HUGE Pig in Kitchen Eating Cat's Food!

Deborah's Best Man

"Deborah's Best Man" ~

There's an available, healthy, middle-aged man searching and waiting for me, an available, healthy middle-aged woman. Synchronicity will make this happen and with your power, there will be two less lonely people in the world. He must pass your guidelines and be known by you or me.

I'm done with on-line dating sites and shooting in the dark. (I think the men on -line are probably in prison!) I have a spark, however, I can't start a fire without the perfect match.

So you may swiftly connect my best man, a loving guide to me, you need to know who I am.

Who is and Isn't Deborah Gilson?

A Loving, Supportive, Grateful Mother: Her best man is a father in kind
Democrat/Extreme Liberal
Relocating: To be closer to her son and relatives
Compassionate to all who are compassionate
Divorced: The best man for her has been married
Healthy: Emotionally, mentally, spiritually, physically
Funny: Loves to laugh!
Not into Alcohol: Rarely imbibes. Those days are gone.
Vegan: Organic produce, too.
Foods: Asian, especially Thai, raw (uncooked veggies)
Beverages: Zero VitaWater, Home-made lemonade w/ stevia, iced tea, hot herbal tea in winter, nut/soy kinds of milk, spring water
Not into Tattoos
Handy: No, however, her best man is a handyman
Mechanically Inclined: No, however, her best man is
Computer Savvy: No, however, she's a voracious writer and hopefully, her best man can keep their home computer up to speed
Homeowner: To a beautiful, paid, tidy, comfortable home
Travels: She used to and wishes to do so again - especially to Hawaii, once her beloved homeland
Quiet: Enjoys quiet time
Movies: Loves going to the theater and watching movies at home
Music: Classic Rock to Classical
Spiritual: No religious dogma
Physique: Petite with average frame
Work: Working and striving toward vocation as a published author. Her best man may be working doing what he enjoys or he's retired
Reader: NonFiction, philosophy
Activities: The symphony, cushy camping, bicycle strolls, Farmer's Markets, visiting Family of Friends, writing life's stories, driving to the snow, being on/near water, concerts, museums, art exhibits, garden parties, local live music
Patient: She is now. The best man needs to be patient for those who learn differently, get lost easily and need a calculator to add the simplest of numbers. After all, one cannot expect a fish to climb a tree.
Listener: Prefers listening to talking, which is exhausting.
Comfort Level: No extreme temperatures
Stylish: Enjoys dressing up and going out
Attractive: To her man as he is to her. Value keeping in shape.
Teeth: Excellent pearly whites
Eyes: Blue. Prefers her man to have either blue or green.
Hair: Like a horse's mane. Prefers her best man have hair, too. Bald men drive some women crazy, however, not Deborah.
Smoke/Drugs-free (including Big Pharma's)

Thank you for helping me find my best man. I know he's out there somewhere.

Amazon.com: Born to Write: Engaging Confessions eBook: Deborah Gilson: Books

amazon.com

Ben Franklin's 13 Virtues

In 1726, at age 20, Benjamin Franklin created a system to develop his character. I long to create such a system by sharing in-depth, deep and meaningful conversation. I continue searching for like-minded individuals with whom I may learn. Let's converge to discuss Ben's 13 Virtues and incorporate them today for the betterment of tomorrow's World:

1. Temperance. Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation. In other words, eat to satisfy the stomach, however, not to overstuff it. Drink alcoholic beverages in moderation and refrain from destroying brain cells.
2. Silence. Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation. In other words, speak when there is something of importance and/or relevance to share, not merely to hear the sound of one's own voice. 
3. Order. Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time. In other words, put the crud where it belongs, give away unwanted items and throw away the rest. Make time for what is needed in life. 
4. Resolution. Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve. In other words, make a To-Do list and do what is on it.
5. Frugality. Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; i.e., waste nothing. In other words, treat others well. If unable, do everyone a favor and find something constructive to do. Share a wealthy consciousness. Use every part of the apple. 
6. Industry. Lose no time; be always employ'd in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions. In other words, if Facebook and other Social Media sucks you into their vortexes, close those accounts and write a story or better yet, a book.
7. Sincerity. Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly. In other words, give others the benefit of the doubt and speak with respect. If this is impossible, close your mouth and leave.
8. Justice. Wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty. In other words, cause emotional, mental and/or physical pain to no one, especially those in your direct care. 
9. Moderation. Avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve. In other words, stop and think before acting out against anyone, even if you believe they deserve it for, they do not. 
10. Cleanliness. Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, cloaths, or habitation. In other words, wash your body and clothes, while maintaining a presentable home.
11. Tranquillity. Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable. In other words, what anyone says about you is none of your business. Life happens, peoples' and animals' feelings get hurt. Seek to soothe when the unexpected takes place.
12. Chastity. Rarely use venery but for health or offspring, never to dullness, weakness, or the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation. In other words, kick the Friends with Benefits to the curb. There are no benefits here. FB's only result in painful, empty and broken hearts. When you are ready to begin a family, join in love. 
13. Humility. Imitate Jesus and Socrates. In other words, imagine what Jesus, the teacher of love, would say. How would Socrates, the classical Greek philosopher, respond? 

     After reviewing Mr. Franklin's 13 Virtues and taking them to heart, I'd better get crackin'. I still have a lot of work to do.

Straight from the Horse's Mouth

    In my mind's eye and heart I'm a mare, an adult female horse. I have all my basic needs met with fresh water in my trough, shelter from Mother Nature's harsh elements and plenty of whole grains. For these blessings I finally attained, I give thanks. 

     However, I'm prevented from experiencing the life I see happening around me. I longingly watch horses rolling onto their backs while kicking their hooves into the unobstructed air. I see them running free in the pastures, grazing, basking in the sunshine and nuzzling each other.
          

   Can a mare use her muzzle, the mouth and nostrils, to open the stall door latch? Perhaps the stable master will show mercy and open the stall door for her? What needs to happen before she, too, may experience all she sees? Others have visions in their mind's eye. Perhaps they, too, long to leave their grueling day quarters and are prepared for more. 

       I eagerly await the moment the stable master or hired hand hears my muzzle nudging the latch on the stall door to my tiny quarters. I envision this being, whether human, spiritual or the figment of my subconscious, proudly say, "Your spirit has been locked up long enough. You're mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually prepared to join forces with the herd of your kind." You've heard it straight from the horse's mouth.

    

Naked in My SwimSuit

One’s coming-of-age can happen any time, most often when least expected. It doesn’t discriminate depending on how well mannered or how feisty the youthful individual. Tain’t no big, gnarly deal, right?

My loving, caring and always-patient mother made another futile attempt to prepare me for the awkward, delicate topic all tweenage girls should know: that time of the month. I was after all, 11 years old and my knowing mother tip-toed around the topic the past year, where her gentle words fell on deaf ears. Still, I was still a child at heart.

Disneyland, CA. 1971

My mother could no longer stand my cold shoulder therefore, one afternoon she said she needed to talk to me and asked me to sit down next to her in the living room. My adopted father and Ross, my 10-year-old brother, weren’t home. Ross couldn’t interfere, interrupt or heckle me.

I noticed a 10” X 8” box on my mother’s lap. She gingerly opened the box and to my horror I observed a wide assortment of feminine pads known to woman-kind. There were pads for this day, ones for that day and various sizes for those just-in-case days. My mother looked at me out of the corner of her eye and discovered my arms rigid at my sides. Seeing the angst in my eyes, she attempted to soften the ear-piercing silence by slowly sliding the box onto my lap.

In one quick move, I flung the box into the air with such force, pads went sailing throughout the living room. I ran out the front door and raced to the barn where I pitched my humiliation onto a bale of hay. I tried to understand why my mother would torment me with such a horrifically embarrassing topic. There wasn’t one strand of personal hair growth, for which I’d secretly searched, while holding my mother’s magnified, lighted make-up mirror to each arm pit.

A year passed when the dreaded topic became the hottest topic among my girlfriends. They’d begun getting their periods and were deliriously excited to share the great news. They were growing up and still, I wasn’t. I’d listen painfully to their in-depth details and I’d shrink into the background. I had nothing to share and didn’t fit in.

When I was 13, my family moved and I began 8^th grade. I soon learned the hot topic was at my new school, too. I was taking the required Sex Education class and the teacher threw me out more times than I can count, however, that’s another story.

Still, I had nothing to offer and became unusually quiet when the school girls asked, “So, did you get yours yet?” I’d wave my hand and roll my eyes into the back of my head as if to say, “Duh. Yeah.” I thought about my mother’s tender-hearted conversation a couple years prior and then, wondered what was wrong with my rail-thin body. By now at this ultra-late stage in life, I knew I’d never get my period. Not only was I frustrated, I was downright afraid, too. It was as if I’d never witness the tiny sprout of life from my Dixie Cup filled with fertile soil.

My tomboy, neighborhood girlfriends had older brothers and therefore, learned to keep anything personal to themselves. I was relieved nothing private was mentioned between us. I followed their lead, however, had adjustments to make as I’d been an easily-read, open book since birth.

 Disneyland, 1974

In my 9^th grade freshman English class, I was seated next to Stephanie and we became fast friends. The boys’ eyes bounced back and forth from her beautiful face to her exceptionally well-endowed breasts. Why was I built like an 11 year old?

I felt privileged, although admittedly uncomfortable, in the company of a mature peer. Perhaps then, as if by magic I would become more grown-up and the boys would notice me, too. I was still built like a waif and therefore, concealed my budding raisinets, while learning heart-racing life facts from Stephanie. During class, she’d relay hair-raising tales of her dates. We were only 14 and Stephanie experienced more than Anna Nicole Smith.

One morning, Stephanie arrived late to class and I could see by her expression something terrible happened. While the English teacher babbled on about conjunction’s functions, I mouthed to Stephanie, “What’s wrong?” She whispered her mother found her diary. I asked what she’d written and she confided she’d been sneaking a senior boy into her bedroom window each night. My innocent and naïve eyes flew wide open with astonishment. This was more information than my virgin ears could handle.

 Did Stephanie just tell me she was having S-E-X? Did she and a boy really see each other naked? Who in their right mind does that? I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes and mouthed, “Wwwaaahhhttt?” She quietly repeated she’d been sneaking Michael into her bedroom window after her parents went to sleep. I nervously and ignorantly asked, “Are you and Michael having S-E-X?”

I looked straight ahead to regain my emotional footing. I tried to grasp what I’d just learned. I hadn’t seriously thought of a boy yet or God-forbid gone on a date. I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16 and my 14-year-old English class bestie was already entwined in midnight rendezvous. Were they using protection? The class bell rang and Stephanie grabbed my arm. She dragged me into the hallway where she further confided her mother was going to take her to a psychiatrist to have her head examined. Stephanie begged me to help her figure out what to do.

My mind raced and I felt my head would spin off my shoulders. Stephanie’s face was in mine as she waited for my response. In a panic I blurted out, “Tell your mother what she’d want to hear!” Stephanie’s eyes widened with relief. She said she’d tell her mother she made up the sex-capades because this was what she wished would happen.

Stephanie continued sharing her evening dalliances while my eager ears awaited the next juicy details of her adventures involving the Birds and the Bees. I didn’t hear a word our English teacher spoke and frankly, didn’t care. Honestly, would you?

My 9^th grade school year was sailing by like the wind and I was learning more in class than one may anticipate. One blustery winter’s day, January 10^th, 1975, against my wise mother’s wishes, I wore my white bell-bottom pants to school. Why was she so uptight about what I wore?

I’d bundled up with a turtle neck sweater and a blouse underneath. I told my mother not to be such a worry-wart and raced out the door to the bus stop. During English, Stephanie and I were yakking away when all of a sudden, I stopped speaking in mid-sentence.

My eyes grew huge and my stomach turned upside down as I felt unusual warmth where I sat in my wooden desk. I knew I peed in my white, bell bottom pants. I grabbed Stephanie’s arm and with horror whispered, “I just peed myself!” She calmly shook her head and said, “No, you didn’t. You got your period.” She asked whether I had anything in my backpack. I nervously replied, “No!” I lied and told her I forget them. I didn’t want her to know this was my first period. It was then visions of feminine pads sailing through the living room air danced in my head.

Stephanie jolted me out of my visionary when she firmly whispered, “Debbie! Take off your sweater and tie it around your waist.” I did as she instructed and as soon as the bell rang, she walked behind me to the girl’s bathroom where I raced into the last stall. She had only tampons, of course. With my teeth clenched, I whispered through the stall door, “Just get me one of those stupid pads out of the machine!” I angrily thought to myself, “Karma’s a nasty mother.”

The glow of growing up and finally becoming a young woman didn’t hold the charm it did for my girlfriends. Seemingly overnight, I’d gone from a fresh-faced 14 year old girl to the pimply-faced backside of a Nestlé’s Crunch bar. The following month, the dreaded Junior Lifesaving class began.

 Ms. Comer, the Physical Education instructor with a manly voice, showed no mercy for wimps like me. Besides my personal apprehensions, when the girls and I were in the locker room, we feared Ms. Comer peeked at the girls while they changed or showered. I changed into my one-piece swimsuit while holding a gym towel around me with my teeth. I’d think of an excuse not to shower in front of anyone.

I was scared out of my mind to participate in the required Junior Lifesaving class. Everyone would know I was only beginning to develop. Too, I feared my period would come while I was in the swimming pool and no, I wasn’t even close to the tampon-using stage. It was still the wintry months and the cold temperature would draw unwanted attention to my teeny high beams.

I tried to hide behind a cement pole when I heard Ms. Comer’s gruff voice holler, “Debbie Patterson! Get in the pool right now!” Frozen with terror, I slowly walked out and slid into the pool. Russell, my brother’s kind and handsome friend, swam over to me, however, I couldn’t look him in the eyes. He said he’d be my partner and I frantically shook my head from left to right while staring into the gutter of the pool. He said we’d take turns being the rescuer and being rescued to get a good grade in the class.

I silently begged for the sky to fall or for thunder and lightening to begin. When my prayers were ignored, I slowly turned to Russell and said, “Okay, but I think I’m going to die. I mean, seriously. I think my heart’s going to stop beating.” I was too emotionally and mentally underdeveloped  having a boy near me. He chuckled and said, “Then, I’ll get an A for rescuing you.”

Russell went flat on his back and I put my arm around his neck as I couldn’t reach across his chest. I began dragging him across the length of the Olympic-sized swimming pool. He was much taller than me and it felt I was hauling a log. I was dog-paddling with one hand while doing the scissor kick and still moving only inches. He knew I was struggling therefore, he let his feet sink and began kicking his legs. I sailed across the pool with my rescue.

When we reached the other end of the pool, Russell and I talked for a moment under the high dive while I caught my breath. I knew it was my turn to be rescued and I was dragging my feet. I told Russell there was no way I could lie back while he had his arm draped across my chest and under my arm pit. He said to lie back and close my eyes. I finally felt comfortable enough to suffer through and we began the long journey back. All of a sudden, there was a massive blast of water in my face and I bolted up.

Mark, who nick-named himself Spanky, from “Our Gang”, had done a cannon ball off the high dive next to my head. He was in a fit of hysterics while pointing at my terrified expression. Before I could call him every name in the book, Russell quickly dragged me to the other end of the pool while I kicked and screamed. Ms. Comer dutifully marked the paper on her clipboard signaling, Russell and I completed the exercise.

Someone Up Above heeded one of my pleas during the Junior Lifesaving class. Thankfully, my unpredictable period didn’t appear for another couple months.

It’s been 43 years since the life-altering incidents during my freshman year. I wonder what happened to Stephanie and whether she’s still alive. Would she remember all the down and dirty details she experienced? Russell recently ended his corporate career and is now happily retired as a full-time rancher. Mark “Spanky” was killed in a head-on collision while riding his motorcycle through the park late one night. He was a dare devil until his short-lived, bitter end.

 Shasta Lake, CA. 1975

The youth-filled years have come and gone since I felt naked in my swimsuit. Never again will I experience the growing pains, which seemed insurmountable four decades ago. As a middle-aged woman, I know one’s coming-of-age is a big, gnarly deal. Sadly, it only happens once upon a lifetime.  

I Want a Bidet Today

I’ve been fascinated with bathrooms since I was child. As a five year old, I’d convince Ross, my four-year-old brother, it’d be fun to swing from our Aunt Audrey’s and Uncle Ron’s bathroom towel racks like monkeys, even though doing this pulled the racks out of the walls by their screws. On another occasion, I told Ross to help me gather apricots from Aunt Audrey’s and Uncle Ron’s backyard to fill their toilet with the apricots and watch them go down, which they didn’t. 

On family road trips, I caused delays at the gas station bathrooms. On one occasion, my family waited in the Winnebago for me to come out of the gas station bathroom, however, I was engaged in conversation with another 10-year-old girl. My frustrated mother marched into the bathroom and even though my hands were still covered with powdered soap, she yanked me out by my shirt collar while I waved good-bye to my newfound friend.

As I grew into adulthood, I always made sure my bathrooms were clean while proudly displaying beautiful towels in blues and greens. At 35, I became engaged and joined my fiancé on one of his business trips abroad. He’d been traveling abroad since he was a young child to visit relatives and therefore, was accustomed to every custom, however, I’d only traveled from one end of California to the other. My sense of being an ignorant American was about to be replaced with a fresh outlook on life. 

We landed in Paris, France and headed for our hotel. I was delirious with exhaustion to the point of nausea and thought only about the comfort of a soft pillow. Even though I could barely see straight, I spied the bathroom door and instinctively made a beeline to see what Europe’s facility offered. I walked in and noticed an odd-shaped toilet. It had different handles, was lower to the floor and there was no toilet seat cover. I figured it must be their version of a men’s urinal, however, I was perplexed as to why a men’s public toilet was in this luxury hotel. To make matters more mind-boggling, there was a hand towel draped over the side of this men’s urinal with soap balanced on the towel!

I walked over to the urinal and peered into the bowl, noticing there was no water in it. Yes, there was water in it. All of a sudden, I heard a knock on the bathroom door and my fiancé asking, “Are you okay? You’ve been in there quite a while.” I bolted upright and said, “Um, there’s a weird toilet in here. Come take a look.” I opened the door so he could see the oddity of my discovery.

He walked in and while I pointed to the funny-shaped urinal, he paused in silence. With furrowed eyebrows, my naturally-quiet and extremely proper fiancé thoughtfully gazed into my anxiously-awaiting, perplexed, blue eyes. With obvious discomfort, he found the words to say, “That’s a bidet.” I asked, “Is it for men?” He said, "It's for both men and women. It's a cleaning device." I asked, “Is there supposed to be a lid and toilet seat?” He shook his head from left to right. I said, “I don’t understand then, what this thing is or why it’s here.” He explained its purpose in as few words as possible and then, said he needed to head to his business meeting.

I couldn’t wait for him to leave so I could begin the investigation and experimentation, free from interruption or distraction. I noticed a variety of soaps from which to choose. “Oh”, I thought, “lavender would be nice, however, there’s also rose, honeysuckle or jasmine.” I decided to try them all. I straddled the bidet this way and then that. I made the temperature this and that while enjoying this new-found bathroom gadget. After 30 minutes of flushing the ignorant American aspect of myself and feeling fresh as a daisy, I was rejuvenated. Instead of conking out, I decided to walk along the Champs-Élysées and become one with the French.

It’s been 20 years since the experience with my best bidet friend. I’ve researched on-line to see how to have one of my own. I told Aunt Audrey my desire and she said to absolutely have a Toto bidet. I haven’t figured out how I’d get my current facility out of my bathroom to have the Toto one installed therefore, I’ve attempted make-shift bidets all these years. Water goes everywhere and it’s not the same as having the real deal. Too, sometimes I apply self-tanning lotion onto my legs to camouflage my jiggling thighs therefore, I can’t get water splashed on them. In these middle-aged years since my pheromones dried up, I put extra effort into my beauty regime making sure I feel as youthful as possible. In the wise words of Katy Cochrane, a trusted and knowing friend, “Tanned fat is better than white fat any day of the year.”

At the tender age of 56, I continue learning all life offers, however, one thing’s for sure: I want a bidet and I want one today.

Charles, Jr. ~ The Drowning of a Toddler

Our family was on a road trip to Disneyland in a rented RV. It was a vacation, including six teen-agers, two of who were Ross, my deceased brother’s, kids. Spencer, our son, was two-and-half years old at the time. I remember my mother telling me, I ought to have my head examined for attempting such an excursion. As it turned out, this journey was a memorable one.

            We made several stops along the way to various sites, such as Hearst Castle. We rode horses at a dude ranch and spent the night at a hot springs “resort” for RV drivers. Did you know the smelly waters of hot springs could turn even your most precious jewelry a greenish black?

            At last, we arrived at Disneyland and checked into the Disneyland Hotel. The teen-agers were excited to get onto the rides. They were given their passes and off they ran. I stayed with Spencer, while my husband caught up to the others to enjoy big-kid rides. It was early in the afternoon when Spencer and I took the tram to Disneyland.

The intense Southern California sun was relentless. I pushed Spencer’s covered stroller to a water fountain, lifting him out so we could splash water on our faces. We were at the fountain approximately 10 minutes when a tall, blond, handsome fellow in his early 30’s, approached. He commented on how much fun we were having, watching us with envy and sadness. I looked closely at this man’s face and could see an empty, faraway look in his eyes. What was he thinking at this moment? What happened to this gentle-faced young man? I took the time to listen.

Holding Spencer’s hand, I asked this man why he approached. He said he had a son, Charles Jr., who was also two-years old, with blond hair and blue eyes. I told him I was enjoying my life with my son, feeling blessed having him. Charles Sr. pulled out of his wallet a well-worn photograph. A smiling boy, sitting next to the edge of his swimming pool, was wearing only a diaper. It was then the man began his story.

Charles Sr. was from Mariner’s Cove, the Hawaii Kai side of Oahu, Hawaii. I told him I lived on Oahu eight years, having attended the University of Hawaii. I spent a majority of my time in Mariner’s Cove with a family who accepted me as their calabash, or adopted daughter. I knew Hawaii Kai very well and even knew of the street on which he lived. What a twist of fate he and I should meet today.

One day, Charles Sr., and his young son were in their fenced backyard, sitting by the pool, playing. Thirsty for water, Dad carried Charles Jr., outside the pool area, setting him down near the gate. Dad had an eight-foot high, security-alarmed gate surrounding the pool, with a lock on the gate. After a mere two minutes, Dad returned to the pool area, calling his son. No answer. As Dad rounded the corner, to his horror he discovered Charles Jr., face down in the swimming pool, with his water-filled diaper visible.

Dad dove into the pool, pulled his son out of the water and administered CPR. With his portable telephone nearby, he dialed 911. The paramedics arrived, also administered CPR, only to deliver the most shocking news to Charles Sr., “I am sorry, Sir, we are unable to revive your son.”

Spencer and I stood quietly.  Charles Sr. broke the silence by telling me no matter how much security I think I have; never turn my back on my young son when he is near water. I nodded in agreement. I thanked this man for approaching and sharing his story. He told me the likeness of my son to Charles Jr., was so overwhelming, he felt compelled to talk with me. To this day, when Spencer is near water, I look back into the eyes of Charles Sr., and am reminded of his beautiful young son.

Charles Sr. has a gorgeous blond daughter now, whom we met. He displays a tremendous amount of devotion to his young daughter.

We do not know what awaits us around the corners of our lives.  We can, however, recognize and acknowledge the precious treasures we are given. When I look into Spencer’s eyes, I know I do.