American Idol 12

And then there were twelve…

All you have to do is watch the body language of the judges. Heads bobbling, bodies swaying, rhythm igniting from a deep place, lips singing in unison and you know the contestant is in the moment.

With the judges stoic, backs erect and smiles fixed that contestant might as well pack up on stage and move on. Psychology 101.

So after studying the facial expressions and rock in the seat judge’s movements, I add my own take to the Top 12 and sing adios…

James has winner marked all over my paper.

Naima was way off but I think she'll make it through. Quirky.

Thia, Thia, Thia...great voice. Wrong competition. No apologies after the fact. You know we don’t want ballads. Perhaps Disney?

Paul tamed the marionette movements. Woody gained a string! Gorgeous smile but hasn’t tapped into my soul with staying power.

Haley – a free-spirit not willing to commit.

Stefano – Wow-factor. Traces of Michael Buble. Loves his Mama. Tony Danza energy. Charisma.

Pia soars to the high note but still I’m not a buyer.

Scotty – out of the lower range not as strong.

Karen – out of her league.

Casey – unstoppable, crazy-dude. Let’s hear it for the redhead.

Lauren – a caterpillar ready to emerge from the cocoon.

Jacob - Croon me a Peabo Bryson song. “If Ever You’re in my Arms again…” and I’m sold.

My exit for tonight is a female. It’s a simple elimination. If you’re female, you’re in danger and the process will take place over the next several weeks. The men outshine and out maneuver every note.

Tonight I’ll toss the weakest links: Haley, Karen and Thia and my exit for tonight is Haley.

Subject to change my current top five: Casey, Jacob, James, Stefano and Lauren.

And you....?

American Idol 13

Okay, I admit. I'm an Idoler. A seasoned American Idoler.

I reeled over the Chris Daughtry elimination. Gasped with the Taylor Hicks win. Celebrated the David Cook moment.

With the outstanding talent this year, I'm up for the challenge to pick the best.

Randy, Jennifer and Steven did a great job weeding through shrill notes, sour faces, off-key auditions, and foul gestures to present the public with 13 viable contestants.

For me, it's easier to say today who I feel is going home, than project a season winner.

After the March 9 show, I believe Thia may go home. This is a difficult as she's a local Bay Area girl with a tremendous voice and I like supporting a hometown contestant. While her youth should be her biggest advantage - sparkle, energy and vibrancy - it's her biggest disadvantage.

The kid in Thia appears lost. Go play, have fun and be a teenager. Come back a young spirit and cast the old soul. Hum the words to your song and you'll get by. Smile.

Although a favorite, Paul's cut-string marionette moves distract from the experience. Remember AI, it's all in the package. Perhaps, tie a bow or ribbon on Paul to keep him in one place. As I try to recover from vertigo, Paul drops to sixth place on my list.

Haley? Not sure I like yodel but it was done well.

My top five choices are Casey, James, Stefano, Jacob and Scotty. For today....and yours?

We Border on a New Day

Draped across the storefront the oversized banner beacons - Store Closing.

One more time around, I circle the parking lot. Resigned to a long walk, I pull into a stall and reconsider. Do I really want to go to Borders today? Is there anything there that I need?

Silent, I study the people. Moms, dads, women with strollers, men in wheelchairs, children, couples hand-in-hand all on a direct course to the entrance, unfettered in their goal, and the answer is clear. Yes, I need to go to Borders. Today.

I note the customary guidelines. All sales final. No checks. 20-40% off. A meager discount at best. No big deal.

Yet the people keep coming.

“What’s up with this?” a man asks, “Out of business?”

I nod yes and sigh.

“My wife and I are just waiting to see Black Swan at the Cinema next door .” His stature gives him a good focal point as he sizes up the crowd. “We had no idea.”

“You’ll like Black Swan.” I offer, lost in observation of the impending change. No more movies, Applebee's drinks and late nights at Borders.

He eases into a gentle banter and says, “I wanted to see True Grit but the wife…” He shrugs with consignment, “Ballerinas.”

Ah yes, poor man, I strive to redirect his perception and not give away the plot. “It’s about mental illness.”

Brows furrow, his night just worsened.

“Great sex,” I spice up the prospect and walk on.

Yes, I will miss movie night and the Border chatter I note as I relocate to the New Release section. While I thumb through the latest New York Best Seller, a face peers between the racks.

My new friend’s beard tickles the top edge of Dean Koontz as he shares, “I usually watch the Christian channel. Do you think, that, maybe---?”

My sense is that conflict is now part of movie night.

I look to the left, to the right. With no wife in sight, I purse my lips along the book spines and propose, “You can close one eye.”

Satisfied, he taps the tickets in his pocket and perks up.

In truth, I know temptation will win and he’ll keep both eyes open. Wide open.

I shut the book, place it back on the rack and pause. A palatable energy is in the room. This is more than a bookstore. It’s a place of community.

Soon, I understand. This isn’t about a good bargain. There are none to be found. It’s a wake. An honor. A rite of passage.

Weaving in and out of the rows like a confused hamster, an older gentleman ponders, “Where’s the end of the line?”

I point towards the back end of the building. Grateful, he scurries to the distant wall. Nearby, I take a head count.

Over sixty patrons stand in wait. The line extends to the far corner of the Children’s section and beyond. With each transaction, they creep in unison.

No one orchestrates the movement. There is no employee directing customers to the back of the line. There are no ropes or rails to mark the path.

There are no borders. The way is clear. Forward.

No fights, grumbles or cut-in-line crashers. Patience is the virtue of the hour.

More than a moment, it’s a chance to share with a stranger behind you, in front of you and on the side, the memories, the moments and the sadness; an understanding of the finality - that the opportunity to meet at this location is no more.

“Borders may be dead, but books are not,” I say to a thirty-something customer, excited with the possibilities of the possibilities.

“I love books. I love to read.” His answer resonates through the crowd as he shuffles one step closer to his all-sales-are-final purchase. He has no doubt. His purchase is final. It is more than a sale. It’s a tribute. A statement.

Yes, I needed to go to Borders today.

As an author, I’m ecstatic. As a patron, I’m part of a movement. As a person, I am better for the experience.

Perhaps, this was Borders failure.

Doomed in the end by a word. One word. Borders.

There are no borders on creativity, imagination and the people connection.

Renewed in spirit, I trace a paperback with my fingertip. Hello old friend. Close to my face, I breathe in the familiar smell and flip the pages so the breeze gently feathers my hair. The energy of the written word embraces my spirit. Powerful images created by the sculptor of beginnings, middles and ends.

With a final glance, I thread through the customers still browsing the racks and memorize the scene.

Yes, Borders may be dead in the San Francisco Bay Area but books are alive in the wake.

We border on a new day without Borders.

*****************************************************************************************************************

Cynthia Ballard Borris, author No More Bobs and humor columnist

Copyrighted 2-21-11

Babes in Toyland

With Santa’s arrival just over the rooftop, I join my niece for the required visit to Santa Claus with her two sons. Strollers and diaper bags packed, we inch along the gold braided path. A Rudolph-themed village entices anxious children and our toes tap to the music of childhood.

“We are Santa’s elves…”I hum to the surround sound of plastic trees and shredded snowflakes.

Wes, a mere breath away from three-years old, waits in anticipation to present Santa with his wish list. The look on his face leaves no doubt – this is serious business.

Once on the red-velvet knee, Levi puckers-down and the magic dissolves into reindeer tears. Quick picture snap and exit baby until next year. A seasoned-pro, Santa remains cool like the frost on a Winter breeze.

Now one-on-one with the Man, Wes chats at length; engaged in intent conversation.

We shrug shoulders and wait. After all, a year’s a long time between good friends.

A nod of understanding, the two come to an agreement. With a tip of Santa’s hat, Wes waves goodbye; his list delivered now and safe in Santa’s keeping.

I bend down to kid-level and ask, “Did you tell Santa what you wanted for Christmas?”

An experienced Mom, I brace for the usual barrage of hot toys and must-haves.

With a twinkle he says, "I asked Santa to bring you a present."

Speechless, I hug Wes and embrace the innocence of childhood, letting it perfume my body with wonders old and new.

Pleased, I see Santa wink as he rubs his belly and lets out a cheerful jolly.

"Thanks," I whisper to the one-who-knows-all and then turn to Wes and say, "He already did."

And that is what Christmas is all about.

Merry Christmas to All

and to

All the Innocence of Childhood Awakened Anew

No Room for One

Four books in the bag, a pot of coffee in the gut -- I am hostage in the hospital. Mom’s scheduled for a one o'clock test; the hands of my watch point to three o'clock. I flip another page of a year-old magazine and mentally catalog my unfinished Christmas shopping.
Finally, a technician enters the crowded waiting area. The holiday characters on her scrubs warm the room with a cheerful spirit and I set aside my magazine. I count at least ten of the twelve days of Christmas while she checks mom’s wristband.
With Mom’s name and identification number confirmed the employee smiles and says, "Helen, come this way."
Mom pushes her walker to the dressing stall with eighty years of grace. A drop of a sweater and black pants and she dawns a new outfit - blue floral cotton with tie tabs in the back.
Bad news. The carotid angiogram shows a blockage of the right artery and Mom’s charted for morning surgery. I gather my caffeine-riddled body as the outpatient procedure turns inpatient admission. Paperwork, questions, wrong answers. Mom’s baffled. I empty mom's purse for her hearing aid. No ear.
In between blood pressure checks, I spot the eleven pipers dancing along the mid seam, left elbow, on the technician’s top. While in search of the twelfth day of Christmas, I’m interrupted by a brisk voice. An unfamiliar employee’s presence fills the room.
"We're short on rooms right now.” The Cath Lab nurse states in measured breaths. “We'll keep your mom here until the shift change. By then we should have a free bed."
Without a moment of holiday cheer, the no-name employee glances at the overhead monitors and scribbles numbers in the chart. Ms-No-Holiday-Cheer turns on her heels, and disappears behind the pleated curtain. As the night falls silent I question if the hospital has an antidote for the Hum-bug virus.
Hours creep by. Mom sips tepid water. I lean back and finish the remnants of another cup of coffee. Gingerbread latte, peppermint mocha and cinnamon spice. I’ve exceeded my limit of holiday concoctions. I’m ready for the New Year.
Swamped, the staff scrambles to find empty beds. Dusk arrives and still no room available, we relocate for a temporary stay in recovery. Patients moan and intravenous bags hang on hooks. Tucked in a far cubicle, we order dinner and wait for a vacancy. Flat on her back I spoon feed Mom peas. One disappears down her gown.
"Everyone's so nice." Mom jokes with the staff and savors the attention.
"We're not used to having patients that can talk." The recovery room nurse chuckles and brings me salt for my bland potatoes. Low on fuel, my body craves chocolate. I smell a dark blend on her breath and spy the See’s candies at the nurse’s station.
“I was wondering if…” I glance towards the spread of goodies.
“…Happy to share,” she hands me a slice of fruitcake leftover from a staff holiday party. I pick around the chunks of petrified fruit, choke down the stale offering and cough a dry thank you. Define happy. I wonder if I can file a union grievance.
Restless, I bend and stretch. The recovery room cubbyhole stifling, my skin starts to sweat sterile spores. Unconsciously, my foot taps to the cadence of the heart monitor and accompanying blood pressure bleep; my body begs to dance in rhythm.
“Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree,” I hum, orchestrating the bells and whistles of the machines to my own concerto. Not bad.
Mom’s fingers curl around my hand, a joyful smile kisses her parched lips and she whispers, “…How lovely are your branches.”
Together, we finish the song and the night is brighter.
Thirty minutes creep by and we drift into silent holiday memories with an occasional “Remember when…?”
“…I remember,” I say and hold back my thoughts. I remember every wonderful moment.
Layers and layers of spent holidays unwrap like crinkled photographs. Between a giggle of a long ago memory of paper angel wings for a junior church choir the staff member checks mom’s incision.
"Nurse, did they find me a room?" The words slur and mom struggles to hear the answer.
"Soon," with a reassuring pat and a practiced smile the conversation ends.
Early evening we arrive in the telemetry unit. A tiny artificial Christmas tree welcomes visitors and patients; the symbol of the season comforts like a familiar blanket. From a neighboring room, a radio plays Away in a Manger. The words repeat in my mind, “no room for a bed” and I emphasize.
Settled into her room, Mom slumbers as I gaze at the city’s nightline. A kaleidoscope of red, green and white lights blink. Beside the hospital sign a Christmas tree welcomes visitors and staff. The glass holds away the noise of the outside world and I drift deeper into life’s threads.
Stockings stuffed with apples, oranges and nuts. A miniature box of Whitman’s chocolates wedged in the toe. Sticky cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate; the upset stomachs. A tapestry of traditions.
But this tradition; this snag in the tapestry, this stitch I’d rather not have.
Beyond the thin veil of sleep, Mom’s eye lids flicker and a peaceful mew escapes on her breath. The IV drips, the nightlight casts gray shadows and the bedding reeks of industrial- strength-baked cotton. Not chocolate chip cookies.
I sit in a nearby chair and wonder how the days ebbed into years of silver. Lost in reflections, I stroke her worn hands and wish for laughter again.
The effects of the angiogram gone, Mom can use the restroom. Wobbly from the recent stroke, she grasps my arm. We shuffle to the toilet area as a pea rolls to the floor.
Half past late, we hear the rattle of rails. I lean from my corner spot. "You're getting a roommate."
"What's she like?"
"Well," I peek around the end of the bed and say, "Your roommate's a man."
"No…" She squeezes my fingers and gasps.
"…Yes. Remember the shortage of beds.”
"What am I suppose to do? I only have this flimsy gown," she motions for me to come closer, "and no panties."
"He probably doesn't have any either." I touch her shoulder and smile. "So what's the problem?" I sneak a peek again and fan my face. "He's a stud."
"Good grief…"
I catch a glimpse of Mom as she finger combs her silver strands, primps her cotton gown and attempts to camouflage a grin. A man’s coming.
Wait! I’m the one with a new man on my Christmas nice-to-have list. Santa crossed our wish list. Or did he? Widow or divorced, mother like daughter, I rearrange her covers and wink approval.
The nurses push the gurney towards the window. "Helen meet Lillian."
Her roommate lifts a palm and waves. Mom swats me with her good arm; a hue of rose colors her cheeks.
"So I'm the bad seed." I concede. Best time I have had all day.
Curled on her side, Mom twinkles and says, “You’re just like your mother.”
I laugh and realize it’s the best time we’ve both had all day.
Tis the season to be jolly…fa, la, la, la, la.

Recession Gray

At a recent family party, I cuddle my grand-nephew and introduce him to a guest.

“He has such beautiful hair.” The woman coos and tickles his belly.

“Levi, the first redhead of his generation,” I beam. Just like his aunt a blend of enough red to be smart and enough blonde to be dumb I take silent note.

“Isn’t there a history of redheads in your family?” She says.

Startled, I question her eye sight. Just what the heck do you think I am? I swallow my thought.

With the baby cheek-to-cheek, I stare at our reflection. Strawberry-blonde. Golden hues and light red. Yes, we’re related. But what’s this? My blonde is overtaking the red. I’m becoming a blonde. Sprouts of dementia bloom at my crown. I sense my intelligence fade. Quickly, I speak my name aloud just to see if I remember.

Cynthia, Cynthy, Cindi. Good, I’m still in self-recognition mode.

Unsettled, I peer harder. Worse. I see gray. I blink my eyes in disbelief and swear they multiply in that instant. Spawned by the stressful economy, the colorless invaders resemble the same outcropping on President Obama in recent months.

“I’ve got recession gray.” I gulp.

Obama and I are in a tight race to the silver dome. This is not good. America’s got to hold its head up high. And in color. Homeland security starts at ground zero and this war against listless white is top priority. I type an email to the White House and invite our leader to join the cause.

I shout in bold print, “I’m gonna wash that gray right out of my hair…”

After a call to the local salon, I choke at the fee. A kin to scammers, I roll pennies for hours. Nowhere near the seventy dollar mark, I put on the plastic gloves and concede to a box job.

Money tight, I embrace the Republican approach and use the product with caution and diligence. No liberal coverage. Non-permanent color. No unnecessary cost.

I pop the tab off the bottle and pour the contents of bottle one into bottle two. A quick glance at my image in the mirror and I look like the mad scientist in gray vogue. Although the final promised color is a golden red the wet product is hemorrhage-purple. Shocked, I grab the box and check again – Golden Sienna. Stamped with the Good Housekeeping seal of approval, Clairol, my image rests in your potion.

Conservative, I leave it on for ten minutes. Scared of the deep color resembling a bruise, I finger the damp strands for scalp stain. Anyway, it washes out nicely. I can’t say as much for the white shower stall. I apply the conditioner for two minutes, dry my hair and it looks nice. The purple eases into a golden red and I wonder what shade our President should consider.

In the dawn’s early light I survey the follicle landscape. It’s now the shade of a spent pumpkin. Orange even. Perhaps the conservative path paled. I cringe but remember my pocketbook and give myself a pat for frugality. A good citizen, I fueled the economy nine dollars.

A battle zone unconquered but penetrated. A foothold, I tousle my antioxidant-fortified strands as I recite Einstein’s theory of relativity and speak three-syllable words. Golden shimmers streak from the crown and halo the bangs. Each blonde strand cloaked in carrot-pumpkin highlights. Yes, America’s got talent.

My stimulus package on course, I hear the phone ring and run to answer.

“Hi, it’s Norm.” a familiar voice says, “What’re you doing?”

“I just colored my hair.” I answer.

The inquiry continues, “Did you go red or blonde?”

“The box reads ‘light golden red’.”

“And…”

“…Well, it’s more pumpkin.”

“Orange,” he chuckles.

“Orange,” I parrot.

“So you’re still blonde.” He says.

I reflect on my dilemma. In the marketing world I can turn a copper penny silver. In the bathroom it’s a complete reversal of fortune. Silver to copper. I bow to a setback.

Refocused, I march back into battle and callout, “I’m gonna wash that orange right out of my hair…”

Some days it’s best to stay inside the box and leave it to a pro. Maybe the President can use my skills elsewhere. Got a penny?


THE END

Battle of the Choke

Battle of the Choke

Deep-rooted resistance to death
Under the California sun
A four-inch artichoke in the pot
Now garden monster armed prick

Leaf circumference five-feet spread
Strawberries smothered
Water unquenchable
Drought ration in force

I fought the battle with a shovel over a choke
And the choke won.

Spawn of thorns
Kootnz and King take note
House of snails
I will not be derailed

Ax killer I tread through soil
Slice of hand a leaf falls silent
Texture of celery
Aroma of artichoke dip

I fought the battle with a shovel over a choke
And the choke won.

Braided roots cord in defiance
Deep the shovel blade cuts
Blister on blister splinters pierce skin
Twines of tentacles hold fast

Stabbed by thorn
Throb in thumb
One last whack
The choke was done

I fought the battle with a shovel over a choke
And the thumb won.

Copyright May 2009

Malted Milk Balls, please

It's a malted milk ball day
Ate the entire carton
Still no stress-relief in sight
Only sugar jitters and a belly-ache

Tis the Season

Lift the eggnog and brandy in toast

Laugh a lot...

Dance a little...
Love a lot!

Best Wishes for the New Year

Love Cynthia

No More Turkeys

Beware of turkeys bearing turkeys

NO MORE TURKEYS

Happy Thanksgiving and remember pass the blessings, please...

Bewitched

Beyond the ads, beyond the sales, lies the truth.

BEWITCHED

"Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble." Kathryn Ferguson cackled and swirled a crooked finger, casting a fake spell.

"Rubbish." Lori brushed the invisible hex aside.

"But that was how witches did it, according to Shakespeare." Kathryn protested. "What's more, I saw the movie Hocus Pocus."

"Well, Shakespeare is dead and the sisterhood of witches is still alive and I can prove it." Lori spotted her contact entering the coffee shop. "Quick, hide."

Lori Razzo was investigating modern witchcraft and had found a woman who agreed to take her to a secret meeting of a real coven nearby but only after she agreed to an oath of silence. Under no circumstances was Lori to expose the locale or she would forever pay the price of her tongue wagging. The professed witch glanced furtively around the coffee shop, swayed over to the table and drew up a chair.

Leaning forward, she spoke definitely, "I'll pick you up on the corner of Seventh and Wicker at 5:45am tomorrow. Don't be late."

"5:45am sharp."

"And remember, if you violate our agreement there will be harsh consequences to pay."

Gabriella's stare bore through Lori like a termite to wood. The message understood.

"This should be a hoot," she whispered to herself when Gabriella, the self-proclaimed priestess of the coven, strode out of the shop. "Witchcraft, boo-pucky. I'm so scared."

"Well?" Kathryn poked her head around the coffee bean rack. "Did she cast a spell on you? Wait. Let me look into your eyes. Okay, pupils normal and reactive."

Kathryn plopped down in the chair and Lori chuckled, "The meeting's tomorrow."

"Are they going to put a mask over your head?" Kathryn drank down the rest of Lori's tepid coffee. "Can I come?"

"And get me bewitched?" Lori feathered her short, reddish hair behind her ears. "Stay at least two cars behind in the slow lane, okay?"

The plan set, the two said good night and went their separate ways until the early morning hour.The sun crested over the hills while Lori stood shivering on the street corner. What is the matter with these women anyway? Don’t they know any self-respecting witch meets in the darkened shadows under the glow of candlelight and incense?

An Exhibition pulled to the curb and Lori hopped into the front seat. The vehicle, packed with ordinary women, jerked away from the roadside. The voices escalated as Gabriella maneuvered through a series of continuous green lights on target to the prescribed destination.

"Why this is--" Lori gasped.

The Exhibition screeched to a halt and the women quickly scooted out and marched towards the glass doors. Standing in a single line, they extended arms in front of their bosoms and repeatedly flexed both hands open and shut while chanting, "Open, open, open."

Slowly the locked doors opened and the coven welcomed the witches.

With purpose, the witches entered with a new incantation under tongue, "Charge it."

Lori stumbled onto the linoleum floor just as the doors closed tightly behind the one-way spell. Just like Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves she thought. Turning backwards, she read the word "s'nyvreM".

"This is the secret coven?" She said, glaring at Gabriella. "Mervyn's?"

With the wink of a long lash and the crinkle of her nose, Gabriella tugged her by the elbow.

"Hurry, the best deals are gone in the first ten minutes and remember, mum's the word."

"What to wear, what to wear?" The witches chanted as they ran up and down the aisles of Mervyn's, checking price tags and trying on shoes, looking for the perfect price an hour before the store opened.

"A bargain hunt? This is modern witchcraft?"

Gabriella shrugged, "Witches have budgets, too."

"But isn't this Super Saturday?" Lori looked at a store sign.

"Who do you think started that idea?" Gabriella sighed, sarcastically. "Come on, the racks are already getting bare."

Lori grabbed a leather jacket and draped it over her arm. The witches scrambled and fought over sale items and carried armloads to the cash register. Sale after sale rang up at the register, absent of electricity and a sales clerk. Tiny charge slips printed out and faithfully the members of the sisterhood scribbled signatures of credit agreement, interest-free and triple bonus points. Lori laid her purchase onto the counter and watched the magical forces fold and package her selection. Cool. She could get the hang of this witchcraft.

Suddenly, a figure appeared at the glass door, peering in, shocked at the private sale in action.

Kathryn.

"You!" A witch cursed towards Lori and pointed a rigid finger. "You told someone of our secret coven."

"No…" Lori retreated on her left foot, looking for an escape. The witches encircled her, grasped hands and slowly started to cast a spell. The cash register clanged, the drawers flung open and shut violently. Dollar signs flashed by in a blur. The sisterhood sang louder and swayed as one. Voices deepened and a lone cackle erupted as the women chanted a few choice mumble-jumbles.

Lori trembled and hugged her purchase. The machine grew hotter, shuddered and spewed out the charge slip. Eyes focused on the intruder and silence overpowered the room as Lori's hand unwillingly signed the charge slip.

"What? $5,031 for a jacket at 34.9% interest. That's outrageous." Lori protested as her pen zagged the "z" in Razzo. "I'll be paying this off forever.

"Gabriella spoke with a wicked laugh, "Month after month after month….pay back's a witch."

HAPPY HALLOWEEN