Couple Beautiful Views in Downtown Los Angeles

Left: The building in the middle is the U.S. Bank Tower in Los Angeles. Tallest building in town. The main library at the intersection of Fifth and Flower is in the foreground. You've seen this shot a lot in film and on TV. Do you recognize it? 

Right: This is the old lobby of the Biltmore Hotel only a few blocks from the library and Bank Tower. It's a beautiful room, peaceful, away from the new lobby where the noisy tourists are kept. 

Did you know that since the economy has tanked that libraries are bustling places? It's true. People borrow books and read for free.  What a concept.

See my free ebook? Look left and up. It's called "Lemmings in a Lifejacket". These women solve problems, sometimes not so well...are you good at it? 

I'd love to hear what you have to say about my ebook. 

         

Hearts and Houses for Sale

Selene is a real estate agent in the South Bay area of Los Angeles county. She's worked hard to build her business, and in spite of the current financial collapse, she goes door-knocking, cold calling, and keeps her focus on the forward track. Her professionalism is evident in her appearance and demeanor. 

Almost every morning she's at her desk with the computer on by 8:30. Probably has at least one call out of the way already, and a couple of on-going property sales notched up a level. If she had a motto, and maybe she does, it could rightfully be, "list with Selene, your house will sell" and that would be an understatement.

At team meetings, she's one of the first to stand up, introduce herself and ask questions or offer solutions. "Hello," she will say. "I'm Selene...

"...single and available," her boss adds before she can say another word. "Listen up, men, you can learn from this woman. And, she is single."

Selene blushes, stands taller and continues. She knows her male colleagues look at her and she gives them a nice picture to view. What she has to say counts, but just not quite as much as the view, and that gives her an edge which translates to dollars. 

That edge also keeps men safely at arm's length. "I have to set boundaries," she says. "I have to know that I'm getting what I want. I do it with my work. I have to do it with my life."

As she sits at a Sunday afternoon Open House, knowing she will probably sell it to a particular couple who are soon to arrive, she ponders her life situation.

I like men. Men like me. I'm great at my career. My career is great for me. So, why am I still single? I work well with men. We have fun together. The sex is, often, terrific. I sure do my part. Men get so sensitive. They can be such big babies.  I say what I mean, and they take it the wrong way. 

Somebody should give men a primer.

 

#1. Learn how to be a good kisser.

#2. Easy sex equals stupid. 

#3. Dating is fun. 

#4. Dating if you have a wife or girlfriend is stupid.

#5. Dinner is nice, but so is hiking.

#6. Not talking is stupid. Not listening is stupider.

#7. Bathe, wash your hair, and keep your nails clean.

#8. Doing that only for work is stupid.

#9. Laugh with a woman. 

#10. Sticking your tongue down her throat is not the same thing.

A knock on the open door snaps her back on the job. A tall, dark and handsome man walks into the room. Her heart flutters, then it sinks. It isn't the couple who wanted to look through the house once more before submitting a bid. Selene checks her cell. No calls. They're over a half hour late. 

You Are Tagged

Kathleen Maher tagged me today for what I believe she called, Seven Swans Aswimming. So, here are my 7 brief things. 

1. The number 7 has never been lucky for me. I think this is a myth that misleads people into hoping instead of doing the work.  Just my thought on the subject.

2. Swans are mean. I don't like them. Talk about beauty is skin, or feather, deep.

3. Swan Lake is my, ahem, achilles heel. NO matter how many classes, how much weight I lost, how far I stretched...I was not even in the corp de ballet at ABT.  I did take class with NYC Ballet... 

4. I like the word aswimming. It looks like movement, form and function all in one. I would give it the color yellow though, maybe pale green.

5. As for swimming itself.  Fine if the water is warm and clean, especially fine if it is in Maui and the wind isn't blowing too hard, or if it is more like sunning and a drink with an umbrella is nearby.

6. So, let's forget about swimming and talk about surfing. I've always wanted to learn how to windsurf. And someday when I have a couple weeks in Maui, I will take those lessons.

7. On the subject of Maui, I really really need a few weeks there. If I'm lucky enough to have family there, then aren't I obliged to go visit?

 

HAPPY HOLIDAYS, MERRY CHRISTMAS, AND ALL THAT STUFF. May all children grow up to live and love well.  All of us, too. I'm blessed to have such friends.

I am tagging:

www.workingwriterscoach.com

www.localfoodconnections.com

stress-freeparent.blogspot.com

www.carmaswindow.blogspot.com

www.chapin-pinotti.blogspot.com

www.heartfeltwords4kids.blogspot.com

www.the-real-cat-woman.blogspot.com

From a Very Cute Egyptian Giraffe's POV.

Do you see what I see? Lisa's ebook is to my left. Have you read it? It's free.

I bet you wish your ears stuck out like mine. Note my stunning neck.

I have a slight overbite, but I'm still gorgeous. Free as can be here in Egypt.

So, have you ever been to Egypt?

Scrowl down for more, then get the ebook.  

I wanted you to see my topknot. And my other perfect ear. 

The spots are remarkable, too, don't you think? Your freckles really don't compare. 

Do you think this is my best side? I can't decide.

Lisa's uncle Frank took my picture. Obviously, he likes both sides. He has more pictures for you, that's another day. Nice meeting you. Come again.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

The Invisible Woman

Shirley Knot is the  invisible woman. She's middle-aged, pays the bills, keeps the household in check, runs errands, shops and cooks and cleans. She also entertains every Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, on birthdays and special occasions. thinks2much is her email name. 

There are two questions that plague Shirley as she drives around doing what has to be done.

#1. Do I wear some kind of weird cloak that makes me invisible like in the children's fairy tale? And, is that cloak for my protection or to protect others from me? 

#2. Did the pencil that was supposed to fill me in as I matured get turned upside down and erase me? Did I erase myself or did someone else rub me out?

Shirley Knot's lost in thought as she comes to a Stop sign and turns right. The flashing lights of a police car reflect in her rear view mirror. I guess I'm not invisible to him, Shirley thinks, pulling to the curb.

"Step out of your car," the officer orders in a God-like voice over the loud speaker. "Walk slowly toward the police car." 

"Good Lord," Shirley says to no one but herself as she steps out of her car.

Shirley peers at the officer through his car window.  He's really cute, rolls across her mind, followed by, he's young enough to be my son. The officer peers at her driver's license and then back at her. "You cut me off," he said. "I had to swerve to miss you."  

"I'm so sorry, officer," Shirley says. "I don't know how I missed you, but I really didn't see you."

"You need to be more careful. It's important to be aware of what's going on around you," he said. "You could hurt someone, Shirley."

With the moving violation ticket on the seat beside her, Shirley looks at herself in the mirror on the sun visor, pulls out lipstick, puts it on, presses her lips together and smiles.  

As she cruises back up the boulevard to Gelson's Market, the erasure question just won't go away. I used to be the center of attention at parties. I was the smartest girl in math class. That boy in high school said I had the best legs. When I walked down the street, workmen would whistle. I never needed a push-up bra, let alone breast augmentation.

I weigh the same, wear the same size jeans, spend a lot of money keeping my hair the same color, and thank goodness modern medicine has made it possible to erase most of the lines and wrinkles. I hate the birthmark on my earlobe. I don't care what anybody says. It is not sexy. It has to go. I'll write myself a note to make an appointment.

I used to write. I have a journalism degree. I wrote for a newspaper, worked at a financial publication, wrote a screenplay.  Oh well, that was a long time ago. It's been ages since I read a good book. I always loved Washington Irving novellas.

Shirley can still hear her mother's comments. "Everybody thinks they can write. Be reasonable, do something that makes sense. You got your degree, all right, you are Mrs. Knot." 

Shirley can hear her husband's comments. "You won't succeed if you do that. It takes too much effort. You can't balance the kids and housekeeping, let alone, working too."

Surely not, Shirley Knot thought. Surely they were wrong. I don't want to be written off. 

And that's the truth. To some extent.

Off to Grandmother's House We Go

Mary Margaret is a Ph.D. student at the USC, Keck School of Medicine, located in downtown Los Angeles. For four years she's done due diligence as a teaching assistant and research assistant in brain cancer, writing her dissertation and preparing to receive her degree.

For the past year her boss has been increasingly moody and distant and dissatisfied, so much so that he did not prepare her properly for the screening exam. Mary Margaret failed. It would be a year before she could take it again. All he had to say was that he was sorry. And, he said this to the department head, not to Mary Margaret. She heard it through the grapevine.

He ignored her questions, disregarded her experiments and subsequent analysis. When he did acknowledge her or her work it was unpleasantly critical.

"I'm stuck. This is so unfair," she wailed to friends. "I've always wanted to do brain cancer research, but there's no one else in my department available to take me on. He was a great boss when we started. I don't know why he changed and now I'm at the mercy of this yahoo."

"Let's get married," her boyfriend said. "I won't have any free time for five years once I start my residency. Please marry me the week I graduate medical school."

"I will. I love you," Mary Margaret said. The ring of her dreams was designed, the date set, a stunning gown selected, the hard work and intricacies of putting on a traditional Catholic wedding unfolded. There were a few arguments with parents but everything fell into place.

Her boss rarely came to the lab now. Rumor had it he was having family problems. Mary Margaret emailed him that she wished to put her work on hold for the month of the wedding and honeymoon. She sent him a wedding invitation. He did not respond. 

The wedding was beautiful, the honeymoon delightful, and then the happy couple packed up and moved to a city half way across the country. Her husband started his residency.

Mary Margaret readied to finish her degree. She emailed her boss. "You went AWOL," he emailed back. "No degree." Her university account was discontinued. She set up a personal gmail account. "I've done all the work. I deserve my degree," she pleaded via the new account. "I was getting married. You knew that."

"I don't care," he emailed back using his personal yahoo account. "You were %^*&^." (we won't give his words dignity in print)

She contacted the department head and her other professors, she offered to return to meet with him. They agreed, he was behaving in an unprofessional manner. Under pressure, he relented. She could receive a Master's Degree, the PH.D. was history. Mary Margaret would receive this reduced degree only after an in-person transfer of papers and his final approval at a later date at his discretion. 

Exhausted and distressed, Mary Margaret and her husband drove 4 hours one holiday weekend to visit her grandmother. They looked at old family photos, ate Campbell's tomato soup with saltine crackers. Grandma listened intently to Mary Margaret's troubles.

Let's read "'Gulliver's Travels Part IV: A voyage to the county of the Houyhnhns, Chapter VII'," she said. "He meets all kinds of yahoos. Did you know the definition of the word 'yahoo' is rude, unsophisticated, and uncouth?" 

Mary Margaret's grandmother read to them until it was bedtime. "I just stumble along as best I can. You'll understand better when you get to be a poor old thing like me," her grandmother said just before they went to sleep. "That's a quote I read some where. Live and learn, tomorrow's another day, do the best you can...it's that sort of thing. Good night. I love you." 

And that's the truth. To some extent.

Imperfection

Thanksgiving is Beth Holly's birthday this year. She's turning -it's-no one-business...how old. The Botox and Juviderm, good hair, dash of make-up, yoga practice and vegeterian diet have taken off at least 10 years. Her life is happy. She's fashionably dressed, well-married, devoted mother, traditional and gracious in manner, educated, and socially involved.

Just home from yoga class last Saturday, she stretched out on the navy/green/beige Egyptian living room rug and balanced a cup of hot tea on her stomach. She'd done it a hundred times before. The tea cooled a bit while she thought out the rest of her day's schedule. Then the dog barked. The cup of tea slid down her side and spilled onto the carpet.

The dog barked again.

"Please don't bark, "she pleaded. "You spilled my tea." She stared at the tea stain on the beige areas of the rug. A dishtowel would soak it up. She grabbed a couple from the kitchen drawer and got down on her hands and knees pressing her hands atop the towel, feeling the liquid.

Then she saw it. Her white yoga tank top had tea on it. She rushed to the bathroom and pulled it off. It had to soak in cold water with liquid glycerin soap. It will be fine, she thought. Just give it time. "My tank top is stained," she shouted to her husband.

"What's going on? I'm busy," her husband answered. His Baritone voice resonated from the living room.

"I spilled my tea," she confessed, shivering in her sports bra as she came back in the living room. "It slid off my stomach."

"I can see the stain, " he said. "You didn't get it all up. Get another towel."

"I need a shower after yoga. My face will break out, if I don't," Beth Holly said. "And my hair is a mess. I'm getting really tense." She stood there, riveted to the spot. "Maybe the stain won't come out," she said. "I've messed up the rug."

"I'll take care of it," her husband said, shoving her aside. "Why did you spill it?"

"It was an accident. The dog barked." Beth Holly was shaken to the core."Maybe the rug was like that when we bought it. And, we just never noticed. Do you think anyone else will see it?"

"Just go take your shower," he said." You'll be a mess otherwise. Do you want people to see you that way? Where is your pride?"

She hurried to the bathroom, locked the bathroom door, and began to cry. How could this happen to her? A stupid stain on the rug. In the shower, she recalled a song her mother sang. "I'm going to wash that man right out of my hair," Beth Holly sang, "I'm going to wash that stain right out of my rug...I'm going to..." she cried harder. She scrubbed her head, soaped and rinsed her entire body twice, using the hand held sprayer to rinse everything especially well.

As she stepped into her robe, she looked in the foggy mirror. She'd even forgotten to turn on the fan. Better that I don't see myself, she thought. It's best that I stay home today. I can't let anyone see me like this. Beth Holly removed her wedding ring before she put the styling gel in her hair and scrunched it up for curl control. Wiping her hands, she looked at the ring on the counter, then put it in her makeup case.

Beth Holly's body literally shook, inside and out. She sorted through her books on the bedside table. O Magazine caught her eye. Settling in the pale pink chaise near the window in the bedroom, she scanned the ads then began to read the first article, "'Ten Tips to be Happiness' Number 1. Don't let the little things get to you. 2. Know what's important." She could not read any further.

I can make a good cup of tea, boil an egg, and give a good back rub, she thought. Tomorrow's another day. It's just another birthday.

And that's true. To some extent.

Changing Blog Address

To see my blog, go to The Truth to Some Extent

I've Been Tagged by Suzanne Lieurance, The Working Writer's Coach

Here are 7 facts about me. If you list 7 about yourself and send it on, and back to me, we'll get to know more about each other. You can read more about Suzanne Lieurance at The Working Writer's Coach

SEVEN RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME: 

1. I studied acting with Lee Strasberg and met my husband in an acting class in New York City.

2. I've lived in Ohio, Wisconsin, Alabama, New York City, Los Angeles, and Texas. All in USA

3. My first job, after babysitting, was at the Georgetown Daily Gazette while I was still in high school. I also edited, illustrated and produced our high school year book.

4. I write at the back of my house with a lovely view of the garden, if the shrubs are kept trimmed (they are not now).  So, I'm working on the patio today.

5. I love Upcountry Maui and I'm lucky enough to have family there. I wish I could plan my life to visit on a regular basis. The beaches are nice, too. 

6. My favorite books are Lost Horizon by James Hilton, Portrait of Jenny by Robert Nathan, Russian novels in general, Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov in particular. And a story, The Necklace, by Guy de Maupassant. 

7. I have 5 half siblings, one that I love dearly, the others I don't have any contact with. I have 4 cousins who are as close and dear to me as siblings. 

I AM TAGGING:

Diary of a Heretic

All for Blue

Chapin-Pinotti Learning Center

A WESTERN HISTORICAL HAPPENING

Poppens Thoughts on Writing and Stuff

The Real Cat Woman

I've Been Tagged by Suzanne Lieurance, The Working Writer's Coach

Here are 7 facts about me. If you list 7 about yourself and send it on, and back to me, we'll get to know more about each other. You can read more about Suzanne Lieurance at The Working Writer's Coach

SEVEN RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME: 

1. I studied acting with Lee Strasberg and met my husband in an acting class in New York City.

2. I've lived in Ohio, Wisconsin, Alabama, New York City, Los Angeles, and Texas. All in USA

3. My first job, after babysitting, was at the Georgetown Daily Gazette while I was still in high school. I also edited, illustrated and produced our high school year book.

4. I write at the back of my house with a lovely view of the garden, if the shrubs are kept trimmed (they are not now).  So, I'm working on the patio today.

5. I love Upcountry Maui and I'm lucky enough to have family there. I wish I could plan my life to visit on a regular basis. The beaches are nice, too. 

6. My favorite books are Lost Horizon by James Hilton, Portrait of Jenny by Robert Nathan, Russian novels in general, Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov in particular. And a story, The Necklace, by Guy de Maupassant. 

7. I have 5 half siblings, one that I love dearly, the others I don't have any contact with. I have 4 cousins who are as close and dear to me as siblings. 

I AM TAGGING:

Diary of a Heretic

All for Blue

Chapin-Pinotti Learning Center

A WESTERN HISTORICAL HAPPENING

Poppens Thoughts on Writing and Stuff

The Real Cat Woman

The Pink Prom Dress

Micheline and Oscar have been living together in downtown L.A. since before it was fashionable. Their home is two large cardboard refrigerator boxes on skid row. A man and his dog sleep to their left. A old woman in purple flannel pajamas talks nonstop on their right. 

Oscar's a big husky man given to wearing long flowing gowns. He was wounded, his left leg, in the war (although he has never said what war) and he suffers from endless phantom pain. The only time it doesn't hurt is when  he sees himself in a beautiful gown in a shop window.

"Let's go window shopping," Micheline says when his pain becomes unbearable. "We'll look at your dress. Wouldn't you love that?"

"Oh yes," he says. Oscar pulls himself up from the sidewalk, leans against the wall and takes her arm. "Watch the curb," he says as they cross the street. "I don't want you to get hurt." He offers a smile and hello to all who pass, holding his head high, even as he winces in pain. With his free hand he lifts his gown a few inches from the street so as not to step on the hem.

At a shop window, they gaze intently. "This window is cracked," Micheline says. At the second shop, she shakes her head. "This window is distorted." 

"I think it makes me look good," Oscar says. "Just not quite right. My leg really hurts."

"You can lean on me while we walk," Micheline says. "If we don't like what we see today, we will tomorrow." She puts his arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, look over there," Oscar says, catching sight of a store window. "Perfect." 

In the reflection of the dusty shop window Oscar sees himself, strong, fit, and as beautiful as any woman he'd ever known. Micheline runs her fingers across his back until she's hugging him close. "We're a very lucky couple," she says.

"Yes we are," Oscar says. His pain has disappeared. They begin to waltz down the street, in a world all their own, gliding up-down, one-two-three. Then Oscar stops. He watches a young prosperous couple holding hands. He strides up to them. Micheline lags behind. 

"Hey buddy. Micheline's suit is at the cleaners and I left my money at home. Give me $10. We are late for the party already and no bubbly for our friends."

The man and woman stare at Oscar whose flitting left and right in his  pink chiffon prom dress that is a size too large.  

Micheline steps forward and speaks up for her friend. "He really wants to go. I want to go with him. And as you can see I'm not dressed for it. You may not know this, but he hurt his leg real bad in the war. He used to be a nurse at the Country Club hospital just up the street."

The man looks up the street. There's an apartment building. Country Club Hospital?  "That's the best story I've heard all day. You got it," he says, smiling, then pulls  a $20 bill from his pocket. "Have fun. You deserve it." 

"Thank you," Micheline says. "You're very understanding." She pulls a black comb from inside her thick matted hair and waves it at them. "I styled his hair. Doesn't it look fabulous?"

 

And that's true. To some extent.  

Zoom zoom

Stephanie is 27. She's a marketing executive for a major corporation. She's unmarried.  She's worried. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Her mother and father probe. Lovingly. Relentlessly.  She hears it in conversations with her married friends, too. It's a good-natured pressurized echo. What are you waiting on? Hurry up. Find someone. Why are you so picky, Stephanie? 

Stephanie knows it isn't about being picky. It's just that there is always something that just isn't right. Somehow when she starts seeing a man, there's something, some piece that doesn't work. It's been that way since high school.  

Wearing purple lace thong panties and a matching bra, Stephanie riffles through her closet. She's on the phone with a girlfriend.  "I don't know what to wear. I'm meeting Robert. I can't wear the same thing as last time."

"You're wearing your jeans, right?" the girlfriend asks. "The ones that look really good on you not the others." 

Stephanie twists around to check out her butt and thighs in the mirror. She stands on tip-toe. It doesn't help. Her legs are short. A tiny bit of cellulite marks the line where the elastic band on panties used to be. She rearranges her thong but there isn't enough to mask anything. 

"Yes. I have to hurry. I'll text you in a minute. End." Stephanie touches the cellulite and starts to cry. Still holding the Blackberry, she pulls out a pair of jeans, dark but not with a lot of stitching and tosses them on the bed. Then, she pulls out a cream colored cotton camisole, tosses it on the bed. Then a cream deep v-neck cashmere pullover.  

She texts: Wht d I wr w the jns & crem cami? Cash plvr V?  

The reply: Y  wht shoes?

She texts: boots

The reply: wch bts?

She texts: sde

The reply: rain?

She texts: no

The reply: G8t. hv fun. Call m ltr.

Stephanie checks herself in the mirror, this time from the front. Looks much better. Sideways. Good. Other side. Good. She wiggles into the dark jeans with very little stitching, sucks in her stomach and zips. The camisole slides over her head without so much as touching her hair or face. Then the pullover, same way.

A quick check in the mirror. Yes. She fixes her make-up. Her eyes are pink, but no one will know she was crying.

Then Stephanie pulls a pair of yellow striped cotton socks with green ivy on the scalloped rim from her dresser drawer, and puts them on. They are soft. She smiles and wiggles her toes. Next she shoves her foot, then jeans into one black suede knee-high four-inch heel boot and then the other.  

She stands in front of the mirror again. Each side. Good. Front. Good. She pauses and sighs. No more tears. Slowly, she twists her upper body to look at her butt. 

She texts: Im tkg coat.

The reply: ?

She texts: Bg Bt

The reply: K

Stephanie rearranges the sheer cream color deep v-neck sweater around her hips. She grabs a three-button black coat from the closet. She slings her extra large black leather bag with the buckles over her shoulder, and looks back at the mirror one more time as she leaves the room. The boots are perfect.

She hits send to call her parents. By the time she gets to the car, she'll be in a dead zone.

And that's true, to some extent.

Zoom zoom

Stephanie is 27. She's a marketing executive for a major corporation. She's unmarried.  She's worried. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Her mother and father probe. Lovingly. Relentlessly.  She hears it in conversations with her married friends, too. It's a good-natured pressurized echo. What are you waiting on? Hurry up. Find someone. Why are you so picky, Stephanie? 

Stephanie knows it isn't about being picky. It's just that there is always something that just isn't right. Somehow when she starts seeing a man, there's something, some piece that doesn't work. It's been that way since high school.  

Wearing purple lace thong panties and a matching bra, Stephanie riffles through her closet. She's on the phone with a girlfriend.  "I don't know what to wear. I'm meeting Robert. I can't wear the same thing as last time."

"You're wearing your jeans, right?" the girlfriend asks. "The ones that look really good on you not the others." 

Stephanie twists around to check out her butt and thighs in the mirror. She stands on tip-toe. It doesn't help. Her legs are short. A tiny bit of cellulite marks the line where the elastic band on panties used to be. She rearranges her thong but there isn't enough to mask anything. 

"Yes. I have to hurry. I'll text you in a minute. End." Stephanie touches the cellulite and starts to cry. Still holding the Blackberry, she pulls out a pair of jeans, dark but not with a lot of stitching and tosses them on the bed. Then, she pulls out a cream colored cotton camisole, tosses it on the bed. Then a cream deep v-neck cashmere pullover.  

She texts: Wht d I wr w the jns & crem cami? Cash plvr V?  

The reply: Y  wht shoes?

She texts: boots

The reply: wch bts?

She texts: sde

The reply: rain?

She texts: no

The reply: G8t. hv fun. Call m ltr.

Stephanie checks herself in the mirror, this time from the front. Looks much better. Sideways. Good. Other side. Good. She wiggles into the dark jeans with very little stitching, sucks in her stomach and zips. The camisole slides over her head without so much as touching her hair or face. Then the pullover, same way.

A quick check in the mirror. Yes. She fixes her make-up. Her eyes are pink, but no one will know she was crying.

Then Stephanie pulls a pair of yellow striped cotton socks with green ivy on the scalloped rim from her dresser drawer, and puts them on. They are soft. She smiles and wiggles her toes. Next she shoves her foot, then jeans into one black suede knee-high four-inch heel boot and then the other.  

She stands in front of the mirror again. Each side. Good. Front. Good. She pauses and sighs. No more tears. Slowly, she twists her upper body to look at her butt. 

She texts: Im tkg coat.

The reply: ?

She texts: Bg Bt

The reply: K

Stephanie rearranges the sheer cream color deep v-neck sweater around her hips. She grabs a three-button black coat from the closet. She slings her extra large black leather bag with the buckles over her shoulder, and looks back at the mirror one more time as she leaves the room. The boots are perfect.

She hits send to call her parents. By the time she gets to the car, she'll be in a dead zone.

And that's true, to some extent.

Xanadu

Wanda Olive  Coleridge hated her nickname. Her mother's friend started it as a joke before she even went to school. Get it, her initials in reverse are COW.

"I want to be one of those girls who stand up on the ponies in fancy clothes," she said at the circus on her 10th birthday.

Then Cirque de Soleil came along and blew her away. Literally. "I imagine myself, dropping from the sky, moving in slow motion to the sound of my own heart beating," she said at her 18th birthday party.

This made sense to Little Wanda-Cow as she was known in her crowd because she had developed a nasty drug habit before she dropped out of high school. She hid her secret at the Dress Barn where she worked 30 hours a week, so she would have, ahem, money to live on. Then she got busted for shoplifting and the judge said rehab or jail.

"I'm not stupid," she told the judge. "Rehab. Here's the thing, dude. How would you like my name?" Her 'tude tipped the scale.

"Your name is Wanda Coleridge. What's wrong with that?" he asked. "And, young lady, you'll also do a year of community service. Note: Do not call a judge, 'dude'."

Little Wanda Cow whined and sulked in group at rehab. It was the best she could do, what with withdrawal sapping her powers. "They called me COW," she snapped at the girl with tatts covering both arms. "They thought it was funny."

"So what," tatt girl said. "Do you drink a lot of milk?"

"No," Wanda  said. She had to think about that.

"You don't even know your own name, Wanda Coleridge," the tatt girl mocked. "I mean like, there's a famous poet with your last name. If you don't believe me, Wikipedia it."

After dinner Wanda what-ever-her-name-is searched for her name. It took her awhile, all she knew how to be was a gamer, but what she found took her breath away.

Kubla Khan; or A Vision in a Dream: A Fragment written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1797 at a farmhouse near Exmoor (wherever that is), England.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, a sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to sunless sea.

"Wow," Wanda said out loud. She felt his vision. "That is really beautiful."

She read some more...

For he on honey-dew fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

In group the next day, Wanda read the poem. "Maybe, he's like, my great-great-great-great grandfather," she said when she finished reading.

"I'm really into genealogy," tatt girl said.

"I think maybe the dude smoked," a guy with glasses and bandages around his wrists said. "Opium."

Wanda sighed. "It's still so cool," she said to everyone in the group. "I mean, like, someone could have called him STD, you know what I mean, as a joke. But he wrote this great poem anyway."

And that is true. To some extent.

Xanadu

Wanda Olive  Coleridge hated her nickname. Her mother's friend started it as a joke before she even went to school. Get it, her initials in reverse are COW.

"I want to be one of those girls who stand up on the ponies in fancy clothes," she said at the circus on her 10th birthday.

Then Cirque de Soleil came along and blew her away. Literally. "I imagine myself, dropping from the sky, moving in slow motion to the sound of my own heart beating," she said at her 18th birthday party.

This made sense to Little Wanda-Cow as she was known in her crowd because she had developed a nasty drug habit before she dropped out of high school. She hid her secret at the Dress Barn where she worked 30 hours a week, so she would have, ahem, money to live on. Then she got busted for shoplifting and the judge said rehab or jail.

"I'm not stupid," she told the judge. "Rehab. Here's the thing, dude. How would you like my name?" Her 'tude tipped the scale.

"Your name is Wanda Coleridge. What's wrong with that?" he asked. "And, young lady, you'll also do a year of community service. Note: Do not call a judge, 'dude'."

Little Wanda Cow whined and sulked in group at rehab. It was the best she could do, what with withdrawal sapping her powers. "They called me COW," she snapped at the girl with tatts covering both arms. "They thought it was funny."

"So what," tatt girl said. "Do you drink a lot of milk?"

"No," Wanda  said. She had to think about that.

"You don't even know your own name, Wanda Coleridge," the tatt girl mocked. "I mean like, there's a famous poet with your last name. If you don't believe me, Wikipedia it."

After dinner Wanda what-ever-her-name-is searched for her name. It took her awhile, all she knew how to be was a gamer, but what she found took her breath away.

Kubla Khan; or A Vision in a Dream: A Fragment written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1797 at a farmhouse near Exmoor (wherever that is), England.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, a sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to sunless sea.

"Wow," Wanda said out loud. She felt his vision. "That is really beautiful."

She read some more...

For he on honey-dew fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

In group the next day, Wanda read the poem. "Maybe, he's like, my great-great-great-great grandfather," she said when she finished reading.

"I'm really into genealogy," tatt girl said.

"I think maybe the dude smoked," a guy with glasses and bandages around his wrists said. "Opium."

Wanda sighed. "It's still so cool," she said to everyone in the group. "I mean, like, someone could have called him STD, you know what I mean, as a joke. But he wrote this great poem anyway."

And that is true. To some extent.

Qu 'y on the High Seas

Jeanie is your average Vietnamese mom-down-the-street. Jeanie is also a professional genie when it comes to manicures and pedicures. You may come in the salon with dishpan hands, or feet, but you will leave with mitts fit for a kiss. While you are soaking, if you are lucky, she'll hum or sing a little song that let's you know how she really feels.

One of her favorites goes like this: "A kiss on the hand may be very continental but diamonds are a girl's best friend..." Jeanie knows Jules Styne wrote the music and Leo Robin wrote the lyrics. She knows what year the movie came out and lots of other stuff. She usually finishes the song with a surprise of a belly laugh.

Jeanie chats when she isn't singing. "Qu 'y is my real name," she says if asked. "It means precious. Americans can't say it, so we picked the name, Jeanie."

A lifetime later, Jeanie/Qu 'y remembers her trip to America like it was yesterday.

Qu 'y was 11 when she and her aunt left Vietnam in the middle of the night on her uncle's fishing boat in 1984. There was no room or money for other family members. "I had to be so quiet. We couldn't talk at all," she says.  

According to Jeanie, the boat didn't make any sound as it slipped out to sea with just enough rice, sugar, pickled stuff like cabbage, and water for 70 people.  It was a Noah's Arc overflowing with Buddhists. The plan was simple. Ride the open seas until a freighter found you, they would take you to the Philippine Islands where life would start over, much better. 

"I was too scared to ask any questions. My aunt took care of me. I promised my mom I'd do what she told me," Jeanie says.

Qu 'y's uncle handled his boat really well through a couple pounding storms and blistering winds. But when the wind stopped, the boat rocked side to side going nowhere. When their drinking water was gone, sugar was mixed with sea water for drinking. 

"It was nasty," Jeanie says, as she shivers and scrunches up her face. "My aunt made me drink it. That's all there was. We had to lean out over the side of the boat to go to the bathroom. Everyone would look away, but we didn't care."

Qu 'y, her aunt, and all the women prayed to Buddha for a freighter to find them. One did. The captain gave Qu 'y a red dress and an orange one--her first Western clothing. But since no one was dead, he did not take them onboard.

"It was so hot. My aunt said we must now pray to get to the Philippine Island," Jeanie says. "Pray for your uncle to get his boat there, but when he did, we were told to go to a different island," Jeanie continues.

At last, they docked the boat and went to the refugee camp. "My uncle had a brother in Norway who was supposed to sponsor us," Jeanie says. "But, a Protestant Church in Los Angeles did."

Qu 'y, her aunt and uncle lived with an American family while they learned English, how to eat with a spoon and fork, where the Buddhist Temple was, and how to get around the city. 

"Linda and I," Jeanie says as she gestures to another manicurist, "trained together. Now we carpool to work with two other girls. Save money."

Jeanie's mother and sisters and brothers still live in Vietnam. She does not ever intend to tell them she and her husband have allowed their unmarried daughter to live away from home. "They would never understand that an American college girl does that," Jeanie says. 

And that's true. To some extent.

Qu 'y on the High Seas

Jeanie is your average Vietnamese mom-down-the-street. Jeanie is also a professional genie when it comes to manicures and pedicures. You may come in the salon with dishpan hands, or feet, but you will leave with mitts fit for a kiss. While you are soaking, if you are lucky, she'll hum or sing a little song that let's you know how she really feels.

One of her favorites goes like this: "A kiss on the hand may be very continental but diamonds are a girl's best friend..." Jeanie knows Jules Styne wrote the music and Leo Robin wrote the lyrics. She knows what year the movie came out and lots of other stuff. She usually finishes the song with a surprise of a belly laugh.

Jeanie chats when she isn't singing. "Qu 'y is my real name," she says if asked. "It means precious. Americans can't say it, so we picked the name, Jeanie."

A lifetime later, Jeanie/Qu 'y remembers her trip to America like it was yesterday.

Qu 'y was 11 when she and her aunt left Vietnam in the middle of the night on her uncle's fishing boat in 1984. There was no room or money for other family members. "I had to be so quiet. We couldn't talk at all," she says.  

According to Jeanie, the boat didn't make any sound as it slipped out to sea with just enough rice, sugar, pickled stuff like cabbage, and water for 70 people.  It was a Noah's Arc overflowing with Buddhists. The plan was simple. Ride the open seas until a freighter found you, they would take you to the Philippine Islands where life would start over, much better. 

"I was too scared to ask any questions. My aunt took care of me. I promised my mom I'd do what she told me," Jeanie says.

Qu 'y's uncle handled his boat really well through a couple pounding storms and blistering winds. But when the wind stopped, the boat rocked side to side going nowhere. When their drinking water was gone, sugar was mixed with sea water for drinking. 

"It was nasty," Jeanie says, as she shivers and scrunches up her face. "My aunt made me drink it. That's all there was. We had to lean out over the side of the boat to go to the bathroom. Everyone would look away, but we didn't care."

Qu 'y, her aunt, and all the women prayed to Buddha for a freighter to find them. One did. The captain gave Qu 'y a red dress and an orange one--her first Western clothing. But since no one was dead, he did not take them onboard.

"It was so hot. My aunt said we must now pray to get to the Philippine Island," Jeanie says. "Pray for your uncle to get his boat there, but when he did, we were told to go to a different island," Jeanie continues.

At last, they docked the boat and went to the refugee camp. "My uncle had a brother in Norway who was supposed to sponsor us," Jeanie says. "But, a Protestant Church in Los Angeles did."

Qu 'y, her aunt and uncle lived with an American family while they learned English, how to eat with a spoon and fork, where the Buddhist Temple was, and how to get around the city. 

"Linda and I," Jeanie says as she gestures to another manicurist, "trained together. Now we carpool to work with two other girls. Save money."

Jeanie's mother and sisters and brothers still live in Vietnam. She does not ever intend to tell them she and her husband have allowed their unmarried daughter to live away from home. "They would never understand that an American college girl does that," Jeanie says. 

And that's true. To some extent.

Willow Wayne: How A Star Stays A Star

Willow Wayne is a statuesque movie star, television presence, and songstress. At 16 she was a cover girl, at 20 she starred in her first film, to much acclaim. She and the director were an item for awhile, they made all the magazine covers, then he went home to his wife. 

Over the course of 25 year she made a few reasonably successful films, starred in two television series, married a bartender from Oklahoma, bore a son with prominent ears, then a daughter with Downs Syndrome shortly before she divorced her second husband, a pediatrician. She moved on to her then-agent, who did not want the twins she produced. She fired her publicist after a poolside session made her arms look fat. 

"You're a has-been," the agent-husband harped late one night after a party. "All you did was shout into your cell phone, all night. You are desperate for attention."

He was right. She left him in a huff, leaving the big house in the hills behind. She had hated the steep driveway, and her driver, and her secretary, couldn't afford it anymore, anyway.

A Cape Cod style house on a tree-lined street with a locked front gate, accessed only by a buzzer hid her from the glare as she contracted a new career. The living room became a jazz stage, musicians and paid friends were hired to build up a thin voice and highlight a dramatic presentation. 

"Hello," she called gaily from her bed, as whoever assembled downstairs a couple weeks before her first gig at a small intimate club. "I'll be down when I'd ready," she said, her voice lilting an octave. Meantime, she rearranged herself in the middle of the bed, placed a call to her daughter, no answer. Then a call to someone, arranging a late lunch on Thursday, since she had to rehearse. 

"Where's my diamond necklace?" she screamed. "I can't sing without it," she wailed to her secretary over her cell phone even though the woman was in the kitchen. "My voice will crack. You know I hate that," she said, snapping the phone shut. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it into a kind of shape, her silk dressing gown gaping open. "Get in here," she screamed to anyone who could hear her.

"Where is my coach? He knows I'm hopeless without him." Willow started to cry, crocodile tears. "Why do all these people let me down? Don't they know there are rules, it takes discipline to be me? FYI folks. Only the star can break the rules."

All that is another lifetime now. Her act is perfect. She enters the room to applause, one of her hit songs leading off the show. "Thank you for coming tonight," she always says. "We're going to have a wonderful evening. I do this for you, your pleasure and happiness." Her face shines. Her gowns shimmer sleekly curvaceous around a purposefully-willowed figure. 

"You're beautiful," an audience member calls out. 

"Spanx, you know," she answers smartly, knowingly catching the eye of women in the small club lounge. "How many of you ladies are wearing your spanx tonight? Where would we be without them, ladies?" 

The women applaud. The men laugh. Willow wraps an arm sensuously beneath her glued-on push-up pseudo bra, wrapping long red finger nails around a hip and humming her way into some ballad or another.

At late night champagne and oyster dinner with her current lover, she insists, absolutely insists her lover pick up the check. She'll make him a breakfast he'll never forget, but in the morning he is gone, they are always gone. She watches The View on TiVo from her bed, silk gown gaping open, Tiffany drop pendant on a diamond chain under the bed, clouded from view by dust bunnies.

"I'm scheduled to be on, you know," she says to no one in particular. "Unless I change my mind. I'm the star. I can reschedule if I want to."

And that's true. To an extent. 

Valerie -Victim or virtuous?

Valerie's a skinny violinist with long fingers and a short neck. She plays various studio gigs, most at Warner Brother's studio in Burbank, most for the same composer and conductor, mostly with the same musicians, and most often in the late evening or at night. It's boring. It's good money. It's gone on for years.

There's a cartoon in Valerie's psychiatrist's office that has four frames. In the first, the patient is deflated, flat as a pancake. The psychiatrist looks normal. A vacuum cleaner-looking hose is hooked up between them. "How have you been?" the psychiatrist asks. 

 "I need your help. I'm depressed," the patient says in the second frame. "I'll do my best to help, tell me more," the psychiatrist says. He looses some of his stature, the patient gets more inflated. 

 "I have no life," the patient says in the third frame. "Why do you think that is?" the psychiatrist asks, deflating.  

"My wife is having an affair with the milk man," the patient says. "Are you certain? Have you seen them?" the psychiatrist ask. "Well, no. Maybe I'm being just being jealous," the patient answers as he swells to full size and the psychiatrist deflates flat as a pancake.

Valerie's psychiatrist's wife called her two days before their regular appointment. "He had an episode from the anesthesia during minor surgery, and is in the hospital," she said, her voice high pitched and taught. "Your appointment will have to be rescheduled."

"On, no," Valerie said, after a very shaky pause. She had become too dependent and drained him?  Whatifhedied, whatifhedied, whatifhedied swirled behind her eyebrows. "What seems to be the problem?" Valerie dared to ask, putting one word carefully after the other. 

"He's having an MRI, right now," his wife said. "They don't expect to find anything." Her soft, slight voice wavered.

"Oh, what a relief, " Valerie said with true sincerity. "How are you?"

"I am worried," his wife said.

"I know he'll be fine."  The words leapt from her mouth. "He knows how much we care." Valerie laughed, as much to reassure herself as his wife. 

"Yes, he will  be fine," his wife repeated, laughing slightly. Her voice full and firmer. "He is  a strong man. And he knows how we all want him around for a long time. Thank you."

Valerie remembered the cartoon. It's not about me right now, it's about him, his health. "Tell him I said he should rest and get better," she said a little too cheerfully.

They hung up. Valerie felt drained, and she had to go to work. He must be exhausted by the end of the day, she thought. She picked up her gear and left.

And that's true. To an extent. 

Valerie -Victim or virtuous?

Valerie's a skinny violinist with long fingers and a short neck. She plays various studio gigs, most at Warner Brother's studio in Burbank, most for the same composer and conductor, mostly with the same musicians, and most often in the late evening or at night. It's boring. It's good money. It's gone on for years.

There's a cartoon in Valerie's psychiatrist's office that has four frames. In the first, the patient is deflated, flat as a pancake. The psychiatrist looks normal. A vacuum cleaner-looking hose is hooked up between them. "How have you been?" the psychiatrist asks. 

 "I need your help. I'm depressed," the patient says in the second frame. "I'll do my best to help, tell me more," the psychiatrist says. He looses some of his stature, the patient gets more inflated. 

 "I have no life," the patient says in the third frame. "Why do you think that is?" the psychiatrist asks, deflating.  

"My wife is having an affair with the milk man," the patient says. "Are you certain? Have you seen them?" the psychiatrist ask. "Well, no. Maybe I'm being just being jealous," the patient answers as he swells to full size and the psychiatrist deflates flat as a pancake.

Valerie's psychiatrist's wife called her two days before their regular appointment. "He had an episode from the anesthesia during minor surgery, and is in the hospital," she said, her voice high pitched and taught. "Your appointment will have to be rescheduled."

"On, no," Valerie said, after a very shaky pause. She had become too dependent and drained him?  Whatifhedied, whatifhedied, whatifhedied swirled behind her eyebrows. "What seems to be the problem?" Valerie dared to ask, putting one word carefully after the other. 

"He's having an MRI, right now," his wife said. "They don't expect to find anything." Her soft, slight voice wavered.

"Oh, what a relief, " Valerie said with true sincerity. "How are you?"

"I am worried," his wife said.

"I know he'll be fine."  The words leapt from her mouth. "He knows how much we care." Valerie laughed, as much to reassure herself as his wife. 

"Yes, he will  be fine," his wife repeated, laughing slightly. Her voice full and firmer. "He is  a strong man. And he knows how we all want him around for a long time. Thank you."

Valerie remembered the cartoon. It's not about me right now, it's about him, his health. "Tell him I said he should rest and get better," she said a little too cheerfully.

They hung up. Valerie felt drained, and she had to go to work. He must be exhausted by the end of the day, she thought. She picked up her gear and left.

And that's true. To an extent. 

Under Ware: Agent With The FBI

Shortly after 9/11, Under passed her special agent test. She'd been a computer analyst with the service since l995, her first job after graduation from the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. With a name like hers, she wanted to stay under the radar. The fact that she lived in Washington D.C. and traveled constantly was ideal. Pasadena, California, was no more than the place Under had been born. 

She was now known as U. Ware. Her twin, Arde, or Hard, as his UCLA frat brothers called him--had done the same thing in med school and now he was on staff at a prominent Midwestern medical school, Dr. A. Ware or AW.

"Say your name and be proud of it," their mother had said, when they begged to know why such names had been put on them. "Ware is an old British name, much like, Blood, my maiden name. Where do you think the term, Bluebood, comes from? I don't hear your cousins complaining about their name."

"Yeah, their first names are Jennifer, David, and Ashley," Arde said, a hardness  underscored his voice even when they were youngsters.  

The three cousins were slackers who hit the party scene first in Bali, then in Rio and finally in Hollywood. They partied away their incomes at the Troubadour, the Viper Room where they met Johnny Depp, and various other clubs that came and went. Under had ushered in the 21st century by going to bed at 8 PM and waking up at 7 AM, same as always. Arde spent that year in Japan, doing God knows what. He said he was studying Eastern medicine.

Last summer on July 4th, their mother hosted a big bash and collapsed at the buffet table, dying from a heart attack before the medics arrived. U and HW had to go home. 

"I've never seem her so beautiful," Under said, looking at her mother before the morticians prepared her for the funeral. "Peaceful and serene. Luminescent."

"The old gal's blood wasn't as terrific as she thought it was," Arde said. He took charge, made all the arrangements. Arde had fought to have an autopsy performed, Under refused. Her mother's beauty was all she had left. She sat with the open casket before the funeral.

"I'm so sorry for my disgraceful behavior," she said. A single tear slid from the edge of her eye. "I don't know why you did this to me, but I love you." She smoothed her black dress and sat quietly. "I'll start wearing mascara to make up for things," she said, looking straight forward.

"Let's get this over with," Arde said, then snapped the silk-lined casket closed. "Everybody's waiting. Did you contact our father?" 

She shook her head. "I ran a check on him. A year ago he was living in Romania with a woman named Irma Vagine. They have children and run a legitimate orphanage. Leave him alone, he has a life." 

"Don't you want to know your father?" Arde snarled at her in the same tone he used with their mother.  "We need to know what diseases he has, what we've inherited. He's the Ware. He abandoned us."

Under wept, bowing her head, covering her eyes with her hands. "I know who I am, Hard Ware. I'm Under Ware." She looked up at him, emotions in check, radiant in her truth. "I spend my days ferreting out people who change their names to serve some purpose, avoid some truth, or getting away from themselves and their families." She snorted and cleared her throat. "I'm a Blood-Ware, bright red and running strong."

"And you're so tough. FBI. You'll always be under some body's thumb," he said. "Let's get this over with."

They sat together. They gave the eulogy together. Under wept. Arde didn't. When the service was over, as they were leaving, a man tapped Under on the shoulder. When she turned around, she saw her own  pale face but with flashing dark eyes rimmed with double thick lashes. 

"I vant you to meet my vife, and zon's lit-tle shildren," he said. "They've ast to meet you for a longa time. Ve've saved money for 10 years. Come from Poland. Bad timing. " 

"Arde, I think this is our father," she said. "Look."  

"Ah, your uncle. Your fader feld offa curb in and vas hit by a truck," he said. "I'm Zilva Vare."

Arde just starred. Under gave Zilva a hug. The children giggled and his wife smiled.

More little Wares, Under thought smiling at them. I vonder vhat their names are?

And that's true. To some extent.

Under Ware: Agent With The FBI

Shortly after 9/11, Under passed her special agent test. She'd been a computer analyst with the service since l995, her first job after graduation from the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. With a name like hers, she wanted to stay under the radar. The fact that she lived in Washington D.C. and traveled constantly was ideal. Pasadena, California, was no more than the place Under had been born. 

She was now known as U. Ware. Her twin, Arde, or Hard, as his UCLA frat brothers called him--had done the same thing in med school and now he was on staff at a prominent Midwestern medical school, Dr. A. Ware or AW.

"Say your name and be proud of it," their mother had said, when they begged to know why such names had been put on them. "Ware is an old British name, much like, Blood, my maiden name. Where do you think the term, Bluebood, comes from? I don't hear your cousins complaining about their name."

"Yeah, their first names are Jennifer, David, and Ashley," Arde said, a hardness  underscored his voice even when they were youngsters.  

The three cousins were slackers who hit the party scene first in Bali, then in Rio and finally in Hollywood. They partied away their incomes at the Troubadour, the Viper Room where they met Johnny Depp, and various other clubs that came and went. Under had ushered in the 21st century by going to bed at 8 PM and waking up at 7 AM, same as always. Arde spent that year in Japan, doing God knows what. He said he was studying Eastern medicine.

Last summer on July 4th, their mother hosted a big bash and collapsed at the buffet table, dying from a heart attack before the medics arrived. U and HW had to go home. 

"I've never seem her so beautiful," Under said, looking at her mother before the morticians prepared her for the funeral. "Peaceful and serene. Luminescent."

"The old gal's blood wasn't as terrific as she thought it was," Arde said. He took charge, made all the arrangements. Arde had fought to have an autopsy performed, Under refused. Her mother's beauty was all she had left. She sat with the open casket before the funeral.

"I'm so sorry for my disgraceful behavior," she said. A single tear slid from the edge of her eye. "I don't know why you did this to me, but I love you." She smoothed her black dress and sat quietly. "I'll start wearing mascara to make up for things," she said, looking straight forward.

"Let's get this over with," Arde said, then snapped the silk-lined casket closed. "Everybody's waiting. Did you contact our father?" 

She shook her head. "I ran a check on him. A year ago he was living in Romania with a woman named Irma Vagine. They have children and run a legitimate orphanage. Leave him alone, he has a life." 

"Don't you want to know your father?" Arde snarled at her in the same tone he used with their mother.  "We need to know what diseases he has, what we've inherited. He's the Ware. He abandoned us."

Under wept, bowing her head, covering her eyes with her hands. "I know who I am, Hard Ware. I'm Under Ware." She looked up at him, emotions in check, radiant in her truth. "I spend my days ferreting out people who change their names to serve some purpose, avoid some truth, or getting away from themselves and their families." She snorted and cleared her throat. "I'm a Blood-Ware, bright red and running strong."

"And you're so tough. FBI. You'll always be under some body's thumb," he said. "Let's get this over with."

They sat together. They gave the eulogy together. Under wept. Arde didn't. When the service was over, as they were leaving, a man tapped Under on the shoulder. When she turned around, she saw her own  pale face but with flashing dark eyes rimmed with double thick lashes. 

"I vant you to meet my vife, and zon's lit-tle shildren," he said. "They've ast to meet you for a longa time. Ve've saved money for 10 years. Come from Poland. Bad timing. " 

"Arde, I think this is our father," she said. "Look."  

"Ah, your uncle. Your fader feld offa curb in and vas hit by a truck," he said. "I'm Zilva Vare."

Arde just starred. Under gave Zilva a hug. The children giggled and his wife smiled.

More little Wares, Under thought smiling at them. I vonder vhat their names are?

And that's true. To some extent.

ESTABLISH: Parking Lot Outside The Salon, Sherman Oaks, CA

Tina left the salon in thin orange rubber flip flops. She'd forgotten to bring her own and wore really cool red peep-toe shoes which she had to carry back to the car. Her exquisite French-tip nails matched hand to foot. She was ready for her audition later in the afternoon. She knew it was a great role, made for her: A smart, sophisticated women with a mission before she succumbed to leukemia. 

The pebbles in the parking lot punctured, oh really, they wobbled beneath her feet as she tiptoed to her Acura not 25 feet away in the open air parking lot. It was pleasantly warm, the lot hardly half full, and a well-validated parking ticket assured her of free passage out of there. Still, why couldn't they clear the stupid pebbles? 

Her foot massage wouldn't last to the car at this rate. How could she maneuver in heels later in the afternoon at this rate? A big man leaned against the trunk of a big black Lincoln Navigator (gas guzzler) too closely parked beside her car door. He was sharing his cell phone conversation with the world.

"I paid. You know I paid. I'll pay the rest. Just give me a couple days.  I know I said..." he shouted, pacing left to right his free hand never moving an inch out of his black suit coat pocket. "You owe me," he shouted. Obviously, the person at the other end had some equally potent reply. He waved the phone around in a circle then back close to his ear and unexpectedly said in a most even tone, "I won't do it," and then  smacked the Blackberry again his sizable chest, grimacing with fury. 

She stopped, ready to click the car door open, but didn't. Pondering his 300 pound dark, swarthy frame, Tina easily imaged him as Mafia. Was there such a thing as Persian Mafia? Probably not, but maybe he was black Russian Mafia, and had died his hair and spent a lot of time in a tanning booth.  

She peered at him with her peripheral vision, blinking quickly as her placed a smile across her face allowing her mouth to fall sensuously open.  She licked her plumped up lips. Her job was to get him in the mood to care about her, forget that phone call. Tina shifted from foot to foot, her flowing garb suggested either a free spirit or more likely a wood nymph.

Tina rubbed her palms together warming them, as she always did before a performance. "Excuse me, please," she said as she titled her head slightly to one shoulder and looked  directly into his dark dark eyes. The click of her car remote gave away her intent. "I'm late for an audition, excuse me."  Tina forgot about the pebbles now,  her back straight and chin lifted, she stepped lightly past him, not touching as she opened the car door. "Thank you," she offered.

"Sure, sure," he said. "I wish my wife was so agreeable. She always wants more, more." 

And he thinks I care, passed through Tina's mind. "I'm sure she's a beautiful woman," came out of Tina's mouth. "Wants to make a beautiful life for you. That costs money." Tina's heart beat so fast, she felt a panic attack coming on. "Good luck," she said. Why did I have to say that, pounded between her ears. 

Backing the car out took a 5 point turn in her current state of flux. She peeked at him through the rear-view mirror and waved. He leaned wearily against that big black car, unmoved, head hanging down. Tina put her well-manicured foot on the accelerator, the back tires threw gravel as she pulled forward, toward the window of the parking attendant booth. 

"I'm ready for the audition  after that, "she said out loud. Shifting in her seat, she sat shoulders back to stop shaking. "People think show business is all fun and games. It's work and preparation. I could have said it better: I'm sure she's a beautiful woman, or, I'm sure she's a beautiful woman." Tina rolled her eyes, handed the attendant the ticket and pulled out onto the street.

And that's true. To some extent.

ESTABLISH: Parking Lot Outside The Salon, Sherman Oaks, CA

Tina left the salon in thin orange rubber flip flops. She'd forgotten to bring her own and wore really cool red peep-toe shoes which she had to carry back to the car. Her exquisite French-tip nails matched hand to foot. She was ready for her audition later in the afternoon. She knew it was a great role, made for her: A smart, sophisticated women with a mission before she succumbed to leukemia. 

The pebbles in the parking lot punctured, oh really, they wobbled beneath her feet as she tiptoed to her Acura not 25 feet away in the open air parking lot. It was pleasantly warm, the lot hardly half full, and a well-validated parking ticket assured her of free passage out of there. Still, why couldn't they clear the stupid pebbles? 

Her foot massage wouldn't last to the car at this rate. How could she maneuver in heels later in the afternoon at this rate? A big man leaned against the trunk of a big black Lincoln Navigator (gas guzzler) too closely parked beside her car door. He was sharing his cell phone conversation with the world.

"I paid. You know I paid. I'll pay the rest. Just give me a couple days.  I know I said..." he shouted, pacing left to right his free hand never moving an inch out of his black suit coat pocket. "You owe me," he shouted. Obviously, the person at the other end had some equally potent reply. He waved the phone around in a circle then back close to his ear and unexpectedly said in a most even tone, "I won't do it," and then  smacked the Blackberry again his sizable chest, grimacing with fury. 

She stopped, ready to click the car door open, but didn't. Pondering his 300 pound dark, swarthy frame, Tina easily imaged him as Mafia. Was there such a thing as Persian Mafia? Probably not, but maybe he was black Russian Mafia, and had died his hair and spent a lot of time in a tanning booth.  

She peered at him with her peripheral vision, blinking quickly as her placed a smile across her face allowing her mouth to fall sensuously open.  She licked her plumped up lips. Her job was to get him in the mood to care about her, forget that phone call. Tina shifted from foot to foot, her flowing garb suggested either a free spirit or more likely a wood nymph.

Tina rubbed her palms together warming them, as she always did before a performance. "Excuse me, please," she said as she titled her head slightly to one shoulder and looked  directly into his dark dark eyes. The click of her car remote gave away her intent. "I'm late for an audition, excuse me."  Tina forgot about the pebbles now,  her back straight and chin lifted, she stepped lightly past him, not touching as she opened the car door. "Thank you," she offered.

"Sure, sure," he said. "I wish my wife was so agreeable. She always wants more, more." 

And he thinks I care, passed through Tina's mind. "I'm sure she's a beautiful woman," came out of Tina's mouth. "Wants to make a beautiful life for you. That costs money." Tina's heart beat so fast, she felt a panic attack coming on. "Good luck," she said. Why did I have to say that, pounded between her ears. 

Backing the car out took a 5 point turn in her current state of flux. She peeked at him through the rear-view mirror and waved. He leaned wearily against that big black car, unmoved, head hanging down. Tina put her well-manicured foot on the accelerator, the back tires threw gravel as she pulled forward, toward the window of the parking attendant booth. 

"I'm ready for the audition  after that, "she said out loud. Shifting in her seat, she sat shoulders back to stop shaking. "People think show business is all fun and games. It's work and preparation. I could have said it better: I'm sure she's a beautiful woman, or, I'm sure she's a beautiful woman." Tina rolled her eyes, handed the attendant the ticket and pulled out onto the street.

And that's true. To some extent.