his interpretation to…well, his interpretation (He has a website. Go there!).

Jeff effortlessly broke two boards using the knife-hand and palm-strike techniques. To say that I was in awe of his two successful strikes is a definite understatement. I know I looked shocked because his next words were, "You can do it. I know you can."

With this, he strolls over to the left-over square blocks and retrieves one without so much as giving it a second glance. Remember how careful he was in his earlier selections? And yes, for a moment this one small act began to dim the cranial lights once more…

Until…

"I've used the pieces with knots in them, so the rest should be much easier for you to break," he says with a Grinch's widening grin.

…to everything there is a purpose, I say to myself with an internal smile and an imaginary pat on the back.

"I don't think that's gonna matter much, honey. I can't break that," I stammer and point as Jeff approaches the cinder blocks again and gently places the wood down.

"You can. I know you can," he affirms.

I stand ready before the half-foot obstacle; likening it to that of the Rock of Gibraltar: I must be kidding myself, thinking I can break that thing. It's wood; from a tree; a product of Mother Nature. All of which are much stronger than I. As I continue to internally talk myself out of it, Jeff begins his instructions:

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Pull the energy through your body to here (Jeff motions with one hand swinging towards his stomach). Envision yourself breaking it. Focus. Bend your knees; drop your body as you swing into the blow. Set your aim dead center and three inches below the board, then strike.

"Which method would you like to use?" he asks.

"The palm," I reply.

Jeff shows me the technique in slow motion: It looks so easy when he does it.

I close my eyes and repeat everything he said over and over again in my head. I open them to see his face – so reassuring, positive, and strong.

I can do it! Right?

I set my stance, practice the blow a couple of times, and swing.

The board breaks!

I did it!

This just proves that an exceptional instructor's (friend's/ lover's/ parent's/ support system's…) teachings are the key to every great achievement, at least in my opinion – for whatever it's worth.

Mozart Had His Starling, Edgar Allen Poe, His Cat, And Green Hell...

Mozart had his starling, Edgar Allen Poe, his cat, and Roy Rogers, Trigger. But never has there been a tale as touching and wrenching as that of one David Jefferson Bean and Connor.

Ah, famous men and their pets: What strong attachments there were, what companions – buddies ‘til the end.

So, who’s to slight such a friendship, such a connection?

Me! That’s who.

Example number one: 

I wake up to a new day, the sun streams through the bedroom window; I look over and see my better half sleeping soundly. Loving thoughts come to mind as I stroke his hair, rub his back, and kiss his chin. His eyes flutter. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he reaches for a glass of water, on the dresser, that he placed there the night before. I’m prepped, in my birthday suit, ready to feel his lips on mine, to hear “I love you,” “good morning, honey” – something with a romantic tone.

His hand sets the glass back on top of the dresser, then reaches out and pets the dog. Naturally, the dog gleefully responds: Tail wagging, licking Jeff’s hand, with his paws on the bed.

“Daddy’s boy. What a good boy. Fluffy puppy. My boy. This kingdom shall be yours someday, dear boy. My boy. Daddy’s sweet baby boy. Aww, him’s so pwecious”

The sight brings a tear to one’s eye, unless one happens to be the wife.

I sit there – in shock.

“What about me?” I say.

“Oh, well, the dog needs attention, dear. He’s such a good boy.” Casting a glance towards Connor, he finishes with, “He’s da-a-d-d-dy’s boy.”

Shit! I say. Damn horseshit!

Example number two:

What better way is there to spend an evening than by popping a good movie into the DVD player, and snuggling with one’s mate on the couch with a bowl of popcorn?

Jeff and I have some long days.

We can often be found cutting wood, nailing, screwing (get your mind out of the gutter), and whittling our way through a day. If it can be built, rather than bought, “we’re on it!”

There’s also the garden: Our work is never done. Each row needs tending: Planting, thinning, watering, weeding, and on, and on, and on. Ah, pleasures abound in Green Hell.

And it’s hot. The Georgia sun bakes us with a vengeance as early as ten o’clock in the morning, and doesn’t quit until eight in the evening. When I say, “bake,” I mean bake.

So, as the opportunity presents itself, I delight in any evening’s promise of a cuddle or two, holding hands and gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes, smooching as we lay on the couch, or just plain, good ol’ fashioned side by side. Sound corny? I guess it does. But, we do all this, and more, quite often.

So, imagine my surprise when after readying ourselves for one of these (my) anticipated trips to “lover’s lane” in our den, Jeff slinks off the couch and onto the carpet. No, not onto some blanket where we can feed each other popcorn kernels, and giggle about the day’s events to our heart’s content.

He slides next to Connor, our dog, and begins to scratch his chest, kiss the top of his head, and affectionately murmur sweet nothings into his ear:

“Daddy’s boy. What a good boy. Fluffy puppy. My boy. This kingdom shall be yours someday, dear boy. M-y-y boy. Daddy’s sweet baby boy. Aww, him’s so pwecious. Da-a-d-d-dy’s boy.” 

Yep. There I sit, on the couch, watching this touching scene. I’m flabbergasted! Astonished!

“Where’s my belly rubbing?” I ask. “Where are my kisses and loving remarks?”

“Come on, sweetie,” he answers matter-of-factly, “Dogs need to be spoiled.”

Dogs need to be spoiled? Dogs need to…

Is he kidding?

“And wives?” I inquire.

“Oh, them. Those evil, misery-spreading varmints who talk back every chance they get? No way.”

Yes, folks. Mozart had his starling, Edgar Allen Poe, his cat, and Roy Rogers, Trigger. And now, there’s David Jefferson Bean and, his dog, Connor.

I guess behind every great man there is a constant, faithful companion – his pet. ‘Cause it sure ain’t a woman!

“Just you wait, Henry Higgins!”

"T" Stands For "Trouble in Paradise"

Never mind gittin' dandelions pulled

Or the screen door patched, or the beefsteak pounded.

Never mind pumpin’ any water…

Would ya like to know what kinda conversation goes

On while they’re loafin’ around that Hall?

They’re tryin’ out Bevo, tryin’ out cubebs,

Tryin’ out Tailor Mades like cigarette feends!

And braggin’ all about

How they’re gonna cover up a tell-tale breath with Sen-Sen…

Libertine men and Scarlet women!

And Ragtime, shameless music…

Mass-staria!

Friends, the idle brain is the devil’s playground!

Trouble. Oh, we got trouble,

Right here in River City!

With a capital ‘T”

That rhymes with “P”

And that stands for pool.

We’ve surely got trouble!

Right here in River City,

Right here!

Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble...

~ From The Music Man: “Trouble in River City.”


This article is dedicated to all my readers who believe that the pathways through Green Hell are lined with silver and gold. Additionally, it is also being written for all my regular readers who get tired of the “everything’s coming up roses” method in which I post to the “Bean Pods” section of this website.

I promised my better half that I would write and post my interpretation of Friday’s events before reading “E.T. Phone Home:” His version of the unfortunate circumstances that took place on said day. And so I shall.

The very mention of this request has stretched my curiosity beyond its limits. Since yesterday, I am unable to sit in front of this monitor without being consumed with the urge to click my “mouse” and enter the “unknown.”

So it begins…

Let me begin by saying that I view myself as an extremely patient person: Especially when relationship issues are “front and center.” Jeff may disagree, and, at times, he is correct (The key phrase in this sentence is “at times.”). That’s neither here nor there, however. In this case (When my petulant nature reared its ugly head on Friday.), my patience’s limits were tested three days ago. But, I’m getting a little ahead of myself.

I would like to kick off this “He Said, She Said” tale with Thursday evening.

Being a woman, and prone to romantic notions, when Jeff mentions a trip “down memory lane,” visions of bird’s singing, flower-sprayed walks, and trees talking to the wind as we hold each other tight spring to mind. The night before the day in question, the wonderful concept of revisiting downtown Atlanta and eating amidst a quaint restaurant-lined cross-section of town that we stumbled upon ten days earlier was expressed to me.

“What a great guy, how thoughtful, and what better way is there to plan a day?” were all thoughts that leapt to mind. I was in relationship heaven. And needless to say, I couldn’t wait for tomorrow to come.

The next morning, we were in front of the computer reviewing a piece I wanted to post. Let me add, before continuing, that this is one of my favorite pastimes.

In the beginning of our whirlwind romance, we sat nekkid as jaybirds sharing our thoughts and putting them to “paper” in an article entitled, “The Bean Machine.” Fond memories, of this little tête-à-tête, are what drive the romantic in me when Jeff sits at my side adding to, correcting, and generally commenting on the content of any text of mine.

More often than not, unfortunately, he becomes exasperated with the mixed tenses, dangling participles, split infinitives, and the general misuse of words that I often overlook. Still, I would rather have his input. So, each time, I call upon my sweet memories and request his presence, at my side, for the “viewings:” Hoping to relive yesterday’s bonding experience.

This was my mindset on Friday morning.

This was the way I wanted to begin our optimistic “walk.”

It seems, though, the day had other plans for us.

His anger reached its maximum altitude as he stormed out of the room and onto “bigger and better” things that morning. My lack of "style" in the perused piece had left him at his wits end.

Around 10:30 a.m. the phone rang, and all I heard was “Yeah, sure” from my infuriated other half.

I ignored the rest of the conversation, however, and continued to write.

Then, around a quarter to twelve, someone knocked at the door. After a minute or two, Jeff descended the stairs and entered our office saying, “I’m going out with a friend for a couple of hours to eat lunch. I’ll be back.”

That was all?

That was it?

No reference was made regarding our intended plans, or the “wretched” piece I needed to finish. No loving, departing sentiments were mentioned, either (This, by itself, is very foreign to me. We rarely leave each other's side without a peck on the cheek and both of us saying, "I love you"- something.) I was crushed, heartbroken, hurt, and angry.

I said nothing as he walked up the stairs and out the door.

Instead, I began “calling up” every article posted on my website since last March: Searching for anything I could use to convince Jeff that his curt remarks, made earlier, were unwarranted. After a brief viewing of each, I became acutely aware of the fact that he has definitely influenced my writings more than any other vehicle I’ve had at my disposal since 1982.

I write better – much better.

Is this the best that I can do? No. But it has improved – substantially.

Through his teachings, I have become more literate, less generalizing, and above all, emphatically aware of grammatical errors on my own. I may not catch my blunders as often as Jeff wishes, but it does occur.

During my “revisiting,” the phone rings, again. This time, it’s Jeff: “We’re on our way to get you for a night on the town. Get ready.”

Despite my objections, he hangs up after restating, “Get ready” in his matter-of-fact tone.

Now, I have spent the last three hours hoping -- nay, praying -- that when he returned home, we could begin the day anew and still have time for our little “adventure.” So, I felt let down -- thwarted. This phone call cinched it: There would be no romantic outing today.

All the patience that my mother instilled in me, through my formative years, was gone: Gone with two little words -- Get ready.

I was livid.

He has forgotten our plans.

He has gotten drunk and disregarded the timetable he proposed.

He doesn’t have the common decency to come home and discuss the morning’s events as adults, as “man and wife.”

My blood was boiling.

An hour later, still no Jeff.

At five minutes after four in the afternoon, he comes sauntering up the driveway. The glazed expression and “Are you ready?” do nothing to stay the fierce torrents rushing through every vein in my body. I let him “have it.”

It is during this exhibition of rage that I realize I, too, have faced the vexation for him that he now feels for me. Not so long ago, his unruly rage was the cause of my leaving the house to “blow off steam” for a few hours. Without mentioning where I was going, or how long I’d be gone, I left. Only, to discover later that he had been extremely worried about my welfare during the course of my absence. Remembering his saddened expression, his words of remorse, and his pleas for me to think about certain verities with regard to our relationship is what kept me from shoving my foot up his ass.

Then, when I remind Jeff of his “a couple of hours” euphuism; his response was “I meant the redneck definition of the phrase. It means a few.”

What the hell! No dictionary (which he has me reading – often) includes such a definition for the word “couple.” Not even any thesaurus' colloquial expressions include such nonsense - at least, not any of which I am familiar.

Where does he get this shit?

Visions of choking the life out of him, smacking the shit-eatin’ grin off his face, and mounting his head above the fireplace have taken over every other thought in my head by now. I'm thinking: Who does he think he is? How much bullshit must I shovel out of our way before our conversations resemble anything to which I am accustomed?

However, I remain externally composed to some degree.

For my readers who have regularly read the “Bean Pods” section of my website, I feel no need to reiterate Jeff’s overwhelming “assets,” which significantly outweigh his “liabilities.” Nevertheless, I refer to them, here, as a matter-of-fact for all the first-timers.

My inner voice knows of these “gifts” I’ve been given: It keeps my heart “in check,” so to speak, during moments such as these.

Though I mourn the loss of an exhilarating adventure by his side this past weekend, I know, in my heart – and my head – that there are many such moments in store for us. What better way to cherish their potential existence than by feeling their loss from time to time? And I do treasure each moment I’m given beside the man that now owns my heart.

Jeff and I are close – very close – closer than I believed two human beings could ever be, and I like it that way.

As a result, later that evening, after we received a little well-deserved “peace and quiet,” he was able to profess his views of the day, and I mine. Somewhere in the middle we made our peace – as we always do. Before the sun reached the rim of the horizon, we understood one another’s positions with regard to the day’s insurgence.

No blame. No fault. No “repayment” plans.

It’s just “You and Me” (a song sung by Lifehouse that always reminds me of our first encounter) Jeff: It is our visions, our goals, o­ur lives entwined as one that give us our strength.

This strength has been my compass since our midnight rendezvous last May. I only have to look into those blue, gray, or green eyes to find my north. And I do.

To this day, I doubt that Jeff remembers our plans for last Friday. I didn’t have the heart to remind him after our “discussion.”

No more “T” for trouble.

Just “P” for patience. 

His vs. Hers

My illustrious other half posted a link, last night, to a very interesting piece of literature. In his short, but informative article, he purports that the sexual performances of most English women are “hum-drum.”

I, for one, would like a count of said women he has shagged since puberty: Or, at least a few examples to back up the statement.

I could, just as easily, say that most Scots-Irish men, with Pict ancestry, paint their faces and extremities blue in order to draw more attention to their “unit:” As a “glow in the dark” technique – given their pallid complexions. Otherwise, the “Lilliputian” could be easily mistaken for an additional finger as one reaches down to scratch his balls -- uh, I mean head -- or entirely missed.

But I don't.

Remember my dear swearblogger, “It’s not the men in your life that counts, it’s the life in your men:” A quote from the infamous Mae West.

New Pics!

My sweetie and I have posted new pics of our garden.

We hope you enjoy them!