MATILDA

Hey Seth! Memory lane may need some road repair...definitely a bumpy ride sometime. I had already peeled the bumper sticker off my car by the time you were signing green cards, but interestingly enuf, I now live in Planet Ft. Myers. I wonder if you would recognize the place, or even want to, I suppose. After near 25 yare in Floweeda, I'm still in the state of denial...lol. Thank you for serving in the Air Force, and thank you for having the chutzpah to reach out to whoever, whenever you did. Rethink the missionary position...lol...won't go there...but then I've been married longer than sugar has been crystalized. On the matter of what may be PTSD, (Post Twig Stress Denouncement), and the safe harbor of atheism...I take it up in outloud discourse and secret between-the-ears whisperings with God. He is very patient with this impatient patient, and certainly taken my MS case into advisement. MS...that's Missionary Status... I'm not much (not anything, actually) on blogging...GS is the closest I come to spilling the beans, or sharing the recipe with the relatively rare ~ visit...but you looked like you needed reading :) (that smiley face...eek...does it mean we have to go to Walmart for real saving?) My heart is for your heart to be full, happy, wise, and tender and my blah blahs (read prayers) will perfectly enfold you next time the noggin hits the pillow. I think there's so much about God we will never, ever know. Sometimes the littlest things baffle me more than the hugest things I cannot comprehend or even begin to process, so I just relegate them to some misty cerebral mesa marked "later." But amidst all the smoke and mirrors of me, alone, I look to Him. I'm working on the listening part. Just have to sit still, I guess. So, how 'bout them White Sox? (Smooth seques and transitions are my specialty...lol.) Lo Shonta, bro. X M

even before we knew to know Him, He knew us... I think I posted about this on Waydale, back in the daze of yore...but here we go, a day late and a dolla short... Oak Street Beach, Chicago's northside, circa earliest 70s. This is a beautiful stretch of city beach, popular to all during the daylight hours...but come night time, you would be less than stupid to be there...it was a hotbed incubator for nocturnal trouble. What is a crowded, bustling beachfront by day, turns echo-empty by the time nite falls. So there I am, natch. Not just me, but my good friend and travelling compadre, Chrissy, along with a sinewy, long-haired fella named Leon. We overstayed our blistering daytime fun, which had something to do with Boone's Farm and hemp... Dusk was being bullied away by absorbing darkness. Not a good time for two spring chicks to be on the lakefront. In a city of millions, you can be all but alone in seconds, it seems. Alone except for the lurking baddies waiting for opportunity. Well, that nite "opportunity" (that'd be me, wearing an Annette Funicello swimsuit doncha know) presented itself. Strolling along the shore, I was oblivious to the fact that Chrissy and Leon were not with me. I wasn't really worried becuz, well, becuz I was really stupid..lol...that's why. Sweet young thing, breasts saluting the moon, trippling thru the stony fresh water surf...an invisible neon sign pointing to me from every direction. Danger, Will Robinson. Seriously, in what seemed an instant, I had company...and it wasn't Chris or Leon. It was a young teen on my one side, smiling with teeth that lit up the nite sky. Another few seconds, and there were two more, and then three, until I was quite surrounded, but still walking...or more exactly, being walked down the beach. It was like being caught in a current, on land. From my left, over and thru my crowding "walkers," someone called my name. "Where are your friends?" it said. Yes, where were my friends? Eeek. I woulda been & coulda been, a sad, city statistic that nite. But there, to my left, stepping out of the light and into the darkness were two young men...they were young white men, in tees and shorts...when they reached me, they pierced thru the "entourage" and walked on each side of me, steering the current in a different direction. There were badgering voices and sounds around me, but what I heard and locked onto was one of the guys saying to "walk with them, stay quiet, and don't freak." As we did, Chris and Leon were near and walked, with us, in the direction of Chrissy's car. Still accompanied by a loosened crowd about us, we reached the car, we five got in, and drove away, the howling and jeering left behind. We knew it was something wild. We were all very grateful to the two guys in the back seat of the Comet. We told them thank you alot...lol...and that we would gladly take them anywhere they wanted to go. We asked where they'd like to be dropped off, and they replied that it didn't matter, "anywhere was fine. Here is good." 103rd and Stony Island? We let them out, and when we turned the car around intending to holler a last thank you and wave goodbye, they were nowhere to be seen. They didn't poof, or vanish...they just were not there anymore, within the space of a very few seconds. This was a year or so before I took an out loud, active stand on "the Word." I'm feeling certain that without those fellas help, my "ministry" would never have happened. I'm retelling this story now, thinking about it...and it still is my thinking that a very personal, spiritual intervention was made. X M

woo hoo, passed the check point... today whilst I was talking to my middle kidlet (who is a student at USF)...I found myself witnessing...w-i-t-n-e-s-s-i-n-g to him. Why? My own spiritual ambivilance has reached critical mass....yet, when I was talking to my son about altogether something else, I found myself reiterating things I thought were foundational to his being in regard to God and the things of God. He is a young man on his own and set on goals of his own undertaking, yet still his answer phrase as a kid was..."the hope of glory...", with me supplying the first part of "it's Christ in You..." Fill in the blank. lol....he is so sweet. He loves his mama...he listened and considered... I hope and pray it tides him over to his own thinking resolutions. I am so empty, like an echo chamber resounding things, reverberating things frrm a different place...a friendly place with hope and comfort in hope. My prayer is that God hears me, knows me, and what my favorite color is... I like to think that I am me, cucucachoo...and no one else...but that is not so...I am me, but me has mutated and grown to be my husband and children as sure as the sun rises...to try to extricate them from "me" is silly, for the most part... very Pink Floyd... I feel like Johnny Lingo sounds to me...lol anyway...it is Christ in me, the Hope of Glory...His strength is my joy, and my joy is His strength...A+B=C then C+B=A...or something like that...the transitive law...it's the only math I can sink my teeth into. Selah.

Holy Guacamole...another b-day... ...meet me down under... X M

wats psalmatta wit yu, my little porcine winglet, is a lack of tildage in your diet. lo shonta fest underway...with love to you and your family. (((piggies etal)))

HAPPY HAPPY, SHELLBERT! Hope your day was great and all that follow, too. Mmmwaa! Lotsa missed mmmwaas in this thread...ex10, seth, Billy, and others...eek...have to light some b-day candles en masse and send cosmic, telepathic good vibes to all. X M

What a hoot....do a search on Tom Mabe...he's got a lot of them.

oh mein ex... just this very day I had occassion to happen upon evidence of a last conversation I had with my dad o'dad... 'twas about our American descendancy... Seems Timothy Franics McCarthy came from County Mayo after graduating from Trinity College... no place for a southern Catlick redneck to be degreed from proper...he was an activist of sorts, it seems...had to emigrate or be hung...a compelling reason to leave the old sod... For years I fancied that we were of the rough and tough stereotypical kick yer butt saloon variety of Irish immigrant...but I was wrong... It seems TF arrived (not steerage) but still drownable...in 1894... He landeed Ellis Island, but ended up Chicago way and became one of many vice presidents of personnel to People's Gas Light and Coke in Chicago...definitely white lace. So what did the handsome chap bring with him? His intent of pursuit, his degree, and good old fashioned Irish chutzpah...and interestingly enuf,... a letter of referral from his parents... We arrived bona fide and first class...it took 75 years for us to claim our middle class status...lol..we are holding own... Here's to the future... X M

your avatar, and my 12/4 b-day, caused me to remember a really special gift I got one year... a red silk ribbon started at my pillow and led 1)to the bath area where the EnnisFree waited, on 2)into the closet where my tam and new claddagh were, then 3)out to the kitchen countertop where the ribbon ended neatly bowed around the neck of my favorite Irish whiskey, Tullamore Dew. A perk to that gift trek was that either way you followed it paid off :) Slainte! M

Jim Jim Jim, my little been had man... You better check your listings and be ready for the mythbusting episode that once and for all dispels the notion that once a wayfer always a wayfer...a waffling wayfer...or, in your case, a waffen wafer. Nein! No doubt the red beard guy and his bald counterpart were poised, staking you out for a good witnessing to... Busted! :)

Oh de glow of berfdaze... reminds me of the song I used to sing to my non-b-day celebrating kids... (like the Mad Hatter singing at the tea party in Alice in Wonderland) A very merry un-birthday to you To me? To you! A very merry un-birthday to you... Altho it's not your birthday, it still is Christ in You, A very merry un-birthday to you! Credit my account. X M

Restore. That is the word of the day…”restore.” 12:06 a.m. Sunday: Braced for late-nite micro-chipped trauma, I (like the competent cyber-challenged techno-nerd that I am) pushed the on button thingy to engage the mystically blue, glow-in-the-dark box that tells me stuff. Academically, I knew there had to be a secret cyber land repository for all info filched from the weeny grasp of cyberklutzes like me. A place where the the artificial life forms of electronic inanimates gather and ruthlessly plan new and more sinister ways to baffle and confuse the likes of simple human folk like me. I’m not sure, but I think Bill Gates is a programmed communist, and the world as I knew it (a place littered with post-it notes) is in imminent danger of electronic upheaval…a revolution. On one level, that might be okay, so long as it averted unnecessary messes… Anyway, I felt like a kid looking for the lost puppy. Kept going to the same place on my screen, coming up empty E handed. Mean, stupid-head machines…so cruel to toy with the cyber afflicted…Frustrated beyond flesh & blood tolerance, I started hearing strange sounds in the dark…like the plaintive call of a stricken mallard… oh crap…it was me! Just ducky…now I’m making sick goose noises in lieu of the usual cussing. Dear Lord God of Jehosophats! Please help me find my lost e-mail bank. The crystalline answer rang clear like a fart in the night….Gary. Get Gary. Rouse the Gare-bear. Risk the absurd. I leaned over to the slumbering mass behind my computer station and ever-so-gently jostled it a dozen or two times… Hmmm…maybe a little water will help. Just a splash…I flicked just enuf…like a priest at a baptismal fount…once, twice…ok…three times…each time flicking, then jumping back in case of spousal lunging for the throat… It was a calculated risk…but I was desperate…MY E-MAIL RECORDS WERE LOST! The vegetative state interrupted long enuf to take in the gravity of my agitated uselessness… You know, I love that guy. He never makes fun of me…ever hopeful for connubial bliss, he just tries to help me thru my hours of angst… He spoke just one word. One…………………..and it wasn’t yerafreakinidiotwoman… It was, simply and lovingly, this: “Restore.” So I did. My file has been restored to me. I am blessed. E-mail me anytime, I can take it. X M

Traffic was smooth and the lights were with me, so I turned into the GreaseSpot today...lol...WOW! Historically, I have rarely moved out of the Open Forum, so I really got no further than the thread about "top posters," or something and followed the bread crumbs to...of all things...lol...me. This cyber world totally amazes me! PAWTUCKET...you da man...the ultimate duffmeister! You truly have done a yeoman's service in setting up, keeping up, mutating and evolving this site...THANK YOU. I am speaking from a totally selfish POV here...lol...I must admit. Here's why. I accessed the MATILDA file...jumped right into that rabbit hole...and got quite a ride. Reading past posts reminded me of so many things...some very major things...and my perspective on them. It was like reading someone else. I made me laugh alot...lol...lol. I encouraged my own damn self more than a few times...like it wasn't even something I wrote, but rather, some "word fitly spoken" by someone else for me. Kind of like a lazy man's journaling. I wish I could print it out and bind it for posterity. Oh hubris, thy name is Tilda... Very Twilight Zone...where's Rod? It took an hour to read me, never adding more time by referring back to the archived thread that each post was a part of...I remembered most. Pretty sure it would take days and daze to read some spoonsters collections, as so many are so much more prevalent in GSC. It would be incredible to read Waydale stuff again, I think...but whew! What a trip that would be. Surely have met some wonderful, wonderful folk here...Zbabes, musical footwear, NE adventurers, Shellbert and so so many worthwhile lovelies...Satori and Larry...sush, aerial porcine, a few terrific felines, and so many that really were/are a part of a rather cool journey. Nice reflections from the pool. Thanks, Paw, thanks. I wonder if there's a Hallmark card for this kind of thing... X tpfka M

[ ...somehow figured eyesopen would have a feel for the Braillettes....

I am a generous tipper...when merited, and with a great deal of understanding who gets what and what for...generally 20%. Never mind having more than a few dee-grees, post grad with attendant title even, tyvm; I chose to return to bartending when life bit us in our collective buttocks...it is the bucks that work for me now. People, from all stations in life (young/old & broke, in between, or young/old & loaded) can range from the sublime to the ridiculous in their "giving." People never cease to amaze me in that regard. Scores of stories about scores of people clutter my experience in this regard. Overall, the monies earned balance out, but not necessarily becuz any one type of customer does the right thing all the time. Yeppers...there was the time the Tiki patrons bet how many bottles of beer could fit in Jello Bob's prostetic leg...and the time the fella who came to us on the last day of his life...or the cast of regulars where "everybody knows their name" ( and wish we didn't)...or the guys who routinely are duped into believing their richards get bigger the more they drink... What can I get for you today? LOL...we actually have cow-tipping occur at our place...

RBG, How terrific to hold such fond memory and gratitude to your friend. How wonderful a God to work with us to aid and help each other in such a life-impacting way. Your recounting reminds me that signs, miracles, and wonders really did/do happen and often in ways we have forgotten or grown over (like a callous...). In the midst of wondering why, where, and what God is in my life, an occassional "memory bump" causes me to get over myself long enuf to pursue honest discourse with the Big Guy, and remember the for-real miracles and blessings that have lined my life to this very day, even in the throes of heaviest turmoil. I only hope my fleeting life has merited some and counts for something in the grand scheme of things. We have so much to be thankful for. Thanks for the "bump;" I peeked in here cuz the name of the thread seemed familiar...hope you make a connection again, but if you don't, hug Josh again and give a lo shonta shout out skyward. X M

Hmmm....sounds fishy too me...in that predatorial cloaky kinda way. Notice how "man" said he was finally leaving the fellooo.... damn, wrong thread. Hey, man...welcome. Here's hoping the wo-man can join you in time.

I see you, InvisibleDan...and, bottom line, agree. Anothen could change his name to Asomethen, or Aanythen. He has gotten all he can from this 6 page purge. This batter is well mixed now, and probably needs no more stirring under this heading and a nothing can change it.

Shellberton....how did this happen? HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SAMI and CONGRATULATIONS! X Aunty M

Shaz..."chuffed."..at least 69 points on a triple space... I told the agency I would take the job with the proviso I tell them I was an inland southside Chicagoan...however, I was amenable to speaking with whatever accent they saw fit. I thought carrying on would ultimately not be conducive to good work relations (or honest ones) if, say, I was to become friends with anyone. Altho my rep thought it all very titillating in some way, she felt responsible somehow; that for me to come clean would cast a pall on them and their credibility. Buggers. What I did end up doing at that point in the early adventures of ~, was to take employ at a very large, successful company, owned and presidented by a believer. But that's a story in itself. Better than that even, was after six months working for Mooncotch, I hit the road as an in-state WOW, assigned to the Illinois capital. Me and my Volvo (that's v-o-l-v-o), sheets, books, pillows and flatware, off to find the Wizard in the land o' lincoln. The job I did there even impressed me, for real, and it took near a year before we parted (ahem) ways. :)

Fall 1973...finally a worthwhile student, but oops...can't seem to balance university classes and all things TWI. Even tho I had As going in all my classes at the long-standing catholic university, I (in my infinite wisdom..lol)elected NOT to take any of my finals and consequently flunked out. Yikes-o-rama! Now what? My butt surely would be in a sling once the grades arrived to my folks' home...hmmm...at least I could get a job before the post arrived in time to really put a damper on that Christmas. "Yes, I flunked out, BUT I got a job!" was my rationale. (lolololol since I am a former college teacher and mom of college kids) I made an appointment at a very respected employment agency in downtown Chicago. I interviewed with my designated "rep," took typing tests and filled out questionaires, applications, and assessment things. For what? To be sent out, repeatedly, as a secretary, receptionist, and general office serf. Did not they know whom be I was? lololol My job became finding a job...the endless interview. I wasn't gonna sign on anywhere til I gots proper dough offered.......lol....such righteousness. After a week, I was a known commodity in the employment agency, trusted, and an amusing character in search of a paycheck. Strangely enuf, with christmas time upon them, they hired me one day to reception their joint whilst they went about high-rise office party hopping. No problem. Sat in a big chair...very little bizness...but I did have opportunity to browse thru the listings to see what kind of jobs were really in there that I thought I could do. (lol...this is a true story.) I sent a couple people out to jobs they never would have been sent out for and, (I was told later) one got the position. lol. Well, I was the proverbial "raw talent" find, but no bona fide deegreeds to substantiate me, so I could see why I was relegated to clerkage and coffeemaker opportunities. But, wait...what's this? Prestigious law firm receptionist/switchboard operator. Prepared work package & benefits with parking privilege for well-groomed, articulate, female. MUST BE BRITISH. The pay was near triple what other talky grunts would make, so I figured...."tally ho, guv," and made my appointment post haste. No fool was me. Next morning, before I set out to snag the jobbage, I did some reeeesearch...lol. You must know that this was before the dawn of pc's and any googling option...my chosen source of reference was on the back shelves of the big room in my parent's house...I don't want to dazzle you, BUT it was a complete set of the deluxe, white faux leather bound, World Book Encyclopedia...at my finger tips, thankyouverymuch. E. I took down the D-E-F volume. Looked up...what else? England. I hadda hurry, so I dint read everything, but I did catalog a few easy mental grabs to take with me on the ride down the Dan Ryan Expressway. It's an island. They were allies. Lots of sheep. Monarchy. The blitz, and for some unknown reason, a busy place called Kensington Station. Gotta go. Dressed in the only mini-skirt suit I had (tweed doncha know) and grabbed an umbrella. Why? Well, I was british, for goodness sake, and they always carried one. I watched the frickin' Avengers. Tup, tup, cheerio...come along now, Mrs. Peel. Off to the convalescent center where my mother worked...there the switchboard operator gave me a crash course on the one ringy dingy. Running review in my head from every limey movie I ever saw... telly = television, flat = apartment, marconi, or wireless = radio, lift = elevator A quid, crown, farthing and supercalifragilistic moment later and I was on my way to the big buck land of legal affrontary. Parked underground, made my way past the Art Institute, Monroe Bldg., and Marshall Field's until I found the firm next to Abercrombie & Fitch. Natch. Walked like I had a niblet suppository, approached elevator -scratch that- the lift and perfunctorily depressed the going-up button with the tip of my 'brella. Doors open unto a leather-bound, brass-tacked, mahagony laden barristery. (lol...look it up...under b.) On time (yea verily, a few minutes way-time early), I was greeted, announced, and delivered to the pre-screening Big Nurse of the worldly famous firm....the executive secretary. If one can even imagine this, I spoke as little and to the point as I could manage...almost soft-spoken, dangerously refined. Oh yeah, baby! "Yes, Dad was a naval officer, and mum had roots that go way back. We travelled. Saw a lot of Kensington Station, I'll tell you that..." and then, succinctly, a polite answer to what all else until... A few minutes into the grilling, she stopped abruptly, pushing my application file away from her on the massive desk top. "Oh, bother...the jig's up," thinks me. Her eyes raised up past the rim of her readers. "I think that will suffice," she said, pink lips pursed. She stood up and, throwing protocol to the wind, reached her hand over the paperwork, past the desk pen set and name plate and touched the underside of my chin with some kind of grandmummily gesture....and off she went for the namesake Big Boss. I thought I might have a spot of pea in my pants, guv. Dare I think it? "I'm in!" Back she was in a trice, followed by two vested suits. The first was the prez, nice enuf. The second, like Cmdr. McBragg personnified, came direct to me, took my hand, shaking it as he blustered, "...so good to meet someone from the old sod! Kensington, is it?" Small turned to teeny, and my voice barely squeeked a quaintly britoneous reply, "Quite." Questions were simply polite...answers monosyllabic. Most cordial. But I saw the twinkle in their eyes. Nevermind that I was a tweeded, blonde sweetie... I politely gave the agency's card to them and made my celtic way out the door. Giggly butterflies. From a phonebooth, I called to check in with my agency rep. Dragnet music in my head. "We received a call from the law firm on State Street. It seems they are quite prepared to offer you the employment package. Can you come up so we can confirm the offer?" I poked my head out the hinged door, looking for arresting agents...none. "Coo...maybe there's a business in this, afterall," I gloated silently.

hola mi amiga, come esta usted? Muy bien, yes? El burro es muy importante en Espana. Ok, that's all I got...ceptin' I can relate to much of your trek and much of your academic odyssey adventure. The occassional quick scan and once-in-a-while drive-by posts is the most I can do, but there are some spoonsters I am always happy to think about, and on rare, serendipitous occassions catch in chat. Having lived thru writing theses and dissertations and the quest for accumulating all manner of other letters of wackitude, (b.a, ma., mfa, abd, phd) the one that dogged me most, was mla...you know, the one...the rulebook of all academic format and folly. Anal wordsmiths. They would all perish in a simple backyard wilderness, but manage to detail their end with proper punctuation, ibids, obcits, and other so whats. I am a tiki hut bartender in south Florida...lol...I feel like Secret Squirrel on a covert life mission. As for the carpal-tunnelessness of the elbow...get a longer straw...then you won't have to lift the margarita to your saltless lips while you kick back. Keep your keyboard dustless and your inkwell full, grasshopper...you never know when you may lose power. All my best to you pamalamba. X M

Hey George! If you have occasion to see Vonda, DO, by all means send my fondest regards to her. I knew Charlie and Vonda early on, had very close ties with the birth of their first little little. Loved them both, all...knew Charlie's brother (and wife) even better for many years. I hold them all in fondest regard. Here I is Matilda...in real life, I am..Matilda, lol. Tell her Reenie sends warmest wishes.

dward (noun) duh-ward any dipwad dweeb (duh-weeb), jerk or categorical loser eg. The Brittany Spears tatoo on his forearm forever marked his dwardom. dward-i-ness

A Tale of Tobacco Road Displaced smokers are a stoic lot. Ostracized, and often the target of ridicule, they gather on back porches and in segregated seating sections across the Capital City. Seeing them causes a wave of nicotine nostalgia to sweep over me. Suddenly, I am transported back to the secret places where I'd hide away to suck hot, poison smoke into the soft tissues of my tender, teen-age lungs: the bowling alley, the basement crawlspace, a vacant toilet stall. And-oh yes-on "Tobacco Road." It was the year men frist walked on the moon and, more importantly, the year I snagged "Big Donny J." He was smooth, with his cool, sleep-eyed stare, Banlon shirt and Stacey Walker shoes. Up until the week before, he was pre-pre-engaged to Nikki Carp, a tightly wound senior with a two-story bouffant and a testy temper; but now I was riding shotgun in his '61 Chevy, ready to make my smoky debut one hub-capless morn on Tobacco Road. We cruised into view about 7:30 a.m. and parked between Mojo, a James Dean wanna-be on his chopper, and the Spinazolla twins, two identically scarred throwbacks from West Side Story, leaning up against a metal-flecked GTO. Cat's eyes stares from the girls and macho nods of approval from the guys acknowledged our arrival. We smoked-even if we didn't want to. It was our job. I enjoyed holding court there on the vinyl-covered front seat of the Don-mobile. Fellas with nicknames too stupid to remember came by to pay their respects and offer me a flick of their respective Bics. It was a dangerous business, but fun. Fun, at least, until an obviously bitter and scorned Nikki Carp exploded through the swirling gray haze blowing smoke through her flared nostrils. Horrified, I could do nothing as I saw two long-fingered hands with Fu Manchu nails sprung like talons headed my way. There was a pathetic little yelp (which I'm pretty sure came from me), and the next thing I knew, I had been pulled from the car and out onto the gravel road. Dazed, but not altogether in a fog, I felt the sting of four girly slaps across my face. A screeching-sobbing banshee sound counted each hit. "This is for Monday. This is for Tuesday. This is for Wednesday. This is for Thursday..." it wailed. I knew I had to act fast or I'd be dead by the time she got to the weekend. From the depths within me sprung a surge of survival adrenalin that could fuel any six sissies. In slow motion, I saw my one hand block the "Friday" slap mid-strike, while the other delivered a clean chop to her kisser. The single blow bloodied her lip and sent her wiglet sailing over the roof of the car until it landed on the radio antenna where it twirled like an impaled rat's nest. It left her coiffure with a crater big enough to balance a fruit basket, a visual that will live forever in my mind. To make matters worse, her face screamed red as she bent over choking on the peppermint my defensive smack knocked down her throat. Instinctively, I gave her a quick kick in the butt to starighten her up and them a sharp slap on the back to dislodge the candy. It shot out of her mouth like a rocket and skipped the surface of the car hood three times before it ricocheted into the forehead of one Sarafino Calabresio, the class skank and female bone-crusher. Time seemed to stand still as this greaser queen-of-swat thumped toward me, picking the shattered mint from her very furled brow. I knew my life was over, but before I could hit the dirt groveling, she reached into the front pocket of her cabretta and pulled out a pack of smokes. Her outstretched hand offered me approval, friendship and a light to the cigarette she stuck in my trembling lips. "Smoke wit me," she insisted. "I think we share da same brand." They were Lucky Strikes. From that moment on, my reputation was made. No one ever messed with me again. I was McCarthy, the one who could "kickyerazz" without breaking a sweat. I knew long before the Surgeon General ever stamped it on any pack that" "Smoking may be hazardous to your health." As for sweet Donald? We were an item for a carton or two, but he finally threw me over for some pretty little (smoke-free) Cuban number named Deetda. Go figure. It's a wonder any of us ever survived teenhood. (reprint from Tallahassee Magazine 4/99 by Maureen McCarthy)