In the Spirit of Susan- on the Street Where I Live

So she says, "I need to tell you about last week when I had both a butterfly and a dragonfly on my finger in the same day. They were both trapped in my house at different points, and I freed them.



I need to tell you about dreaming of a sugarlaced lemon tree so glorious that gazing up into it was like eating the sun."

Yes, yes, yes- tell me about these things. I need to know. I can't stand the ordinary anymore. I can't stand my life anymore. Write. You write. Come back.  Sensual, delightful Susan. I'm listening. Go on...

"I need to tell you about the lessons bats have been trying to teach me about surrender and rebirth, about echolocation, in which bats navigate in the dark by using their voices to create sounds that reverberate off objects - the ability to see with the ears, to hear with the voice. Because by telling you, I have a greater chance of really learning the lessons, internalizing and integrating them. I too hear with my voice. I learn by teaching."

Susan concludes- "And now, just by writing all this, I feel lighter, happier, inspired, free. It occurs to me that this post follows a similar structure to some of the biblical psalms that start out with a lament and end with praise because by writing the lament the psalmist has seen the joy again.





Now I see that the writing I haven't been doing had hardened around me like ice, that scraps of light left unshared leave me cold, and once that happens, I have to write into the cold to break through it.




The fire must be tended or it dies out. The fire must be fed, and for me that means writing it."


She's very brave. Braver than me. I write about those things practical in nature- or I had, mostly. Business. As usual.

Now that he's gone, I see there's so much I'd stuff. Push down. Not say. Inappropriate. Scandalous. So what? What have I got to lose anymore, exactly? Nothing. That's what.

This is where I live.

The house is old. How old I do not know. Perhaps from the late '40s. Early '50s.
How many Christmases? How many excited parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, lovers have rung the bell here on that day; arms loaded with gifts- and turkey and pumpkin and cinnamon floating sweetly from the kitchen on chill December air? I can not tell.

Deaths. Disappointments. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Love. It all happened right here- sometimes at night I feel their ghosts, and sometimes when I'm standing on the porch in mid afternoon. I think of them. They don't know me, but I know them.

The old woman has lived sixty years here- across the street and two doors down, a tidy red brick home- a pristine grey Crown Victoria- warns me after I say, "Well, I'm not afraid."

"Now honey, you need to be afraid. Don't talk to them. Crack houses you know. Mmm. Yes."

So tells me of her son's orphanage in west Texas, or was it east? "I don't tithe to my church. No. I give my money to the children because I know that that money is going into starving little mouths. Mmmm."

The white picket fence that wraps forlornly around the drive is missing two boards.
I'll fix that. Yeah. Someday I'm going to pick up those two boards and fix that.

The trees form a melancholy arch over the same rock drive when it rains- and when it snows, as it sometimes snows in Texas, looks just like a picture from my book as a child- "The Snow Queen".

Pigeons congregate on the high telephone wires in the backyard- looking down on our affairs here in a rather judgemental fashion if you ask me.

Yeah? Well guess what? I hear in New York City they call you "rats with wings" so what do you think of that?

Yellow jackets built a lively, threatening nest above the door of the detached garage,  permanently swung open- glass broken- I didn't do it, it was HIS fault! Why are you always blaming me? God! So defends the indignant nine year old. What are we going to do about the bees? I don't know what to do about the bees. I have enough to worry about without worrying about these damn bees. Wait. Let me worry about the bees.

El Mariachi Terry's Super Macado is the grocery store. What does "macado" mean? Does it mean "stinky"? Because it certainly is. Oddly, I don't mind. The salsa music  blasting from invisible stereos strategically placed all over the store make me happy and lift my downcast spirits- I dance in the isles when no one's looking. Sometimes I dance when they are. Afterall, I know how to salsa.

We fight about racial issues.

"Put those ugly ass light up jelly shoes BACK!" she yells at me.
"Why? We are hispanics now, we like this sort of thing."

"Can you go back to your school and tell them that we do not speak spanish in this house, that you are only half hispanic and you don't know a word of it, and not to send letters home written in only Spanish?"

But the school compromises. One side of the marquee is in Spanish, and the other, English. Yet on Friday I only counted three white kids in the cafeteria as I ate with Tito.  I don't believe they need to bother, do you?

"So Eliot", she sarcastically says to my Yorkie, "Welcome to the barrio. Your little "prince" dish doesn't fit in here quite so much now, does it?"

The physics mathematician lives catty corner to us in a white frame house, sturdy on it's high concrete foundation. He will give the kids a dollar if they can correctly solve a math problem.

Word is he had a big fight with his girlfriend. Doors lock. She's screaming in her bra and panties. Father comes to collect her in the middle of the night.

He tells me, "I was putting so much time into that relationship, I couldn't get anything else done."
"A broken relationship is better than a broken marriage," I say. He doesn't know I know about the bra and panties.

"Yes! Yes, that's so true! Would you like to get together for a drink?"
I would. But I don't want to be outside in my bra and panties so I'm going to watch myself.

The recycle guy comes by every other week, Mondays, in his big green truck.

Oh no! I've forgotten to put out our container! We have to recycle. Otherwise the regular trash is going to fill up far too fast and breed maggots. Charming.

I rush outside in my genuine diamond tiara.

"As you can clearly see- I am the queen. Could you please back up and collect my bin?"
"Oh, I can see that! Is it your birthday?"
"No."
He freezes. He smiles. He doesn't know what to say back.
She's crazy. That's what she is, she's crazy.

Well of course I'm fucking crazy. You would be too if you just had the week I had.

I throw myself down on the kitchen floor, crying inconsolably. I think of Amy Winehouse- i cry for you on the kitchen floor- i told ya i was trouble- you know i'm no good.

Can't eat. Can't sleep. Can't function. Gripping fear. It's gone. It's back.

Take a walk. That's what you need to do.
But damn it!
I run and scream.
The boys down the street in the Mexican gang; colors and tatoos, walk past me.
Obviously I'm trying out maneuver that stupid ass bee, that lives in that stupid ass bush.

"BEE!" I exclaim to them.
(See, the recycle guy thinks I'm crazy but I'd rather you guys not think so.)

"Shit." they say.
"No shit." I say back.

What? I can hang. I've got some swagger of my own, you know. I can out salsa and out merengue and out cha-cha and out samba all of you, so don't try me. I knew who Daddy Yankee was before you did, I'd bet. I might look white but I ain't. Gasolina!

I'm mad at everybody. Them. The bee. At myself for always chosing badly.

The police visit their house with a high degree of frequency because they sniff, I hear, some sort of inhalants that can freeze their lungs. Now I feel sorry for them that I was angry. I feel sorry for them that they are probably going to die because they don't know better. Maybe I should have a talk with them.

I didn't know he was over. I stepped out of the bath into the hallway in my towel. He's there. I'm there. Awkard. The neighbor next door. They let him in. I didn't.

Let me tell you. Sexy. Darling. Buff. We talk about camping and the best sleeping bags- yes I like Coleman- do you? And what can we do about those bees in the backyard?
He lingers. I linger.

Okay. Let me get this straight. So now you want to sleep with neighbor? Can you be anymore cliche?

Besides, I started smoking three weeks ago and that's probably enough damage to close the month out with. Yeah. I know. But he's really cute. He admirably beat a crystal meth addiction- and when I run out of cigarettes I can not go next door to ask, because they guy doesn't smoke! See what a rat you are? He doesn't even smoke and you do.

I tell Alex at the Quick Pak Wine and Beer store that I fully intend to quit on October first.

"Oh? How long you've been smoking?", he inquires in his cute accent.
"Three weeks."
"Why you start?"
"Stress."
"Stress? I lost mother, father, five family members in an accident. I no smoke."
"Oh my goodness. I'm so sorry to hear that. You're makin' me look bad, Alex."

 This remains my favorite. The morning. Black coffee. Back porch. Deep blue autumn sky- light up. Aaaah. That's better. Man. This is great. I love to smoke. It's so enjoyable, I see now why people do it. Leave the president alone. He's running the country for crap sake. If he needs to smoke to think more clearly, than by god let him do it!

I'm in an official minority. I will defend my rights. I will vote against your stupid smoking ban. Well, have you tried it? What do you know?

But I must quit in October like I said I would, or otherwise I will only be a liar. What am I going to tell Alex? He lost his family, you wretch, and he doesn't smoke.

Maybe I'll sleep with the neighbor.

And all HE had was Chickens!

His name was Frank Perdue, an unassuming man at best. Pretty average.

If he bought me a drink in a bar, I probably would not go out with him.

Oh, I'd drink his drink- maybe dance just one or two slow songs at the most, but then excuse myself from discovering the greatest marketer and visionary that America has ever seen.

Let's be honest. Can you cuddle up to this guy after a few shots of Patron and "Sexual Healing"? I think not.

But as an entrepreneur what you can cuddle up to is the way in which this man, and even his father before him, looked around them to find the every day, ho-hum, humble chicken as something of an extraordinary money making opportunity.

For most of us, that's akin to gazing upon dirt and seeing dollar signs.

Who can make money out of dirt? It's everywhere! Hello, Hoover.

Who can make money out of chickens? They're everywhere! At least, back then they were.

This father and son duo set their minds upon knowing everything there was to know about chickens.

Would you think of feeding them marigold blossoms to the end that your chickens would be a nice color of yellow?

They did.

"It takes a tough man to make a tender chicken."

What does this mean to Entrepreneur Chick?

Well, I do like a tough man and I do enjoy tender chicken; yet in the same way that the Perdues willingly and tirelessly educated themselves regarding chickens, I become dead set in my mission to learn everything I can about the companies I own (one in particular) and become so knowledgeable that not only do I blow my competitors out of the water, I make my clients so successful, why, they'll turn green from all those wads of cash they'll have to cart around!

Now this is the cool part.

My strategy is actually working.

When I meet back with my clients after I have sold them on our services, and after they have reviewed their bottom line numbers and see, sure enough, that those numbers are UP, just like I told them they would be- I feel like I'm floating out of those meetings on a cloud. A big, fat, white, fluffy cloud of ridiculous self assurance (in our company).

Though I wouldn't have brought Frank Baby home to meet Momma, and though I've no chickens, I know exactly how he feels.

In Memory of Emerson; August 15th 2002- April 29th, 2010

The Power of the Dog

by

Rudyard Kipling

There is sorrow enough in the natural way

From men and women to fill our day;

And when we are certain of sorrow in store,

Why do we always arrange for more?

Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware

Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy

Love unflinching that cannot lie--

Perfect passsion and worship fed

By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.

Nevertheless it is hardly fair

To risk your heart to a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits

Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,

And the vet's unspoken prescription runs

To lethal chambers or loaded guns,

Then you will find--it's your own affair--

But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,

With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)

When the spirit that answered your every mood

Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,

You will discover how much you care,

And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,

When it comes to burying Christian clay.

Our loves are not given, but only lent,

At compound interest of cent per cent.

Though it is not always the case, I believe,

That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:

For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,

A short-term loan is as bad as a long--

So why in--Heaven (before we are there)

Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

And THAT kid's an Entrepreneur!

There's a child in our family, who we will call Isaac. Isaac's mother lost her cell phone last week. She looked high, she looked low- no phone.

"I'll give you two dollars to find your mother's phone", Tony volunteered.

"Two dollars?!" said Isaac with indignation. "Five."

 This eight year old apparently knows the cost of a Happy Meal.

It was then that I knew what I had to do.

"I'll give you ten."

"Ten? I can find it for ten."

"I thought so."

No stone was left unturned. No bed unchecked. No couch cushions not flipped.

When those efforts didn't produce, he left the house- I mistakenly thought he'd given up.

"It was in the car!"

"Here's your ten spot."

"THANKS! Hey- can someone take me to the mall?"

"No."

"How about Dollar General?"

"No."

The thing about Isaac is, though I love him to death, he's a difficult child.

He's always taking issue with nearly everything you say, doesn't follow rules much, unless there's a very stiff form of punishment- "Don't make me call your father", gets bored easily, and has his own ideas about how life should flow.

I used to tell him a few years ago, "My, my. For someone who was pooping on themselves not that long ago, you sure are opinionated, kid."

Also, the public school which he attends (Entrepreneur Chick has the dimmest view of pubic schools imaginable) tested him recently, and Isaac was found to be incredibly intelligent, so much so, that they immediately called his mother to report the findings.

Perhaps you would surmise from this story that Isaac is merely motivated by sheer greed.

I do not think so.

Isaac is motivated by "value" and putting a price on what he brings to the table.

As our good entrepreneurial and highly successful friend, Mike, said to us last month;

"You're entrepreneurs. If you just want to make a living, get a job."

Isaac is going to last about ten minutes in a job, and I sincerely hope he figures out that he, like me, is entirely unemployable.

Let's just save all the future bosses out there a lot of trouble.

Actually, he had much more than ten dollars to spend in that he made a deal with the neighbor boy next door.

I know this because our earlier conversation went like this-

"Can you activate my credit card?"

"Credit card?"

"Yeah."

"Let me see what you've got."

Isaac proudly hands me a twenty dollar gift card from the credit card section of his wallet.

"You don't have to activate this. You just go in there and make a purchase and hand them this card."

"Oooooh."

"How'd you get this?"

"I told William he could ride my bike anytime he wanted."

"Ah. Okay. But did you put an expiration date on that?"

"Oh. I didn't think of that! Thanks!"

Now I feel a bit bad for not taking him to the mall.

Look Ma, Another Award!

Postman started his acceptance speech with what he called, "The Straight Dope",  but I decided, in the same spirit, it would be good if I gave you some straight dope of my own as well, so-

One of the reasons I love writing- slash- blogging, is mostly because I have something to say and no real place where it's appropriate to direct those innermost thoughts.

Why's that, Entrepreneur Chick?

Because most of the time, I am way too blunt, pushy, opinionated, and basically crass for humans I actually know in real life- my clients, my potential clients, my employees, and people who seem to think they're my friends- so therefore, I let it all out- like unzipping your fly after a big spaghetti dinner followed by chocolate cake and icecream.

Aaaaaah, that's better.

When someone responds to me being the real me and not the this is how I act at Chamber of Commerce events and church functions where there's no freakin' beer me, I truly do appreciate that.

Besides, I already told someone what I really thought of them last month, and look how dandy that turned out. Freakin' HA.

In summation, Entrepreneur Chick is the real me.

So in celebration or suppression of the real me, ( I leave that to you, my readers, to decide) I accept this award.

And for the person who gave me this award- Postie- as I've come to call him, let me tell you, he and the others I am going to mention are honestly and truly the unexpected three carrot diamond ring dropped in Mc Donald's parking lot.

Who would think to find such treasure there?
:::whispering::: McDonald's is the blogosphere, get it?::::

In another altered state kind of way, I've had the great pleasure to develop friendships with three of these people I'm mentioning,

and the odd thing is,

when I speak to them over the phone, there's this strange sensation I experience like- I don't know who YOU are but I deeply know Pollinatrix, Chloe and Postman.

When you read someone over and over-  an automatic, organtic sort of intimacy occurs.

A word about Postman. Something I've never said.

I have a rule. I do. This rule has reliably worked for me in the ten years I've been married, which may appear highly controversial to some but- I do not have male friends. As in, at all.

We have friends that we know as a couple, but so far as having a male friend, no.

I would never call up a guy to talk to him about anything, unless he's my client, and then, well, I kind of have to.

Postman has been my one exeption in ten years- though I can't say I've talked to him extensively. He gives me advice, and is my go to person for all types of things. He'll even be sweet to me about my bugging him to play Face Book games- and giving in, when he's actually incredibly busy. I'm just running a few businesses. That guy is busy!

That said, the five bloggers I'd like to pass this award, based on the fact that they too, are the authentic replicas of themselves, the real deals, or very good liars are:

The Pollinatrix, (The Whole Blooming World)

Chloe, (Fortune Cookies and Men)

Postman, (you didn't say I couldn't!) (The Sententious Vaunter)

Duta, (Places with Character)

Mimi and Tilly, (Mimi and Tilly)

Thank you all for enriching my life in ways you'll never know.

My One Big Fat Non-negotiable!

Someone telling me what to do is never up for debate. I alone, decide what that will be.

I call my own shots.

If ever I am in a postition that does not allow me to exercise my free will at all times,  predictably, that situation is going to end badly.

In somewhat of a heated exchange a few weeks ago, a women said to me, "I don't own this. I'm not free to do what I want."

Well, that's the difference between you and me.

I do own.

I am free to do what I want.

Should I have spoken all my mind, it would have gone like this- I honestly think you're a worker drone ass kisser who has every minute of every day dictated for you by someone else.

There is nothing about your life that I admire, nor would aspire.

I find you uninteresting, room temperature at best, and immediately bland. No spark. No creativity. A big bunch of bleh on a plate.

Everything you do is with the herd. No individuality. And furthermore, if I had it to do over again, I would have played it the same way.

This coming week, Entrepreneur Chick is being interviewed on a radio show- people ask me all the time, "Can anyone be an entrepreneur?"

My answer? No.

If you find that someone telling you what to do is the most distasteful and detestable thing you could possibly imagine- if you've been fired from several jobs for not getting your way, than I'd say you're probably an entrepreneur.  With the right type of hard work, vision and grit, big money could be just around the corner in about ten years.

Yes, ten years.

Nothing is easy and nothing is quick.

Here are fifteen other signs that you might access as to how well matched you are at being a true, dyed in the wool, ain't nobody gonna boss you around entrepreneur:

1.Your business is your life and your passion

2.You take action then think about it

3.You don’t like people telling you what to do

4.You dream about your business

5.You always find new ways to do everything

6.You hate small talk

7.You don’t actually read fine print or long contracts

8.You expect things to happen instantly

9.You hate waiting in line

10.You don’t like meetings

11.You look forward to your workday

12.You have a ten minute attention span

13.You don’t read long emails

14.You write short emails and people think you’re blunt

15.You hate hearing that you’re wrong

P.S. I actually enjoy meetings because I always learn something new and more often than not, someone ends up handing me a check at the end.
I expect things to happen quicky, but have learned, alas, that they do not. Slow and steady really does win the race.

This Blog is Interrupted Due to Flu

If you came over here and saw all the tissue and popsicle sticks I've been diligently piling up in my bedside trash can, you'd think someone offered me a job paying fairly decent money~

This is day number five.

As Henry David Thoreau said, "Tis healthy to be sick sometimes."

And he even said this with no advantage of Nyquil whatsoever.