I would take this down. Needed to vent. But know it will live on in readers so….. A large part of me feels like an idiot for writing this. Spoiled. Not thinking about people who really have it tough. Self-obsessed. I need somebody to yell at me and tell me how horrible I am for writing this. But therein lies the problem…
I put the rest in draft as this was horrible and self-loathing and let’s just blame it on the heat. I’m sweating; not glistening and my face was sweating as I walked into the ocean –something that’s never happened to me before
My reality is that I’m an incurable optimist who thrashes too many things out for too long. I thought I was over that but moving and everything that’s happened in the past three years has brought too much to the surface.
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Then I walk four blocks to the beach, actually sit in the fierce gray/brown waves with teal teasing at the horizon and forget everything but how incredible the world is.

I wrote this for Redroom

It’s the first half-decent thing I have written since April.

I don’t believe a disability is an ability turned backwards or whatever that expression is. I have spent my life seeking help. I don’t know how many hundreds of thousands of dollars first my parents then I spent on therapists, testing and much more.

It reached the point where I would write people famed in various disciplines all dealing with either work or mental health or both. Anybody who knows me just a bit knows how hard it is for me to reach out. It’s much easier for me to help others. And I have had career success. It was I who always thought I could do much better even when my evaluations were near perfect.

They either ignored me or told me to find work in a sheltered workshop. I’m more educated than many of them and certainly write as well or better. The later (sheltered workshop) would have killed me and I know that.

So much was happening in my personal life it never occurred to me to look for jobs the normal way, or the way I had before my life became encased in tragedy and uh blogging which for awhile I thought would lead to so much. I had the stats, the readers, the writing–everything but I was “difficult,” not young and trendy. I didn’t blog about one subject. I did everything wrong and yet I created something wonderful and will always be grateful for this blog. I think I tell good stories.

I hope to have years more. While I truly don’t have a desire to write a memoir as I like writing in other forms more, I know that knowledge about non verbal learning disorder (NLD) is lacking. I aim to change that.

Many people with NLD have a difficult time conceptualizing order and I understand that’s what’s been holding me back. Understanding is just part of the solution though. So I found me a great editor!

The long hot summer continues and beginning Friday I will have a house filled with people for a week. I need them–Godchildren and significant others. I feel so lucky that people who are related to me through friendship actually want to visit me!
Comments are off here as once again this is a totally self-centered post.

This was a very quickly written character sketch.  I revised it in my head a lot before going to sleep last night but am not sure it’s worth revising blog posts.  Or should I put a first draft, then a second?

She wasn’t mean.  I knew that.  I wanted to like her but there was something, just something off.

Miss Frances wasn’t demented.  At 79, her thin gray hair was cut just under her ears.  Unlike the gray haired ladies, few as they are, I know in New York, the gray wasn’t shiny and/or silver.  She was small and a bit stooped; her clothes perfect for gardening.  I shouldn’t say anything.  I’m a jeans and tee person until April when I wear white pants or capris.

I had no right to judge her.  Yet she was one of the rare people who came into my house and I wanted to leave immediately.  Miss Frances tried too hard to become friends.  She gave me two bottles of a cheap Rose.  Who drinks Rose?  I am and always have been a Merlot person.  It’s become a joke though I drink Chardonnay if I absolutely must.

She studied my house as if it were a course she had to pass.  Again it’s become a joke that I bought a house and basically tore it apart. But I loved the house.  I wanted a  more open kitchen with maple cabinets, the standard granite, a black cast iron stove and other more modern than most houses around here features. I couldn’t move in until the carpet had been torn up and bamboo flooring laid, and the small boring bathtub was turned into a beautiful shower.

She invited me to her house and I had to go.  We spent three stifling hours in her hot musty living room overladen with furniture and things.  The sunroom and upstairs deck room were sick rooms.  Her husband had died the year before. The air smelled of slightly old age and incontinence .  Most people wouldn’t have noticed.  My nose is very sensitive.

Every surface was covered with something. It’s not that I’m against collecting things.  I have many collections myself.  But there’s air to breath around them.

She told me about her son-in-law and proudly told me the name of the institution he’s Chairman of.  In 2009, it wasn’t an entity you mentioned in company. (Something that contributed to the financial meltdown.) I told her she must be very proud of him and thought how out of everything she was.

After seeing her staircase which had about 100 pictures, I put mirrors in the shape of stars on mine

I wanted to warm up to Miss Frances but I couldn’t.  She talked about her late husband and how much she loved him and I felt the requisite sorrow for her loss.  Usually I would have felt more.

Miss Frances moved last fall.  Groups of neighbors have been telling me about her.  Her husband hid his bottles all over the court.  Once he fell off the step to their porch.  His head was bleeding.  A neighbor tried to help him get into the house.  Miss Frances threw out a towel and said “let him stay there.”  She refused medical attention though somebody called for an ambulance.  He stayed in the hospital for ten days.

I am a geriatric social worker. I can smell abuse anywhere; it was my biggest talent.  I’m pretty sure Miss Frances and her husband mutually abused each other but I’ll never know.  I’m also exceptional at feeling things about people.  I’ve been called psychic by some world famous ones and maybe I’m more empathetic developed than most people.

I wish I didn’t have this particular talent honed to a science.  I would like to see people and not feel their secrets.  Usually I can turn it off.  But sometimes as with Miss Frances it comes spilling out.

Crossposted in my new facebook group–NLD in the middle ages.  My middle age, not the years.

I don’t understand why categories show when I haven’t clicked them. “Impeach Bush’s” a bit old. “Impeach Cheney for occupying space” would make sense. I don’t mean this post to be a poor me one. My life is great. I would like it to be the best it could be. I do feel I deprived myself of much pleasure but my life has been sybaritic enough. I have excelled in the family, friends, actually be at work areas. Sometimes i was great at job hunting. Sometimes I was horrible at it.

Truly I wish my life remains on the sometimes even wonderful keel I seem to have been getting to.
*I believe that’s from Rhoda–Mary Richard’s (Mary Tyler Moore) Bff. Of course she meant that as in “look out, I’m taking over.” I mean it in “get out your HAZAMAT suits.”

I will be back in a week having seen family, friends and the friends of the Miracle of Facebook or childhood friends I still think about and remember with love. Read more…

This is for this weeks 3WW Totally forgot to put it in! Me bad

I always start the story of Jeffrey and me with the day we met. That sounds normal until I remember I never start at the beginning. But that was one of the ten most incredible days of my life–and 50% of it happened before we met.

The allure of May 20, 1979 is simple. It was an incredibly beautiful day in the city everybody loved to hate. New York was supposed to be dangerous . I was out at all hours everywhere and my wallet was stolen once. I had just cashed my paycheck and everybody in my office pitched in to replace it. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else though I dreamed of a beach house.

I walked from my apartment at 5 East 63rd Street, one of the best addresses in New York though the building itself had and would see better days to Folk City, the club that Marilyn, Robbie and Joe were soon to buy. Folk City was on 3rd Street near 6th Avenue then. It was dark and tobacco stained. With a bar filled with talking people. Peggy the lesbian bartender who married a man gave certain friends of the house triples, though Robbie refuses to believe that. I could hold my liquor. But never there. The Roches didn’t write “Face down at Folk City“(read the lyrics. First time I heard the song I cried from joy) because girls were sober.*

It’s easy to say Marilyn, Robbie, Joe and I are old friends. Truth, the unvarnished truth is always simpler or more complicated. When we were very young Robbie and I had been briefly married. We weren’t meant to be spouses. I had run to Europe to start my life over in 1971. I came home not because I missed him though I suppose I did but because I had a premonition a healthy friend would die. Together we couldn’t figure out how to warn him and JohnnyB died as I became engaged against my better judgement and married a few months later.

By 1979 we were long divorced and had become friends. I wanted Robbie to marry Marilyn; and I wanted to fall in love. It’s hard for many people to understand that I wished them every happiness. I liked, and like, them. Marilyn was perfect for Robbie in ways that I’m not. The once overbearing love I had felt for him had long ago turned to love for a friend. I’m human; I wanted what I saw they had. And I saw it before many other people. If I’m devoting too much time to this, I want it out of the way. It’s only important to the story because it took place in Folk City and Robbie played a part in Jeffrey and I meeting. It’s not even absurdest or ironic humor but truly funny.

Be careful what you wish for had been my motto since I began college eleven years earlier. I should have remembered it as I walked through the various districts Manhattan had then. The sky was a vivid blue; a perfect blue. It was hot but not humid. I was wearing new jeans and stopped at Macy’s to buy some Willie Smith clothes. I didn’t yet know why I went out of my way to buy clothes but they would play a part in the story also.

Then I walked through the flower district so gay in every sense. From his perch on a human’s shoulder, a parrot asked if I was happy and did I desire sex. Yes, I thought, but not with you. I was happy though had you asked me I would have analyzed the thought to death. I tended to over-analyze every facet of my life.

Was it Lucinda William’s debut at Folk City? I’m not sure though I have post upon post, unpublished article upon article about that day; the last truly uncomplicated day of my life.
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*In the 90′s I saw the Roches perform at Steven Talkhouse in South Beach. They asked how many people in the audience had been in Folk City’s basement–kind of infamous. I didn’t raise my hand but almost everybody else in the audience did. The people I was with looked at me as if I were crazy, but I didn’t want to be part of a pretend party.

My bff Lucia and I saw Jersey Boys
A new type of Broadway show that brought me some faith in Broadway. I don’t generally like it or even Off-Broadway anymore. As both are very pricey I can be picky But that’s a whole other post

She wanted to leave when she was 40 in 91 but her father died suddenly and her mother was needy.

Her office on Jerome Avenue in The Bron_ had graffiti all over the windows No matter how often it was taken off it would be back the ne_t day. The strange thing was she found The Bron_ a relief from Manhattan. She knew chop shops were all over Jerome, and she was never more than a few minutes from crack and drive by shootings, but her office was a DMZ. When she would walk the streets, men would come out of the buildings “Ms. Savage, that’s Ms. Savage. She cool.”

Generally she hated that type of attention. The roar of the construction worker, whistle of the Con Ed worker, but there was something almost innocent, something refreshing, in these boys.

She trusted them to keep her out of death’s door. She wouldn’t trust them for anything else and they knew it. Though she smiled and laughed more easily than the other white women she worked with, there was a certain coolness about her. A sort of “don’t fuck with me, mother fuckers,” resonated from her cream turned gold in summer skin

Though she lived in what was then the richest zip code in the city, probably the country, she would count the Olde English malt liquor bottles strewn on the sidewalks as she practically tripped over homeless people sleeping and would make her e-cuses.

That spring or summer a subway motorman went postal and killed a number of people Service on the East Side IRT was disrupted for months. The normal 20 minute ride took two hours.

She was the last legal tenant on her floor. On one side of her apartment the new landlord put $10 ho’s; on he other side small time drug dealers. She had five floods the landlords refused to do anything about and soon she had cockroaches coming from the ceiling. It was vile. It was gross. Call the city to complain and give her address, yeah really. She would hear ten minutes of laughter before they hung up. For years the city had ignored the lack of heat complaints also.

She could take not having heat. But cockroaches, mice and rats that ran from the fireplace once the new 63rd Street subway had opened, that was intolerable.

She could have waited to be bought out but she would probably be dead from something. She was only 40; the best dressed white woman at the Jerome Ave Social Security office where all the other Jews her age acted as if they were going to be eligible for SSI tomorrow.

Her laughter was infectious but half the time she felt it was the hysterical laughter of the soon to be legally insane. When her best friend would come to the office to meet her for lunch at the Paradise Coffee Shop, beloved by generations of native Bron_ites, all work would stop. All the guys wanted to meet her. Only later would they notice the wedding ring.

Claimants would ask for the “pretty well dressed” white girl. “Well dressed” she laughingly told her friends meant that if she were to wear plaid, and she wouldn’t, it would clash as a fashion statement. She was always shocked at how often “well dressed” was applied to her. She was just another city girl.

She moved to Riverdale, The Bron and the high point of her day was walking down the hills of Riverdale, over The Major Deegan and up the hills of Kingsbridge Heights and around The Reservoir that stunk of mold most days.

She wore silk short suits and would put on her pantyhose once she got to the office no later than 7:30 AM so she could do “undertime” or OT in the morning. Not because she wanted the money but otherwise the work would just pile up. She hated that job and didn’t yet realize if she was to remain in New York it was Manhattan she needed.

When the crack/drive by shooting years were safely over she moved back but never loved it as much as she had before the days of the $10 ho’s.

As others dreamed of the city she dreamed of escaping. It wasn’t Final Payments She didn’t live with her mother. Her mother didn’t stop her from doing things, but she couldn’t leave as long as her mother was living on her own. And her mother had no intention of ever giving into age and fraility.

Her mother died a month after 9/11 and it was so hard. She felt wounded and alone. First she couldn’t leave because of estate and patriotism reasons. Then there was another reason and still another.

Si_ years after her mother’s death she began to get her apartment ready. The closing is scheduled for midway between 9/11 and her mother’s death.

Every New Yorker has their 9/11 story. Hers isn’t that fascinating. She didn’t know anybody who died in the attacks but many who lived.

On Wednesday or Thursday she will walk down to the old Trade Center, walk further to the water ta_i to the new Ikea in Red Hook, Brooklyn and come back at night to look at the twin beacons of lights emenating from the site. Her best friend, daughter and some other friends went yesterday but she couldn’t go. They mainly talked about the ride and the food in the after event phone call. The beacons of light will always be meaningful

It’s been seven years. A missing person can be declared dead after seven years. Bankruptcies e_punged, debts cleared. Crimes e_cept for murder and rape are usually no longer prosecuted. Seven is the age of reason. Seven means so many many things, but most of all it means letting go.

She’s made up with the friends she fought with seven years ago, and hasn’t spoken to the false friends.

Her new future awaits not where she thought it would seventeen or even three years ago in Santa Monica or San Diego but in South Carolina.

She’s tired. Oh so tired. It took forever to sell her apartment and sometimes she think hers was the last one bedroom in Manhattan to sell for a half decent price. The doormen saga–she doesn’t want to go there.

She’s tired of people with their hands out. She’s tired of living in a city that’s so pricey and so crowded and people are defeated as living here is hard. Her neighbors are jealous–but there’s no longer a market for their apartments

She thought she suffered from a terminal case of bad timing but it turned out to be pretty darn good.

Caroline Kennedy on VP vetting. I have a friend who is going to vote for McCain because Hillary didn’t vote. She lost her job recently and is very much suffering the consequences of the past eight years but….
One very hot morning i saw a bus with the legend “God’s Country Tours,” on it. “That’s strange,” I thought, “I don’t know any groups called God’s Country.” Which would be a good name for one–but I had forgotten I was no longer living two blocks from The Beacon Theater where i see tour buses constantly. Rock, blues, etc. I long ago stopped noticing people on tour buses. Well I see them also, of course, but they’re not usually named except with exact geographic locations. Nor for that matter are the music tour buses. You just cleverly know from the sign on the theater.

This day began horrible yesterday when I went for a mani/pedi. I wrote a post about it but in the scheme of life it’s very unimportant.

I thought that I was through with my New York apartment except for packing. My friends were going to take over dismantling the wall unit, redoing the wall and painting the living room.

Only my building doesn’t let contractors work on Friday’s. New rule I was unaware of. My building insists that contractors buy building specific insurance–I was aware of that but nobody believed me as most buildings don’t have that rule.

I’m paying the profits before I even get them. Then my building takes two percent in what’s called a transfer tax. Add six percent to the realtors, and that’s eight percent +without even thinking, and trust me I’m trying not to.

I am totally not relaxed and feel that all the good these months have done for me have been mitigated. I should have said that if they wanted the apartment they take it “as is.” But no.

I don’t feel grateful to have sold in “these difficult times” as the $400 rebate check from Mayor Bloomberg always says, for owning and paying way too much in taxes.

I was feeling nostalgic for Manhattan; I was feeling that my entire identity was as a Manhattanite. I was devouring any junk I found on Manhattan and was wondering if I would feel like an outsider looking in

I have lived in Manhattan over half my life and in the city for most of it. That gives me bitching rights for the rest of my life.

I haven’t left here yet and can’t wait to return.

It’s so hot the pigs are sweating. No I don’t have any pigs or know where any are but….So hot pigs are sweating is an expression M the male owner of the house I’m living in uses. I find it funny and am not above thievery–he said he didn’t care about credit.
Yesterday evening I was walking into town and passed a teen rock service at the mega church. There was a cook out and the music was decent. I would have gone but I haven’t been a teen in many a decade. I’m Jewish. I was on my way to a mani/pedi appointment in a place that’s worth going just for the message chairs which can cure anything. They have Opi nail polish. North Myrtle is very civilized.
This town is beginning to remind me of a continous episode of Friday Night Lights the best show on TV that will be back due to a very strange deal.
I hesitate to say what happened next as it sounds not American, 2008 but what the hey. I came home to find out that my brokers had rejected an all cash offer for me as I won’t go below a certain price. My brokers believe as I do that my apartment is a worthy commodity.
I do miss New York but between my friends and sister I can go back every two or three months and always have a place to mooch off stay.
What happens if I don’t get another offer by the end of August–the time I have allotted to this? I go to Plan B and beg the coop board to let me rent out the apartment for two years. I beg extremely well. If Plan B doesn’t work I have a Plan C: move home, find an office as I absolutely can’t stay in that apartment during the day, and continue to bitch about it.
However I feel that Plan A was a good plan; and I didn’t time it too late but too early. Now people are going to wonder why they want to spend 900K on a one bedroom when for less they can get slightly less but a great apartment, prestige address and I will make a book of every restaurant, diner, take out place and food store on the Upper West Side with copious notes on each. For example you want to order waffles from one diner but not oatmeal and oatmeal from another but not waffles. Yes I order oatmeal. I do prefer to make it myself or go to Sarabeth’s, but diners are uncomplicated. Diners make the food quickly; diners are like Chinese restaurants, the delivery is quick and uncomplicated.
I will be in New York from June 20-30th for doctors and dentist appointments, a high school graduation, a visit with a thirteen year old before she goes to camp and her parents and to see many friends. I have two hours open on Thursday afternoon if anybody cares.
I will make a list of all the restaurants I go to with notes and websites. I just looked at Sarabeth’s and had no idea she has a restaurant in Key West. My mother knew her mother. This isn’t really newsworthy. My mother seemed to know everybody’s mother in New York
She was truly interested in people and they would find themselves telling her their life story. I have often wondered when she would meet the mother of so and so how she felt having such unfamous children. She would tell us how wonderful we were and how nobody else had children who were so fascinating and good to their mother.
Have I mentioned that my completely reality based mother was delusional when it came to me? I don’t think I’m supposed to publicly state that however…
She always said my day would come. I think I’m beginning to believe her.
And I’m still on an Obama high.

I feel as if I’m on a high wire trying to remain balanced while having a panic attack. Today two one bedrooms in my building that went on the market at the same time as mine or after closed. One is smaller, the living room, bedroom and bath not as nice but the kitchen is much nicer and it has river and park views. It’s maintenance is lower too which really angers me as apartments on that line command top dollar for the view. The other is much nicer.

I think I’m allowed to sulk about this. If the damn contractor had only listened to me and did only the renovations I told him to do in a timely manner I would have at least been in contract by now. But no he had to express his artistic side and then go into a major depression while he had my money.

It’s cost me a lot to have a valueless apartment and until the apartment goes into contract I believe its value to be zilch. Actually it costs me over $1200 each month so until I sell it has a negative value.

Excuse me for not appreciating my surroundings today. This is a big chunk of my future I’m focused on. For reasons that will be explained in my article that will be published in July I don’t have the greatest work record.

Which makes me laugh half the time as I have coordinated more projects for well known progressive agencies for free or minimal money always because the person they hired for mucho money couldn’t do the job. The “great” jobs promised me never came through. Still I believed. I am an absurd optimist and have no idea why.

It’s the reason I don’t do volunteer work anymore. I was always so nice, so smart, so able to do the work, so willing to work extra hours, so good, such a great trainer and motivator, and just a tenth of a beat off. I’m not even sure that I appeared that but I must have had a sign “take advantage of me, please.”

I could afford to do this in the late 90′s and early 00′s, but now I have a reached a point where my future is important to me. I was never poor in youth and don’t want to be in older age.

When I learned about non verbal learning disorders (NLD) so many things began to make sense. Honestly I don’t feel as if I truly suffer from most of these problems anymore as I learned to compensate years ago but never quite trusted my “compensation” techniques. I was told I hadn’t learned to compensate but to cope yet when I thought about it or discussed it with other doctors it was the same thing.

Still I let the testing psychologist play a too large role in my life. I decided not to see him as there would be no satisfaction in that. When I Googled him nothing came up and I know people with his job love to be published or have publicity or….

What could I say? I’m Pia Savage and you’re not? My blog was a monster for almost two years until I decided to tame the wild courting as I was truly seeking my destiny? I have had over 50 article published under another name, and am beginning to be published under Pia?

Ultimately I would have just satisfied my thirst for revenge and to show him how wrong he was when he pronounced me profoundly learning disabled.

That’s different than being given a mental illness diagnosis as it’s basically saying I’m unable to learn; to be a productive member of society. i have something that can’t be cured with medication and therapy.

I should have understood how wrong he was when I went to grad school and graduated with a 3.84 cum and outstanding field placement evaluation but grades feel worthless when you hear students tell professors they will only settle for “A”s and don’t feel they have to work for them. It was social work school and the height of political correctness and I feel so gypped of a chance to have really excelled in a difficult program. That was my neurotic need, and I realize it’s partially absurd and partially reality based. Grad school should be intellectually challenging. Not just the full year research course, ego object and self, and my independent study on elder abuse.

One big measure of my life is thin, average, a bit heavy, etc., and those were average, thin years. Age hadn’t caught up with me and my fellow students thought of me as younger than I was, brighter than thou or the one who would be chosen to lead presentations as I would know everybody’s part (if it didn’t pay I was brilliant at it) and selfish as I said I wouldn’t have kids. I never gave my age or the reasons why.

Given my history–and I haven’t told much of it though this blog seems endless–I think I deserve to be paid for many things. I don’t believe in unpaid internships or field placements. I know I was exploited. And if you’re going to have a volunteer “save” a project, you better find money in the budget to pay her.

I can’t believe how I undervalued myself and let myself be used and tossed. I won’t say the names of the agencies as they’re good ones with new staffs. I always feel that I should be apologizing for not doing volunteer work but I promised myself I won’t until I’m paid well for something or am old and need something to do.

I was reading a board where people with NLD were talking about the hard time they had getting jobs. I never did. My father would scream at me to work for the phone company when I would work for a company that worked for the phone company and the managers would tell me to apply. I didn’t understand that if they told me to apply they would serve as my references, get me the job, be my rabbis so to speak.

Clueless, I’m so clueless when it comes to myself and so insightful when it comes to other people. But that’s hard to understand and I’m sure most people, who don’t know me personally, think I’m clueless when it comes to other people.

I am different than many people with NLD as I work well by myself but equally well or better with people–large groups of people. I’m not reclusive nor a solitary person though I have always required a day or a night of alone time

I decided to devote the next three months to writing a book that tries to explain NLD by telling my story. The whole story from childhood to now. I know three months isn’t enough but it would just be a first draft and I’m told that one of my problems is I never mastered the necessary shitty first draft.

It’s easier to work on this outside New York and now that W–the male half of my landlord/friends–installed a router I can work from the patio. I bought ergonomically correct beach chairs as the first possession for my new home I hope to buy in the fall or winter. And I might buy a house as long as it’s in a condo community or has pebbles instead of grass and the community has a pool.

Please hope that my apartment sells. I deserve that. And I deserve to go into the later part of my 50′s knowing that my older age will be secure. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with liking money or the things that it brings.

When you have the scattered work record I have you have to worry about the cost of health insurance and getting sick. When I’m eligible for Medicare I expect to have pay a lot for a supplement. I have never believed this is an easy country or that you get something for nothing. I have never lived off the “system” and never want to

Damn I wish that quarters spent doing meaningful internships, field placements and volunteer work counted for Social Security. More than that I wish I hadn’t undervalued myself.

The other day New York City released almost a million debts because the collection agencies couldn’t show the back paperwork telling the history of the debt or if in fact money was really owed.

Like I would buy a subscription to Car & Driver? I paid the $47 I turned out to “owe” because it was worth it to me to make the phone calls stop.

And I have a blog. I don’t get mad. I do get even. I’m very proud of my Allied Interstate page
I don’t know how many comments there are in the page and two posts, but they make for much interesting reading than the actual post. All comments, rants etc about Allied belong in that page
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
The words come from Bone.

“I’m the wanderer, yeah the wanderer.”

Ann still thought of her as a 20 year old hippie anti-war agitator with good manners. She would invite them over and always invite some single girls who looked like Richard Nixon’s daughters. Ann had never forgiven her for being the one to leave. But she knew that Ann insisted Rose be placed in this nursing home because of Delilah’s rep. Read more…