Monthly Archives: November 2011

Meow-Meow and the Boys


Meow-Meow (in front as usual!) with Colin

As a child I was very allergic to cats, so I never much cared for them because of the physical discomfort they caused me.  They seemed aloof anyway and seemed to distance themselves, probably because I would never allow them to come close to me.  In fact, I avoided them like the plague.  But when our family moved to the country, a cute little calico cat started hanging around the backyard. She was friendly and affectionate, running to me like a dog when she saw me.  She nibbled at breadcrumbs I threw out for the birds until I, the old softie, provided her with her very own cat food and a little dog house for her to sleep in under our deck. I went door to door in the neighborhood, trying to see if anyone owned her, but nobody claimed her.

 I finally named her Meow-Meow and made an appointment at a veterinarian’s office for shots and spaying. When it was time to capture her for her visit, she ran and hid, nowhere to be found. I did locate her the next morning curled up in her little house on her cozy blanket…along with her four newborn kittens. I was in awe, fascinated by Meow-Meow’s unrelenting commitment to motherhood as she protected and cared for these tiny little balls of fluff. My fondness grew as well, watching with delight as these little beings matured into amusing creatures with diverse personalities.

Eight years later Meow-Meow and two of her sons, Colin and Booie, are now indoor cats and much-valued members of the household. My brother adopted her other two sons, Bailey and Brindle, and they are spoiled rotten! My immune system seems to have readjusted because I am no longer allergic to them.  And, I have become a lover of cats.  Go figure.


Be Careful What You Wish For


In the 1960’s women stepped out of the box.  Gloria Steinem gained national attention as a feminist leader and spokeswoman for women. It had been a slow and arduous climb since our suffrage victory to vote on August 26, 1920, but the sixties would change all that.  The sixties proved to be a time when women acquired the “freedom” to go out and work.  No longer were they required to stay at home and “just” be a housewife and a mother.  They could pursue their dreams and not have to feel guilty about wanting to work instead of staying home and raising a family.  Go, Gloria Steinem!  Go equal rights for women!  YEAH!

So, in the sixties women tore off their June Cleaver apron and joined the workforce.  Now women were bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan!  But most weren’t prepared – most didn’t have a prestigious college degree or the tools they needed to earn a higher salary. Many women like my mother went to work in retail and factories doing menial tasks for little pay.  My mom made $2.00 an hour in the shipping and receiving room of a department store. I can remember her rejoicing because she got a 10 cent raise.  And although at the time she went back to work my brother and I were old enough to fend for ourselves, I remember missing her when I got home from school.  She worked a long day, took the bus into the city because she didn’t drive and then arrived home well after 6:00.  She was always tired.

By the seventies women were preparing themselves for the workforce by going to college to get that degree to get better jobs so they could make a better salary.  A lot of my classmates who had the choice and luxury to go to college studied nursing and teaching because that is what girls did at that time.  Those who didn’t continue on to college became secretaries and bank tellers and store clerks.  Women were still not making the salaries they deserved, but at least they had a career.  Besides, the thinking at the time was that they were going to get married anyway and their husbands would become the main bread winner.

Champagne wishes and caviar dreams led the mindset of the eighties as a “got to have it” consumerist generation.  It was becoming a necessity for women to work, and moreover, it was now expected. Many women struggled with juggling work and family. It was exhausting.  Most men had not transitioned into helping around the house.  It was not considered macho to cook and clean and do grocery shopping – a throw back from those who were born in the fifties and had the Ward Cleaver mind set. By then, with the economy changing, it became a luxury for women to stay at home.  Either way, it was a woman’s responsibility to run the household and take care of the family whether she worked or not.  Now we had to work a full-time job and then go home to our second shift of running a home and raising a family.

“Show me the money” was more than a movie catch phrase in the nineties.  Our nation was entrenched in consumerism. Most women were choosing their direction in higher education, studying a broader scope of careers.  Men were finally seeing the light and taking more responsibility for sharing the household chores and family responsibilities.  We even have some Mr. Mom’s staying home while the wife goes out and works.   We are working our way to equal partnerships.

Onto the new millennium with an economy plummeting into the toilet, and here we are both husband and wife having to work and still having trouble making ends meet.  Kids go to day care; people who make enough money have nannies raising their kids.  For the most part men are sharing the household responsibilities – the newer generation of men, that is. A lot of men will just never get it. Being a stay-at-home mom is a luxury and not a choice, and it’s sad for those who would really like to just be a mom, but that’s not a job, is it?!  I see young women heartbroken when their maternity leave ends knowing they have to go back to work and leave their infant in the care of others. Now we get to work, have someone else raise our kids, struggle to make ends meet and try to keep up with the other responsibilities of running a household.  This is liberation! But it’s what we wanted and what we fought for. Or is it? 

Yes, I am all for equal rights for women – that’s a no-brainer, but I feel that women have been forced into leading stressed out, overworked, underpaid, got to get out there and just do it all lives whether they asked for it or not. Our world has put us into a position wherein if you don’t do it all you are lazy and not stepping up to the challenge of what our suffragette sisters fought for so long ago. It’s not a free choice. It’s survival. As far as I’m concerned, it didn’t turn out exactly as planned.

Be careful what you wish for because what you get is not always what you want.

Baby, I Was Born to Dream


Thought for the day:  Dreams can take you anywhere you want to go.

Bruce Springsteen smiled at me last night…in my dream, that is.  In this episode he made an unexpected personal appearance at a charity event I was working at to deliver “Springsteen” tee shirts. Everyone was wild with excitement at seeing the icon, not the least of which was me!  He handed me a shirt, smiled and lingered for a moment.  I stared at him – speechless – smitten. This was just one of many crush dream episodes I have had over the years starring Bruce as my favorite not-for-real fantasy guy.

Truth be told, many years ago, when I was battling a particularly bad case of boredom, I almost threw it all in to go in search of Bruce. As I sat on my back porch one hot summer afternoon watching my kids play, I got lost in a daydream of packing them into the mini-van and taking a road trip to Rumson.  I’d somehow miraculously find his house, knock on his door and say…say…what?  What would I say?!  That was the dilemma. “Hi, Bruce, here I am, the love of your life, and these are my kids.  You’re gonna love us!”  I envisioned him immediately leaving his current supermodel girlfriend for plain, old me. (Sure, might happen, right?!) Of course, I never got that far; I never even got into the car, although I did locate Rumson on a New Jersey map.

Many years have passed since that day.  My kids are grown.  Ironically, the oldest is a teacher at a school located in Rumson near Bruce’s estate.  I now have a pretty good idea of where he lives.  Don’t worry, I’m not a stalker.  I’ve lost the brazen fearlessness I had some 25 odd years ago.  I am neither hip nor cool, nor do I resemble a supermodel whatsoever, so what would be the point?

Bottom line is when your life is located in Snoresville, USA, its fun to daydream about being caught up in a glamorous lifestyle with a famous rock superstar.  Who doesn’t do this from time to time? (Am I right, ladies?!?) But its even nicer (no harm; no foul) to have that rock star fade in and out of  your dreams every now and again to  jump start your heart with a smile…heavy sigh….

Counting My Blessings


Measurement of a truly rich life is not attained from inanimate objects, expensive trinkets, career success or position in the community. Riches are made out of flesh and blood, hearts that pulse and souls that faithfully surround you with love.

So on this Thanksgiving I would like to take the liberty to express my thankfulness for each of my blessings and to God for providing every one of them. I am truly blessed.

For faith in my generous, loving God Who sees me through every challenge and joy, providing all that I need and always in His perfect timing.

For my daughters Katie and Megan, who have taught me how to be a mother, who love and encourage me and make my heart gush with pride at the women they’ve become.  They are the reason why my life has meaning.

For my wonderful brother Ken, a kind and generous soul, who is always there for me, going over and above the threshold of true giving and caring.

For my sons-in-law to be Blake and Matt – there are no finer gentlemen and husbands for my daughters then them.

For my dear Aunt Joan who is my hero, showering me with love and kindness, and demonstrating how to live your life your way.

For so many friends who push me through to the next day with their love and encouragement.

For my band of pets who take turns providing laughter and entertainment in this three-ring circus called my life.

For food to eat, clothes to wear and a safe, warm place to live.

For the opportunity to serve others who need a hand up.

For the gift of spending time with my family on this special day.

For holding close in my heart those who live too far to be with me.

For those who have passed…Mom and Dad who raised me to be a woman with a soft heart and a strong will.  Aunt Vi, my generous godmother, who always kept me laughing, toasting every Thanksgiving Day with a pretty strong egg nog and gravy so thick it ate like a meal. Mr. Murphy, my mentor and lifelong friend – always and forever in my heart. For Bob who treated me like a daughter from the very start. My grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends who will never be forgotten.

 Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Humbling My Heart


I was on my way to help with Thanksgiving food box deliveries for people who had no means of transportation. 

When I arrived at the auditorium, the room was bustling with good-hearted people busily packing boxes.  Mountain of all types of food was stacked high on tables as far as the eye could see. I immediately jumped in and helped, then loaded my car with the deliveries.

My first stop was at an apartment complex inhabited by the elderly.  The lobby was filled with white-haired women very curious as to who I was and what I was doing there.  I made my way to the fourth floor where a tiny, fragile-looking woman in a worn quilted robe opened the door.  She smiled weakly as I entered her small, cramped apartment.  I noticed portable oxygen tanks on the floor and a walker propped in the corner. Her bent frame shuffled along showing me the way to a table on which to place the groceries. Her voice was no more than a whisper as she thanked me and mentioned her son might come over later for a visit.  I hoped that he would.

My second stop was at a worn, low income apartment complex. I was making two deliveries there, and as I entered the lobby, two women with apparent health issues met me in the lobby with portable shopping carts ready and waiting.  I had only one of the deliveries in my hands, and the woman receiving them protested that I should have food for her friend as well.  I looked at the sad face of the other woman and assured her that hers was in my car, and she would be next.  When I came back into the lobby, the woman smiled broadly and eagerly took the food from my hands.  She thanked me profusely and wished me a good day as she happily wheeled her groceries onto the elevator.

Stop three was in another apartment complex along a desolate country road.  I drove to the back where the woman had directed me, saying she would be working but her sixteen year old son would be home to accept the delivery.  The overweight boy came out in bare feet – his hair cut into a Mohawk, tattoos up his arms and silver rings in his ears.  I couldn’t help but question what the future would hold for him.  He took the box looking at the contents curiously.  I wondered what would be left by the time his mom came home from work, but I wished him well and hoped he would enjoy. 

My last stop was to a run-down trailer park.  In a word, it was shabby, and I don’t mean to be unkind.  A petite, dark-haired woman in her forties answered the door and eagerly took the box.  She questioned me about whether my organization could provide transportation for her since epilepsy prevented her from driving.  I told her I would have the counselor contact her to answer her questions.  I got into my car and drove off wishing I could have done more for h

I reflected on the gifts God has given me as I drove home. Although my finances were not great, I was driving my own car.  I had my health, a warm home to go to, food in the pantry and my family to love. I passed a church along the way with a marquee that said, “Whatsoever you do for the least of my brothers, that you do unto me.”   I may have delivered food today to people in need, but they, in fact, did something greater for me by humbling my heart.

Be Who You Must


Thought for the day:  Be who you must – that’s a part of the plan.

Dan Fogelberg

Many years ago, when I was trying to figure out the rest of my life, I did a lot of soul searching and a lot of traveling.  During that time a new artist named Dan Fogelberg had just released his first big hit – “Part of the Plan.”  This song spoke to my soul and became my road song as I drove cross country to California trying to find myself.  Everyone seemed to be traveling to California in those days, as if it were some kind of promised land. I don’t think I ever really did – find myself, that is.  I’m still searching and still finding hope in this song. 

I have these moments

All steady and strong

I’m feeling so holy and humble

The next thing I know

I’m all worried and weak

And I feel myself

Starting to crumble


The meaning gets lost

And the teachings get tossed

And I don’t know what I’m going to do next

I wait for the sun, but it never quite comes

Some kind of message comes through to me

Some kind of message comes through


And it says:

Love when you can

Cry when you have to

Be who you must

That’s a part of the plan

Await your arrival

With simple survival

And one day we’ll all understand

When I start to worry (and I’ve been doing a lot of that lately), I make a conscious effort to choose faith over fear.  It’s only then that I become steady and strong.

P.S.  Thanks, Dan


Holy Guacamole!


Megan at Rocco’s with the ultimate guacamole!

I had the undisputable pleasure of visiting Rocco’s Tacos and Tequila Bar in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, during a recent visit.  If you’re ever in the area, you’ve got to check it out.  The food was estupendo, and the guacamole, prepared fresh at your table, was mucho magnífico!!!  Add a pitcher of prickly pear margaritas and you’re good to go!

I’ve been experimenting with guacamole ingredients ever since my return and have concocted one I think is pretty close.  Give it a shot and let me know.  Until I get back to Rocco’s again, this will have to do – in the meantime, all I can say is olé!

 ½ cup finely chopped red onion

2 cloves garlic finely chopped

2 Roma tomatoes diced

1 lime freshly squeezed

(Mix the above ingredients together and set aside.)

4 ripe Hass avocados peeled and seeded (cut in half – take out seed – scoop out flesh)

1 tbsp. salt

1 tsp. ground pepper

¼ cup firmly-packed chopped fresh cilantro

8 dashes hot sauce (Texas Pete)

(Mash avocados and add salt, pepper and cilantro and hot sauce.)

Mix chopped mixture into mashed mixture.  Add more salt if needed to your taste. Also, if you like it hotter, add more sauce or you can chop up a chili pepper (I didn’t use a chili pepper because I’m not a hotty :))

Let set a few minutes then serve with fresh chips. Store tightly covered but not for too long – it turns brown quickly.

Recipe by:  Mamasita Susezit

In The End


Thought for the day:  The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple.

I was driving my friend home after visiting with her dad in the hospital.  He was battling squaemous cell cancer and lymphoma.  The once strong, virile, opinionated man now lay fragile and weak, barely able to lift a fork to feed himself.  His face was distorted from surgery.  Tubes hung from his arms.  It was sad to see him struggling to be the man he used to be, trying to chat and joke, only to lose his grip to the sleepiness that randomly overtook him.  It was hard to watch.

My friend was exhausted from the emotional roller coaster.  She asked me as she blankly stared out into the darkness, “Remember how you told me that even though your parents seemed to always be fighting and never seemed to get along, that when your dad got sick the confrontations stopped – that your mom doted on him as if she couldn’t survive without him?”  I nodded because I remembered it well.  She continued to relate that her parents were the same way, and now she was having trouble understanding.  She asked me why I thought it was that even though she and her father had a rocky father/daughter relationship, much like my father and me, that you put it all aside when they get sick.  They were not easy questions to answer.

I escaped into deep thought before I answered. My parents didn’t seem to have a good marriage.  They seemed to be nothing more than roommates – people who lived together and tolerated each other.  They fought about stupid, irrelevant things.  My dad had a quick temper and my mother knew which buttons to push to set it off.  She almost seemed to relish that power she had over him.  And yet, when he got sick, she was always by his side, getting him whatever he needed or just sitting quietly watching him.  When he died, I thought that maybe it would be freeing for her.  That now she could relax and enjoy her life without all the bickering and tension that always seemed to be in the house.  But instead, she plummeted onto a downward spiral of depression, eating little and mixing up or not taking her medicines correctly, even though she was well able to do so.  We didn’t realize this until it was too late.  My mom was admitted to the hospital for dehydration four months after my dad died, even though we thought we were keeping a watchful eye on her.  I then prepared a place in my house for her to live so I could help her, of which she was in agreement.  On the morning I was to pick her up to bring her home, the hospital called to say she had taken a turn for the worse.  By the time we arrived, she had died.

You don’t realize how fragile life is until the shadow of death is looming.  When you find yourself in that position, all the trivial stuff disappears.  All you remember and hold on to is the very basic thing, and that is that your parents loved you. They loved you the only way they knew how to.  And right or wrong, good or bad, they did the best they could, even if you thought they could have done better.  The confrontations they had with you were probably caused by the fact that they did love you and wanted more from you and a better life for you.  They didn’t want you to go off and put yourself in danger or be in relationships that they thought would hurt you.  And instead of communicating that to you, they instead expressed their anger and tried to bully you out of it.  That, I think, is how that generation was.  There was no talking it out like there is today.  Raising children was very different then, and a child’s opinion didn’t matter. There was a pompous arrogance about a parent’s position of authority – they knew best, and you had better accept it or else!  That’s the only way they knew how to be. 

You don’t come to this level of acceptance of the way your parents were until you are well into your adulthood.  It is only then that you begin to understand why they said and did the things they did.  And the why is rarely pure and never simple but boils down to the fact that they loved you.  And in the end, that’s all that matters.

Worth It


Megan, Me and Katie

I had a text from my daughter Megan this morning.  She’s engaged and living in Florida with her fiancé Matt who is a wonderful man.  She has a great job and a good life.  My older daughter Katie is also engaged to a good guy Blake.  They are happy as well, and I’m so proud that both of my girls are not afraid to take a chance on love.

Meg said:  Good Morning…had a dream you and I were sight seeing on the Golden Gate Bridge, and I was terrified of heights.

I answered:  I’m terrified of heights, but the bridge is worth it. (I saw the bridge when I was in San Francisco years ago, and it is a magnificent sight to behold.) 

What does this mean?!  I ask her.

She answers:  U weren’t scared of heights in the dream!  I dunno?!

I say:  Maybe I’m willing to take a chance now without being afraid.  How about U?

She says:  U showing me not to be afraid of anything.

I answer:  Crying…

She says:  Why am I doing that lately?!  Love U to be happy.

I say:  I am.  

I’ve been through hell and back in the last couple of years both emotionally and financially.  I’ve lost mostly everything I built in the past 30 years, but I’m still standing.  I am still strong and most of all, still hopeful.  If showing my daughters not to be afraid of anything is what’s come out of all that I’ve been through, then it was worth it.

My First Crush


Thought for the Day:  Don’t be afraid to let your freak flag fly. Life is way more interesting when you do.

It was September, 1968. I was entering high school as an awkward freshman with a thing for musicians, discovering boys for the first time.  He was a junior – a trombone player in the school band and a member of a popular dance band. 

It was my first school assembly, and as we gathered into the stuffy gymnasium, the school band started playing. I glanced through the group of musicians, and my eyes settled on the conservative boy with dark slicked hair, staring at the sheet music through brown horn-rimmed glasses.  Badda bing, badda boom went the strings of my heart – Jimmy Galienski, my first crush.

To see him in the halls of the school was delirium for me.  With my long light brown hair perfectly combed and lips slathered in cherry lip gloss, I would see him coming towards me amid the bustle of a gazillion students, and I would shout loudly “Hi, Jimmy!”  He looked at me with dubious recognition and mumbled hello. 

WOW – he said “hello!”  I ran home from the bus stop that afternoon and immediately called my best friend June who went to a different school, and together we had an hour-long conversation on the exact circumstances of how Jimmy Galienski said hello to me in the hallway.  “Did he smile when he said it?” June asked.  Did he wave?  Nod his head?  Was it a loud or soft hello?!  She grilled me like a detective and cross-examined me on every aspect of the encounter. 

Each day from thereon was determined to be good or bad by the seeking and sometimes finding the elusive Jimmy in the corridors of the school and saying hello to him.  Sometimes I would alternate with “How are you, Jimmy?”  He would look at me blankly and respond simply, “Fine.”  Home to the phone for a one and a half hour conversation with June on how he said “fine!”  How did he say it?  Was he happy?  Sad?  Did he look into your eyes?  All seriously probing questions.

Sometimes he would answer with, “How ya doin’?” 

“June, he said “how ya doin’?”

 “OMG!!  How are you doing?” June shrieked.  He wanted to know how YOU were doing?  He MUST like you.” 

“You think?” I ask her smiling at the concept that a quasi-popular musician would actually like me.

“Absolutely,” she assured me.  This phone conversation will last at least two hours.

But the next day he’s back to “hi,” again, so I’m not quite sure if I am making any progress and am uncertain of whether he likes me like I like him or not.

I started dragging June and my other friend Debbie to all the football games since Jimmy played in the band at halftime. He looked quite spiffy in his band uniform. I hate football but went to every game that year just to catch a glimpse of Jimmy at half time.  After the fourth game, my friends grew tired of going since they didn’t like football either.  But I pleaded with them in the name of love, and they eventually decided on whom they liked out of all the football players and the band so they could have a reason to attend as well.  Debbie kind of liked a trumpet player named Phil, but he was obnoxious answering her with a burp when she said hi to him in the hallway. Really not a nice fellow at all.

We became a gaggle of groupies for Jimmy’s dance band and started tracking them wherever they played, usually school dances.  June eventually developed a crush on their lead singer, and Debbie liked the drummer, so we became in sync on why we were doing this groupie thing.

Eventually Jimmy miraculously found out my name. Sometimes he’d say, “Hi, Sue.”  That just catapulted me into outer space.  Then I asked my brother to tell him I liked him, since he was in one of his classes, which my brother somehow agreed to do. Probably because I grilled him every day on whether or not he told Jimmy that I liked him, and he got sick of my asking.

When my brother told him, Jimmy blandly answered, “Yes, I know.”  My brother was intrigued at how nonchalant Jimmy was about it, since he himself was not very cool with anything pertaining to girls at the time. 

“He knows,” I tell June.  “Now he knows!”  We scream into the phone in unison.  This is an all night conversation, which ends only when our parents force us off the phone because we need to get some sleep.

Even with the knowledge that I like him, Jimmy continues his usual blandness and never reacts other than a “hi” or “how ya doin’?” This continues through the school year. I eventually found out he apparently had a crush on the girl singer in his own band, although she was dating someone else.  Eventually my crush on Jimmy fizzled, but I held that torch for a very long time. I finally realized the “relationship” would never past the “hi” or “how ya doin’?” stage. 

Summer came, and I got busy having other crushes anyway, mainly on one boy named Ronald who surfed, whom June and I were fighting over, even though he didn’t really know either of us existed.

The last time I saw Jimmy was a couple of years later at a graduation party of a friend of a friend’s who was a year older than I. I was a junior at the time, and feeling like a hot shot, especially since I was invited to an upperclassman’s party. 

June and I spent days deciding what to wear and what our game plan would be so we could act mature at the party and fit in. We went to the party decked out in wide striped bell bottoms and scarves wrapped around our heads.  You have to remember it was the early seventies. I remembered feeling very hip and cool.  That was until I tripped over a chaise lounge and stumbled on top of an upperclassman knocking the chair and him to the ground.  He threw his soda can on the ground and yelled inappropriate obscenities.  My fair complexion turned a bright red.

It was just about then that I spotted Jimmy across the crowded back yard.  He had just finished his first year of college and now had shoulder length hair and looked like a hippy, which was very trendy at the time.  Even in my embarrassed state, I remembered the heartache of his ignoring me during that vulnerable time in my freshman year by only saying “hi” or “how ya doin’,” so I ignored him even though I could swear he was watching me. 

June and I decided to leave because I was humiliated over the tripping incident, and our confidence level in this group of upperclassmen was beginning to plummet. Amazingly, Jimmy said hello to me as I passed him on the way out, but for some odd reason I just walked past him without responding and pretended I didn’t know him. In hindsight I wished I’d said a bland, “how ya doin’?”

Flash forward quite a number of years.  Out of boredom, I am searching a few names on Facebook and I plug in Jimmy Galienski.  His face instantly shows up, and surprisingly, a butterfly flutters in my stomach.  Are you kidding me? I chided myself, annoyed that he still had that power over me.  But there he was looking a little different then he did at 16, but so did I.  I google the webpage he has listed on and read his bio, which proved him to have had a pretty interesting life.  He stayed in the music business. I’m blown away.  The “send Jimmy a message” icon beckons me.  Should I? I ask myself.  I feel a little anxious but start typing:  You were my freshman crush, but I was probably nothing more than a pain in your patut.  Glad to hear of your accomplishments.  Best wishes for continued success.  My heart is racing as I write this to him just as much as it did every time I spotted him walking towards me in that school corridor so many years ago.

The “send” button entices me. Should I send it or not?  I asked myself. I wish I could talk to June right now, but we’ve lost contact.  I imagined she would scream, JUST DO IT!  Jolted by the thought, I bravely hit the “send” button. For the rest of the day I was bubbling over but didn’t dare tell anyone.  What if he never wrote back or, even worse, wrote back something like, “Leave me alone you creepy little freshman stalker.”   I checked my Facebook page again and again that day, but there was no response.  That night I was feeling both elated at the prospect of hearing from him and forlorn that he might ignore me like he used to way back when.  I was pleasantly surprised that I was recalling the humor of the old days and wondering like a school girl if he would write back.

I rushed to my computer the next morning and screeched when I saw “A message from Jimmy Galienski.”  I opened it with blinding speed.

Susan, great to hear from you.” (from me?, I smile to myself)

“Freshman year?”  he continues, “you make me blush.” (My heart is bursting.)

“I’m still in the music business,” he continues. (My imagination is running 100 miles per hour.)

Will you be going to the school reunion?” he asks. (OMG!!!!  Is he asking me in a nondescript way to meet him at the reunion?!? This would definitely be an all day conversation with June had I still had her number.)

 I answered him:  “No.  I won’t be going to the reunion.  I actually graduated from another school – transferred in my junior year.  But I’m glad you followed your heart with your music, Jimmy.

I could use my imagination to make up a great story on how Jimmy and I connected through Facebook and an endearing love affair followed.  But it didn’t.  I never heard from Jimmy again.  Maybe he couldn’t get the idea of that geeky, annoying freshman girl out of his mind.  But I’ll always be grateful for the blast from the past and the remembrance of what a crazy kid I was as I boldly reached out to my first crush and felt the twitter of puppy love for the first time.