The Birthday Boy

What a rotten sister I am.

Today is my brother's 71st birthday and I completely forgot to call him and sing the birthday song. Bummer.

Not only that but the card I sent probably won't get there until tomorrow which is, clearly, NOT his birthday so I blew that too.

I had every intention of calling when Suzy and Thom got home from work so we could all sing together; I must have thought of it six times during the day but then it was gone from my head when it should have been foremost at 5:30.

My thinking was, I'd call when we could sing as a group because I'd stand a much better chance of not crying through the song that way. In all previous years it's
always been Tom and me together happy birthday-ing to him and I was afraid my voice, alone, would be too hard for both me AND Bud to bear.

I'd blame Tom's death for muddling me but that's not really fair. Truth is, my mind was a sieve long before that happened.

Bud deserves better.

I hope to God my sister Toot remembered and DID call. I'd give it a 50-50 chance of having happened because, frankly, she's just about as demented as I am myself!

At 71 he is definitely the best-looking sibling. He seems to be getting younger while I just get older and more feeble!? What's up with that???

Men wear so much better than we women. Why IS that, I wonder....

He's a rock, the brother. There have been a fair share of ups and downs in his life but in the main he's weathered all storms with aplomb. I appreciate his steadiness and calm.

It probably true that I'm more upset about forgetting to call than he would ever feel at being temporarily forgotten.

He's got a great immediate family surrounding him with love. Sure hope they picked up my slack today!!

Its a dirty job but somebody's got to do it.

Worlds Collide!

I saw my internist yesterday and, again, he disappointed me; I think I'll be doctor-shopping.

I don't know if he's painfully shy, has Asperger's Syndrome, or is just a dick. He will NOT look me in the eye. Whatever news he delivers, good or bad, his head is buried in my folder.

He's Italian. From Italy. At first I thought maybe he was not so much aloof as that he might be having to translate in his head from one language to another; that CAN slow communication to a crawl and make the speaker nervous.

It could also explain why he never - ever - laughed at my jokes?? Once, he did smile and I thought we'd made a breakthrough but that was more than two years ago; since then? Nada.

He DID, however, carry on conversations with Tom. Him he could eyeball. Any time Tom and I were in a room together with him all communication was directed mano-a-mano; it was all very Old World.

I am a New World girl.

Good news or bad, I like a doctor who at least acknowledges my presence.

And he never mentioned Tom's death!? Now this guy has been our internist for almost four years. I see him either every six months or every three, sometimes more depending on health issues; Tom he saw once a year for a regular checkup and intermittently for minor problems that cropped up. He also was the doctor of record for Tom's mother while she was with us including the eight months he treated her, with us present every time, after she broke her hip and then failed to thrive.

And he signed Tom's death certificate three months ago.

Wouldn't you think simple courtesy at least warrants, "I'm very sorry about your loss"?????

I guess that's my bottom line. I could accept the humorlessness, the averted eyes, the dull and slow monotone delivery but the straw that breaks my camel's back is not acknowledging a loss so entirely stupefying it HAD to stand out in his mind.

And still he couldn't bring himself to look me in the face and say, "I'm sorry." That's just wrong.

It's gonna cost him. I'm taking my marbles and walking away.

I'm not mad.

I'm not mad.

Like hell I'm not.

Man on Bike

I've given up the search for a new coffeetable and end table for the living room; I've decided to keep the ones I have and paint them myself!

Why it took me this long to realize that was the answer to my dilemma I cannot fathom.

They're going to be wild and crazy!!

I'm going to paint them in the style I doodle. I let my pen find its own direction and draw freeform lines that intersect. When the basic shape is complete then I start shading, adding detail within the closed spaces until the whole space is filled with form and color.

What almost always happens is that, somehow, the freeform drawing suggests something "real" and that becomes the focus for the details.

Now that I've decided I can hardly wait to start!

I'll paint each table an antique shabby chic color that blends with the furniture and when that's dry I'll do each drawing in pencil on the tabletops. I think I want the whole entire flat space filled in with coordinating colors of acrylic paint; the legs and dowels I'll leave the basic color but will accent with repeated designs and colors I like from the tabletops.

This could take awhile....

But I think it will be so worth it!!

They'll each be totally unique. I'd call them art but that is in the eye of the beholder so let's not jump the gun.

When finished and covered with varnish I'll get glass tabletops for them. After all that effort I would hate to have them inadvertently ruined by ANOTHER artist's Crayola markers as they fill in color book pages on some rainy future day!??

This is going to be fun.

If only I had listened to the FO and Amy AND Beckie and could take pictures of the process then post them on the blog!???? That would be kind of cool. But it's not going to happen. The Widow Judy's technical skills are still sadly behind the times.

You can lead a horse to cut and paste but you can't make it commit the process to memory.

That's how you know you're 64!

The No-Alibi-Needed Cafe

I feel like Seinfeld giving good-intentioned but still possibly ruinous advice to the Pakistani.

Or not??

A new restaurant opened up in my neighborhood and I went in there for the first time today. It's called the "Alibi Cafe" so I assumed it was going to be another purposely just-short-of-seedy middle-aged bar/restaurant with the emphasis on bar.

I was HOPING it might be a good place to have a meal on the cheap once a week now that I'm a widow and have ceased planning for and preparing meals at home on a regular basis.

I was wrong on both counts.

It was a marvelous and stunning surprise!! The glass front was dark and made seeing into it before entering impossible; I was entirely perplexed when, stepping into the interior, I saw what I perceived to be a very classy high-end European cafe!!

There were four-count-'em-four high tables with four chairs at each and two lovely seating arrangements featuring sofas, extra wide club chairs and large coffee tables.
I believe there might have been three stools at the bar.

I didn't get it.

Who opens a restaurant from 9-9 with seating for 16, basically??

Then I got the menu and was even more confused. It had a few sandwiches, three kinds of flat bread pizzas, a few salads, a few desserts, lots of teas, coffee variations, beer and wine.

AHA! The light finally dawned. It's not about the Alibi... It's a true CAFE!! They don't want people to come there for a big meal, they want customers who'll come, sit, drink, talk, read, nosh and generally pass time as if they were on the Champs Elysee or the Via Venito.

I was entirely charmed.

But they're not on a chi chi cosmopolitan boulevard they're on Sawyer/Tuttle across from a nursing home in Sarasota, Florida.

What's wrong with this picture?

Suddenly, I was consumed with desire to see this establishment prosper. I don't know why... I have zero vested interest; it simply appealed to me through to my soul.

The owner is Bulgarian and the manager is too. I fear that after taking almost two years to finally open they have unfortunately misunderstood their American clientele and have no concept how to "sell themselves" to the community.

Now why I think I would have any better idea how to do that, I can't tell you. All I can say is, there's no other place of its kind in all of Sarasota and I didn't know until I walked in there today that it's EXACTLY the kind of place we desperately need.

It's unique in both concept and execution but their sign and their exterior does nothing to indicate the possibilities that lie behind those dark glass walls.

We are a city of artists, performers, educated seekers of knowledge and curmudgeons. We're political and religious. Life AND death are primary issues for most of us. We are opinionated and vocal. We care about our community. We all have a voice and want to be heard.

This venue provides the perfect environment; the question is, "How do you get people in the doors?"

It's crazy that my head is filled with ideas to Make That Happen. These people haven't asked me to nose into their business?? I'm not a restauranteur!? There's no reason in the world I should be butting in except that I can see myself and others slamming poetry there, discussing books, talking politics, religion, red tide, 2012, life and death....

Is it absurd that I've made a list of suggestions to give them, however unsolicited??
I'm pretty sure it IS but for whatever reason I need to do it or I'll never be able to forgive myself for not trying to encourage their success.

Do you think it's possible The Widow Judy may just have too much time on her hands?

I'll Have Nothing and Like It

My sister Toot mentioned today she found a coin in her 'jool' box, one my grandmother gave her a gazillion years ago. It' s a British coin with a crown on it so she's assuming that's what it is - a crown. The word "sterling" is stamped on it too so I'm thinking she's probably correct.

One British crown, sterling.

That's it.

From generations upon generations of Davidges that's what we got, one crown in the possession of - not me - but my sister?!

"Inheritance" is our equivalent of the F-word.

My father was, by all standards, a fairly wealthy man. He worked hard, always, and earned every penny he had. After my mother died he met and married The Terror, Mary.
She was a greedy, selfish, social climbing bi..., uh, woman but she gave good h..., uh, lovin' where Dad was concerned and that was apparently enough for him to forgive her anything.

When Dad died we all got a copy of his will which left everything to Mary; upon her demise, whatever remained of his estate was to be divided amongst his childen and Mary's two nieces.

Never happened.

I hear all the time about people who - pardon my French - inherit all kinds of great stuff but me and mine? Nuttin', Honey.

It would be SO GREAT to have an unbeknownst aunt, uncle, cousin looking for a Davidge to bestow largesse unto???! I would very much like to be rich, rich, rich. Then I could truly become the Lady Bountiful I was meant to be!

Doesn't look like that's going to be my lot in this life. Good thing I was lucky in love!!?

If I had to pick one or the other the choice would be hard (oh, very YES!) but love WOULD win out.

Good thing, huh?

I've always wondered why the Lord didn't make me rich. He has to know that, had I money, what I'd do is give it all away?! That's what I do (and have always done) even with the little bits of dough I've ever had!!!!

Think what I could do with a fortune.... Davidges everywhere would be cruising, getting advanced degrees, taking their children on holiday, learning to paint and act and sing, sitting in box seats at sporting events, supporting the needy in their various towns and villages.

You always hear people saying it's a mixed blessing to have money. I spit on this concept. Given the chance I would single-handedly disprove that fallacy, trust me.

Anybody want to take me up on that??

Ms Who Said WHAT?

Teacher conferences are always so interesting.

The first one I went to for my eldest, Amy, boggled my mind. She was a child so aggressive that boys who were 12 and older on Payton in Detroit crossed the street so she couldn't bulldoze them with hugs. At two, she'd run up to them so hard, head down, and throw her little arms around their legs that she literally bowled them over!

In kindergarten, Ms Green said, "She's starting to come out of her shell a little bit."

WHAT??

Beckie was a preemie and took a year to catch up to all the guidelines that let parents know their child is "normal". She didn't sit up alone until she was over six months old, didn't crawl 'till her eleventh month... I was concerned she might have 'suffered' being premature. But then she walked on her first birthday and that gave me hope. The hammer fell not long after that though when she had a seizure - and then another - so she was put on medication that slowed her down and made her sleepy for four long years.

HER kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Hasse, had her tested for the gifted program!?

Suzy, my third child (in 26 months!), locked horns early-on with her sister Amy for dominance. She somehow had the idea that, third or not, SHE was in charge of everyone?? Plus, she had a wicked satirical sense of humor that cut through all the crap; I like to credit her father with that 'inheritance'.

I took her to the district's preschool introduction and testing program where she proceeded to devastate the Romper Room specialist with withering stares (she didn't like her sing-songy voice) and polite refusals to participate in the activities all the other children were pursuing. At one point we parents were invited to join the group whereupon I willed her with my body language to JOIN ME and SHAPE UP. I thought we were on track but then the teacher laid down kid-sized sheets of butcher paper and suggested we parents trace around our child. Suzy looked directly into the woman's eyes and said, "Maybe my MOTHER'd like to lay down and I'll trace HER."

If looks could kill she would've been dead at 4.

Ms Peloni, HER teacher, suggested she was 'a little needy' and always in search of approval. SUSAN??

Beckie called this morning with the report on her two boys, Gret and Reece. Gret's in second grade and is every teacher's dream; he's smart and diligent and creative and charming and pleasant, helpful and kind to others. This was not a surprise.

But Beckie had the same feeling I did so often in talking to teachers, "Are you sure we're talking about REECE? Reece Radomski," she asked, flabbergasted, when the teacher described a boy Beckie barely recognized. A perfect boy. A boy who always behaved. A boy who never rebelled. A boy who never threw a fit or raised his voice. A boy who never stomped his feet. A boy the teacher would have loved to take home and call her own.

I remember my own mother once saying how she loved going to teacher conferences because otherwise she would never have believed she'd done ANYTHING right as a parent!!

That makes us three generations of the confused and dazed.

God Bless America!

The FO and I

The First and Only nephew I got to personally help raise is here visiting me in Sarasota. He's a blustery guy, generally quiet but given to devastating one-liners guaranteed to either make you wither or laugh out loud!!

I was a little concerned that my having to take off without him to get allergy shots or play bridge or have blood drawn might make him feel a little put-out but, nope, he's the sort that appreciates a little 'alone time' like his Aunt who loves him!!

Today I got him to go to the BEACH. This is not an opportunity he welcomed, you understand. I floated a couple of trial balloons about it earlier this week and got nowhere so I finally just announced, "Thursday is beach day," and got no argument so we went.

I had my fabulous "bring your own shade" chair and he had my Michigan State green number with a spot to put his cup-o-beer so we were both content in that.

None of my better angels made space for me to park in my regular area so we wound up a little farther down the beach than I generally go. I'm happy to report, however, that the beach is perfection there just as it is on a straight line down to the water from the steps of the concession stand!!

Spring break is done, apparently, because everyone beaching today looked like they belonged there so we saw a whole lot of senior citizens in various shapes and sizes.

Again, Stan did not materialize....

Bill brought a teeny little cooler with a couple beers in it and I brought my floaty noodle so all was right with the world.

The water was gorgeous: clear, clean, salty-to-taste, with rolling waves just right for chicken me. I was in about ten minutes when - lo and behold - Bill joined me!? Yahoo.

He said there was, "...just the amount of seaweed I can tolerate. Zero." lol. I couldn't agree more. I love salt water but the Atlantic has too much 'stuff' floating in it for my taste. I'm definitely a Gulf-side girl.

And when a handsome young man went past us holding his lovely lady in his arms Bill asked, "What kind of bait did you use to catch HER??"

We stayed better than two hours which I consider a coup of sorts.

I think the FO surprised himself, enjoying the experience as much as he did. I KNOW I was happy to share it with him!