Giving Thanks...

So today I'm off to Annapolis, MD, to stay with my mom during her convalescence from her spinal surgery on Monday of this week.

I very much look forward to the visit for the obvious things like the time I'll get to hang and relax with Mom, as well my brother, sister-in-law, niece and sister...

I look forward to it, too, because after my step-dad's death in August, we unearthed TONS of stuff packed away that we hadn't seen in decades, a large chunk of which is contained in a plethora of boxes piled precipitously about Mom's already bursting apartment and we (I, that is) get to continue the process of sifting through it all.

Oh.  And my brother and sister also have a storage space with MORE crap...  um...  I mean family treasures that holds piles of stuff just for meeeee!  :::small eye roll:::  LOL

And as long as I'm looking forward to and praising the potential of this visit while totally compartmentalizing the liklihood that it will actually make us all a little batshit crazy and a lot cranky, I should also say I VERY much look forward to it for the stop I'll make on my way in Leesburg...  Chelsea Outlets to be exact...  because one really must fog up the display windows of the COACH outlet whenever one has the opportunity...

And in preparation for everything the next week and a half offers, I'll offer up a tidbit on the Thanksgiving feast my mother and I will share...

The week before her surgery, we chatted on the phone about the trip and visit details...  and Mom...  who has never been a "foodie", nor eaten well overall, very excitedly informed me, no small amount of awe in her voice, that she had gotten "sliced turkey from the deli for sammiches...  and mashed potatoes... inna tuuuub!" ;) heheh

So while I hang with her during her convalescence, wallowing around in our boxes of memories, drinking good coffee, eating good food (the sibs are foodies, thank God), sharing good wine, and probably popping a Xanax or two...  I want to take a moment to wish all my Friends & Family a very happy & relaxed holiday with your loved ones...  oh...  and lots of mashed a'taytas & gravy. =)

I Walk By Faith...

Sunday's message, "Why I Doubt", at Journey was about doubt and faith...

John 20:29 ~ Jesus saith unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.  (yes, this was Christ talkin' to one Doubting Thomas)


I walk by faith
Each step by faith
To live by faith
I put my trust in You
I walk by faith
Each step by faith
To live by faith
I put my trust in You


Every step I take
Is a step of faith
No weapon formed against me shall prosper
And every prayer I make
Is a prayer of faith
And if my God is for me
Tell me who can be against me?


And it struck me not for the first time that a personal relationship is much the same as a spiritual relationship. 

We haven't seen Him but we trust in God to guide us, protect us, carry us when we're overcome...  we share the good, the bad, and the in-between...

And we...  well, I, anyway...  look for exactly the same thing in a personal relationship...  and as in a spiritual relationship, if we're not so battered from life's storms that we're just not able any more, we take a horrendous leap to have complete faith in someone we can never fully know, hand them our heart and trust blindly they won't man-handle it and leave it bruised and bleeding in the dust...

In my universe, I've had plenty of failure on the personal relationship front...  not because I shouldn't have had the blind faith in my partners that I at least started with, and not because they were bad people...  but because they just didn't have that same view of what a partnership was about that I did...

Cheating...  lying...  stealing...  none of these things fit into the definition of personal partnership...  none of these things fit into the definition a spiritual relationship either...  because each of these things precludes trust and faith... 

Yet knowing this, again and again I've chosen "partners" who've possessed one or all of these personality flaws; knowing all the while these things would never be part of a spiritual relationship - they couldn't be - but tolerating them in my personal partnerships just the same...

Unfortunately, it took until a few years ago for me to figure out that someone with the same view of a partnership that I have is crucial and non-negotiable from the outset - I guess I thought that was something couples came to in the course of life together - and although it's only just recently I've cleared my own slate in that regard, I know now I will continue in a conscious, purposeful, earnest way to try to know myself and make intelligent choices to make that happen in my life...

And I know that in my spiritual and personal relationships I want and need someone I can give undiluted love to and have it returned, I want and need someone I can talk to, lean on, give and receive support from, share with and beat my chest to...  

I know that I want and need that soul who, when I relax and sink down into that downy bed of trust I'm still willing to give and expose that soft, terrified part inside, will NOT bring me to my knees by stomping around on it like they're stomping dandelions but who, instead, will wholly justify that release of doubt...

And I know they're out there.  I have faith...

Fathers be good to your daughters...

and get your heads out of your collective asses and be good to your sons too!  Your children need you.  It doesn't matter how old they are.  They need you. 

THEY.  NEED.  YOU.

YOU are the grown up.  YOU are the one with 'maturity'.  YOU are the one who is to lead by example.  YOU are the one with more life experience.  YOU are the one who teaches them love and compassion and caring.  YOU are the one who shows them the meaning of being the bigger man, of turning the other cheek, of being a decent HUMAN BEING.

My son's father has been a part of his life from the day he was born, through our separation and divorce and through two subsequent wives.  We and all our families have always had birthdays together, shared special occassions in our son's life, been to school events and every other thing a child needs their parents and extended family at or for...  together...

Until 'she' came along. 

Number 3.  And she's a doozy.  A psycho to be precise.  And this comes from someone who liked my ex's former wife VERY much.  And his girlfriends in between, too.  SOMEhow, other than me and the current psycho, he's been VERY fortunate in the partner department and they have all been very nice and have all treated our son so VERY well.

Until 'she' came along. 

The only time in the 15 years we've been divorced that he's ever made me cry was our son's sophomore band camp parents night and guess who was the catalyst? 

I arrived early, waited for them, saw him crossing the sidelines & met him halfway, knowing his new wife and mother-in-law were with him for our son & figuring we'd all sit together like we always had. 

Him, furtive and speaking low...  "Um.  We're sitting over here.  But you probably shouldn't."
Me, stunned...  "Whaa'...  Are you kidding me?"
Him, still furtive, still speaking low (as though her fkn bat ears might pick up what he was saying across half a football field and through the hundreds of parents voices")  "Well.  She won't understand and if we sit together she'll be mad."
WHAT?  You can NOT be serious!
Me, pumped full of un-felt pride and not wanting to make a scene...  "Sure.  Ok.  No problem."

And I took my chair down the field, set it up, sat with parents I didn't know and proceeded to cry silently behind my sunglasses. 

Amusingly enough (after I got my ass up on my shoulders and decided THAT woman was NOT going to change the course of OUR history), I figured I'd kind of 'force' her to talk to me, assuming once the ice was broken she'd be ok...  so I sidled up to her afterwards, killing her with kindness, chatty-Kathy'ing away...  until I realized she was not at ALL like the ex's 'good' ex-wife, that she was, in fact, quite a nasty piece of business...  and that her mother, who she reportedly described as 'a bitch' and 'certifiably crazy', was quite charming and friendly...  and I thoroughly enjoyed her company that evening. 

I win.  ;)

But it's not all her...  he, frankly, is an issue in and of himself.  He was adopted.  He'll be the first one to tell you that, usually in the first days or weeks of knowing him.  He's got insecurities as we all do but his run more deeply ingrained than most, I think.  He's always had a thing for exotic pets and a plethora of 'cool' hobbies...  cockatiel, McCaw, iguana, greyhound, ferret, fly fishing, canoeing, semi-pro photography, film developing, tae-kwon-do, etc.  And near as I can translate, it has to do with the insecurity of adoption.  If he has lots of cool things and hobbies, you'll like him.  Long hair, cool, you'll like him.  Leather trench, motorcycle, fly-tying, cool, cool, cool, you'll like, like, like him.  And to cap it off, he has a tendancy to tell you ALL about his cool things and hobbies...  how great HE is...  because I think he's genuinely afraid if he doesn't, you won't see it.  You won't know.  And the hell of it is...  he IS a great guy...  smart, funny, great heart...  do anything for you if he can... 

But the flip side...

he's extremely intolerant of anyone telling him much of anything...

and this extends to the topic of his son (his son who is A #1 first in his dad's book as long as his dad's single but who becomes transparent and/or second-shelf when his dad has female companionship), though amusingly enough he'll unabashadly tell me what he thinks I'm doing wrong in my relationship with our son and I'm supposed to be open and receptive...

Uh huh...

So anyway, back to 'He has been a part of his son's life...'...  until almost 7 months ago when, because of work, he had to move to Florida.  Our son went down to visit with his dad on summer school break for 3 weeks shortly after he moved there... 

And in the interim, his dad's been great about phone contact and has flown in for a couple of really important occassions for our son... 

BUT...

Each time he's come in, he's spent MINUTES with our son and then gone off and been totally off grid (our son can't even get him to answer his cell) for the duration of his visit while he tries for the millionth time to mend fences with his on-again, off-again wife...  the psycho...  and the hell of THAT is he has told me the same stories again and again and again and AGAIN since he first started dating her...  bad stories that have necessitated their repeated separations because she has shoved the two of them into Jerry Springer-style show downs and situations. 

And my son has been involved in some of these...  including one where she cornered him in his own bedroom and screamed at him about what her opinion was of his father and how it related to the business portion of a derriere...

Now all this background is to get us to...

My son's dad is moving back from Florida...  on the road right now...  our son has seen him for all of 30 minutes total since July...  and my son called me a little while ago to say he'd talked to his dad and wouldn't be spending any time this week with him like he'd hoped...  that his dad would be staying with the psycho (my word, not my son's)...  that his dad said he would see if our son could come to the psycho's house (which is HIS house too!) a little (a LITTLE?!) this week...  and before my son could get the words out of his mouth that he did eventually utter, I told him...

No.  He would not be doing that.  I could hear it in his voice.  I could hear the pain and the hurt in my son's voice that his dad was prioritizing this woman AGAIN.  Yes.  She is his wife.  Yes.  They are trying to work things out.  Yes, our son will eventually have to try to be a part of that family if his father and this batshit woman work things out...

But REALLY?  You can't spend an hour and take your son to dinner and hug him and tell him you damned well missed him the last 7 months and do it alone because to be around this psycho who has caused you so much trouble and upset makes my son, in turn, troubled and upset and uncomfortable...?  You can't allow this 17 year old CHILD some time to work back into trying to develop a relationship with this crazed bitch since she's acted in such a rabidly insane way in front of this child that even HE, AS a child, knew it wasn't rational??

No.

He can't.

I told my son not to worry.  He would have to be honest with his dad and tell him how he felt...  that it wasn't that he didn't want his dad to spend time with his wife...  but that he wanted just a little time, just the two of them...  and he didn't care to stay at 'her' house...  yet...  that he didn't feel comfortable after all the show downs and screaming and ugliness and the on-again, off-again between his father and 'her'...  I told him he had to be honest but not to worry, his dad would understand.

I clearly gave his father too much credit.  =-/

I did what I was supposed to.  I supported my ex- to his son as I should.

But the response I got when I called him to tell him how his son was feeling, how his flesh and blood was hurting and feeling...  what I got was NOT what it should have been...

In his 'defense', he's been on the go since Thursday nearly non-stop trying to get packed and ready to come back to Virginia...  and he's been on the road last night and today non-stop from Florida...  so I KNOW he's exhausted and I KNOW him well enough to know what an ASS he is when he's like that...  so I spoke gently and I spoke with as much understanding and compassion as ANYONE would be capable of...  even going so far, when he started showing his ass, as to say "I know you're tired and I know this isn't hitting you well but I need you to hear my tone of voice and hear what I'm saying and how I'm saying it and what I'm trying to tell you about your son...   you KNOW I'm not trying to pick a fight..."...  and he held steady for another 30 seconds... 

But then he teetered straight off the edge of reasonable and I heard things like "He and everyone else is just going to have to understand that I did NOT move back to Virginia to make a choice between two people (I'm sorry, is there a fkn choice to be MADE when it comes to your flesh and blood?!!)", "HE is just going to have to understand that I am NOT moving back to my mother's and I cannot afford an apartment just to [accomodate] him..." (Really??  Who the hell asked you to MOVE to your mother's OR get an apartment, I just told you he wanted to spend an hour or two with you, just you and him, ya jerk; go to crack-haven DENNY's for crap sake!!)...  I lost what restraint I had...

This is your son...  you were devastated when you lost your own father...  this psycho HOSE-BEAST has done nothing but made your life MISERABLE for the last THREE YEARS...  and you can't take an hour and take your son to dinner or to hang out with your mother who also hasn't seen you in almost 7 months?

I said, simply, though with plenty of rancor, I know...  "Spend time with your son or don't.  I don't know what else to say.", and I hung up.

I immediately got a text that said "If your going to speak then hang up guess I don't have reason to answer." Really?  Then why are you?  (And isn't THAT rich when you get ticked off, yell and hang up on ME R-E-G-U-L-A-R-L-Y?!)

Against my better judgment, I responded...  "U have no compassion for u'r own son wanting to see u for an hr or so after he's been WITHOUT U for over SIX MONTHS for the 1st time in his LIFE.  U can't or won't see his hurt.  What is there to say?  I got it.  Now quit texting & drive..."

And in the time since I spoke with and responded to him, I've turned it over in my head trying to see all sides...  maybe I should've waited until he got home and had rested...  maybe I shouldn't be so protective, instead allowing the two of them to work out their differences...  maybe I should insist that my son spend time with the psycho hose-bitch if he wants to spend time with his dad...  maybe I should understand that his father believes he should put 'her' ahead of our son and it's not up to me to question his priorities...

But what I keep coming to is this...

In my universe, a child is a child.  No matter how old they are.  And as the adult, the parent, the one with the world experience... 

as the grownup, it doesn't matter how tired you are when your child's hurting, YOU are the one who needs to suck it up and have some compassion... 

as the grownup, it's my JOB to protect my children and to try to help YOU see things they may not want to tell you, same as you should for me, and YOU should be the one to lead trying to work out the issue... 

as the grownup, I will NOT insist that my son spend time with the evil one who's name shall not be mentioned because SHE is the one who's 'acted badly' and it's not up to HIM to make amends or to try to get along when SHE has been openly hostile and juvenile to my son about his OWN FATHER... 

and last... 

as the grownup...  I think since your son is the one you're going to need changing your diapers when you're too old to do it yourself so MAYBE you should put HIM ahead of Cruella once in a while...

I haven't responded any more.  There's no need.  He will make or break his own relationship with our son and, in my universe, I will simply continue to try to be a good parent, listen to, protect, love, apologize to when I'm wrong, and be happy with my son.

FOOTNOTE:  Michael's dad called me last night to tell me about his first day on his new job.  We were both more calm and I apologized.  Not for what I said.  But for my timing.  For being perhaps over-protective and feeling as though I had to bring it up to him right away rather than waiting until he'd gotten home and settled and had some time to rest.

And we talked.  He has valid points, some of which I'd rolled around when this happened...  that forgiveness is the point of the day with him and the troll...  that they are trying to work things out and my son will have to be a part of that...  that they all need counseling to learn how to live together... 

But I did have to choke back a response when he said 'she' had told him she had to learn how to welcome my son to the 'family' and learn to integrate him...  wth?!!  My son is SO easy-going and friendly...  you have to LEARN how to be an adult and welcome a child into the family he's already a part of by virtue of BIRTH?!...  do you have to 'learn' how to integrate and welcome the spoiled-brat of a girl you gave birth to (and don't get me wrong, I know it's not the child's fault she's been raised by a wolf)?

But it's not my family, it's not my life nor is it my job to try to control any of that...  my job is simply to be there for my son.  The end.  =)

Happy Halloweeny

Best adult Halloween in my universe:  3 years ago, local attorney's annual Halloween bash...  black geisha wig, blood-red cheongsam with gold frogs, black hose & kick-ass heels, lots of black eye-liner & vivid red lipstick...

A good time was had by all and the costumes were fabulous...  super-sweet commonwealth attorney as The Hulk, local bad-boy attorney as Ricky Bobby, a certain judicial assistant as a busty school girl, a Mary Poppins public defender...

And then, there was a certain someone whose name AND profession will remain unspoken...  one prone to being a little condescending, not always the most sincere of fellows, one who rarely remembered my name...  dressed as a doctor...  offering check ups...  mmm, how original...  ::yawn:: 

And the good doctor - checking out what I ultimately described as my-sphinx-meets-the-orient-express costume since neither me nor anyone there could decide if I was an egyptian or a geisha - would not move along...

The good doctor came back again and again, intrigued because he couldn't place me...  though he'd seen and spoken to me for a year and a half in the course of our work...  and the more perplexed he seemed, the funnier it got and the more determined I became not to tell this nerd who worked with me regularly who I was... 

His frustration that he was not only unable to place me but that neither I or my friends would reveal who I was just made it better and better...  it was like watching a cat with tape on its paws walking around shaking its feet and trying to figure out what the hell was going on and why it couldn't relieve itself of the nuisance...

I did finally let him off the hook and told him who I was...  and once revealed, I got the impression he couldn't back-pedal fast enough...  I think the good doctor actually had the good grace, unexpected good grace, to be a little embarrassed. 

He did, I'll also note, remember my name after that.

Sex, Lies and Headlocks...

(This entry was gonna be about something other than what it's morphed into and it was gonna be called Sex, Lies and Videotape...  but when I Googled the title to confirm whether there was an 's' on the end of Videotape or not, I found there's actually a book by the title I'm using and it somehow seemed more fitting...)

OMG!  There's a full moon and with it apparently come naked penis cell pictures and utter instanity.

Naked penis cell pics...  like skeezy little business cards, if you will...  harbingers of ill, bearers of bad feeling... 

Maybe you've gotten one from someone you've met casually who asked for your number, you get a text, flip your phone open and VIOLA!  Jim Dandy's Yankee Doodle staring back at you with a caption to "Call me!".  Or maybe someone you already know in some capacity does it...  friend, co-worker, school mate...  'normal', conversational texting back and forth and then BAM!  Penis cam, anyone?!

::shudder::

SERIOUSLY??

And in expressing my incredulity at the phenom, two friends have told me it's 'normal' (aaaaand we're back to Doc Kyle using the word healthy because what passes for normal these days is inSANE!)!  One friend's my age and said he's had multiple women tell him they've received them...  randomly, new acquaintances, BOOM.  Another friend, nearly young enough to be my daughter so apparently it's not a generational thing, says yup...  she's gotten a handful as well (again, SO sorry about the pun).

Brain bleach and smacking the 'erase' button as fast as your little ham hands can hit the button are the short term solutions...  but what about the long term and what it says?  About him?  About you/her?

And THIS is where this blog's broken down...

It was going to be a deep introspective about how one of these beastly little skeezer-cards puts the recipient into a headlock of sorts;  held immobile by a brain-churn that takes way too much energy and time wondering what deeply rooted dysfunction it spells out about the sender and what the recipients reaction says about them...

But frankly, I've decided I just don't want to look at it that closely any more.  I've spent a week with this muddying my thoughts, trying to turn it over and examine it and find a way to loosen the headlock...

And all I've done is spent good energy after bad...

There is no explaining it, rationalizing it, making it anything other than what it is...  I think, instead, what I will do is simply vent and maybe point and laugh a little...  isn't that what you're supposed to do when someone flashes you?

Now I know that people in committed, romantic relationships do things like send pics of their naughty bits to their beloved and I'm not commenting pro or con on that topic...  but SERIOUSLY, what in the hell can make a mature adult commit said naughty bits to the infinite universe of 0's and 1's in megabytes and teleport them to a mere acquaintance or someone who's a friend/co-worker/school mate and think it's a good idea?  What about it says anything other than "Hi...  I'm a boorish, self-indulgent, unaware, disrespectful, adolescent.  And also, I'm in love with my winky."

You open an innocent text message expecting some mundane missive and what you get is something that sets your brain churning and leaves you feeling the need for a Silkwood-style scrub down...

EWW!  What'samatta, you?  Were you raised by wolves for crap sake?  You gonna hug your mama with the hands that did that?!

Oy!

I suppose if you've had a history of bad relationship choices, have insecurity and damage and are always seeking and wanting the wrong approval the wrong way, letting it drive you to do things you don't even care to do, then it's not to hard to imagine responding in whatever flirty/sexy way you think the sender's expecting.  I certainly know gals that would...

But it's equally easy to imagine ultimately being left feeling empty, disappointed, embarrassed and/or hurt when the crass reply comes back to that would inevitably follow... 

With the failures and insecurities that litter my life's path, I still very much want approval and love and support...  but what I also know is someone centered so squarely on their own indulgent wants that they would do something so questionable is NOT prepared to offer any of those things and I don't for a SECOND think that there is ANY sentiment behind something like that EXCEPT skeeze.  Hellooooooo, McFlyyyyyy...?!  Duh!

And you remember it too girls...  you're worth FAR more than responding in any way other than the one suggested by a friend...  "Wow, that's crass...  and classless...  all at the same time...", and it's SO important no matter how much forgiving and/or forgetting you're willing to do that you take a moment, rap on your own forehead Biff-style and see the real picture and KNOW, without a shred of doubt, if he sent it to you he's sending it to others.  Bank on it. 

And since, in my universe, there is only me and I don't always share well with others, I say slip the headlock and walk away...

What Goes Around...

Summertime, 1982ish...

My dad was an agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms...  he'd briefly served as a Secret Service agent for President Ford...  and, as a matter of fact, he'd been in law enforcement since I was a baby...

I'd been sent to live with my dad Christmas of '80 because my mother said she 'couldn't handle [me]'...  I was actually pretty normal, I think, in terms of teen experimentation - tried some alcohol and tobacco and had dabbled with pot smoking the few times I was around stoner friends...  I never really had a burning (pardon the pun) desire to really smoke it but I damned sure didn't want to be considered the huge dork I actually was...  that and I'm a total follower...  ;)  I also clearly wasn't normal in terms of thinking ahead...  but I'm gettin' a little ahead of myself...

I had neighborhood stoner friends who regularly 'burned one', but I'd never been brave enough to do much more than buy the ocassional joint...  soooo...  it was pretty big stuff for me to decide I would buy a 'nickel' bag of pot for my very own...  I got my five whole dollars (saved, ironically, from the lunch money my dad gave me each week) and went to my friend, Greg, and as calmly and coolly as a dumbass such as myself could, arranged 'the deal'...

Now honestly, I wasn't entirely sure what the hell I'd do when I actually got it - again, I'd only dabbled up to that point - but whooooaaaa, Nelly, did I feel WAY cool when the expected delivery date arrived!  Of course I had to ACT cool - no mean feat when you're nearly running in place from nerves and anticipation - because I did NOT, of course, want him to know what I giant dork I was when he put it in my hot little hands (as though that wasn't probably abundantly clear to him already...  we did, after all, 'hang out' daily!)!

Delivered...  ::heart palpitating::  now what...  ::hands sweaty::  shit...  ::eye roll::  I didn't EEEEEEVEN think of how to actually smoke it once I got it so all I had was a baggie full of pot and...  well...  nothing...  no bowl, no papers, no nothing...  and frankly, I was such a rube I really didn't know where to GET any of those things either!  ::sigh::

I couldn't tell you where I got whatever means I used to smoke my treasure...  I couldn't tell you whether I even smoked much OF it...  what I CAN tell you is that somewhere down the road, weeks later, I still had probably half of what I'd started with...  and I realized something...  after time spent in my purse and back pack, the clumps of pot had broken apart and there were tiiiiiiny little seeds in the corners of the baggie that looked much like the seeds in corned beef... 

Hmmmm...

Now, my gramma was an amazing woman and well rounded; read to the handicapped, president of her NOW chapter, golfed, etc...  and that woman could make anything grow...  ANYthing...  I, howesomeever, had a thumb equally brown to her green one...  buuuuut...  if I could just remember what she'd taught me and take those little seeeeeeds and make them groooow...  <eg>

::music swells to a crescendo::

::music peters out:: 

Actually, I didn't have a clue what I would do with them if I could make them grow...  it really just came down to wondering if I could...  a challenge, if you will...  =D

Soooo, I got my American Freedom Train coffee cup from the kitchen where it hung on a wooden peg rack over the sink...

And I'll digress here for a moment...  the American Freedom Train was a 26-car train pulled by three newly restored steam locomotives that toured the country in '75-'76 for the Bicentennial...  it came to our area and I toured it on a school field trip, buying my coffee mug (white with red/white/blue steam locomotive logo and - though I did not drink coffee at the ripe age of 11 - the only thing I could afford since my mom was notoriously cheap.  I mean thrifty.) in the tiny little train car gift shop...  it was one of the few things in my father's house that was 'MINE' and I was proud of it...

Anyway...  so I get my cup, I fill it with some soil from a bag in the utility room, I push half a dozen little pot seeds down into the soil and I water it lightly.  I don't know where my folks were but I was totally covert anyway and I took it to my room...  eyeballing my space, and decided that out of the two outer wall windows I had since I was on the corner of the house, the one overlooking the side/back yard was primo!  After all, since the driveway pulled up right under my front window, ANY Bozo could see it if I put it there...  ::huge eye roll here::

So I tucked my little cup neatly behind the bottom edge of the priscilla curtain hanging in my window and left it to incubate with the water and sun to germinate what I considered my status boosting seedlings...

Now I can't tell you how long I left that cup there...  I know I checked it daily and nearly fainted from shock and panic when the little green tipped plants actually began to poke their little heads from 'neath the soil...  "They're growing!!  Wait...  THEY'RE GROWING?!!"...  and I know that I made sure to remember ALL the pointers my grandmother'd given me about growing...

Poke your finger in the soil to make sure it doesn't get to dry...
Poke your finter in the soil to make sure it isn't too wet...
Make sure it gets enough sun to grow...
Make sure it doesn't get so much sun as to burn...

I cringe in my gramma's memory relating that part, I know she'd've been much more impressed with some lovely snap dragons or pansies...

Anyway, I was a very dedicated plant mama and my little seeds turned into little spikes, spikes into little two-leafed plants that turned into three-leafed ones...

And then it happened...

While my front window was directly overlooking the driveway and, therefore, a monumentally bonehead place to hide my contraban...  my side window overlooked...  are you ready for this...  the side yard...  where the pool was...  where the grass grew...  where my dad got on his riding mower and mowed...  my dad...  the ATF/Secret Service agent...

::sigh::

And now we're back to "And then it happened..."

I came home from school...  Pop's at work, step-mom & l'il bro' are either out or downstairs...  I go to my room...  I put my stuff down and kick off my shoes...  I putter for a few minutes...  laallaaaa laaaa...  I lift the edge of the priscilla curtain to check my little plant that I hadn't looked at the day before...  had I?  Had I checked it and moved it?  Had I forgotten and stuck it somewhere else for 'safekeeping'?  Shit!  Ok.  Now I was REALLY running in place.  It was utter disbelief for a few minutes...  I tore my room apart and went through every drawer, nook and cranny multiple times, SURE I'd just missed it and rolling a thousand scenarios over in my head hoping I'd just forgotten that I'd done something smart and purposeful with that damned little cup of trouble...

::sigh::

Nope.  I knew it.  It was gone.  And I knew who had it.

Pop.

But I hoped.  If there's one thing I've always been it's stupidly optimistic and the QUEEN of compartmentalization (read: ignoring)...  I hoped that maybe my step-mom'd taken it and tossed it thinking it was trash and wouldn't think to say anything...  I hoped I really HAD done something dorky with it and just didn't remember...  again, a thousand scenarios.

But I said nothing.  Noooo need calling attention to myself if it hadn't been found, right?  Oy.

I don't remember, again, how long aftewards it was that my dad called me downstairs...  I think it was a few days...  of twisting in the wind...  agonized...  sweating bullets...  and then "THE TALK"...  "WHAT were you DOING?!  You know I work for the United States Government, don't you?!!", "Alcohol.", "Tobacco.", "Firearms" he recited staccato, as though speaking to the biggest imbecile in the world (yes, yes, I know)...  "I knoooow, I don't knooooww what I was doing...  I really didn't think they would grow!"...  "Then why??"...  "I don't know, I just wanted to see if I could do it!". 

No, Pop never believed me.  It was true, but he never believed me...

Now the saaaa-WEET part...

Flash forward to about 2001...

My daughter's bedroom...

I'm cleaning and picking up dirty clothes for the laundry and I notice one of the drawers about halfway up her chest of drawers is sitting about half open...

I go to close it and realize it's nearly empty...  save a small container...  a small Wal-mart container...  like the ones they package potato salad in from the deli...  and it's got something in it...  "Hmmh...  looks like dirt...  wait...  and there's something gree... WHAT the HELL??!!"

Em's pot plant.

I took it out.  I took it to my room.  Eyeballed it.  Thought long and hard about it.  Emily came home from school.  I was still in my room.  On the floor, cleaning out on of my dresser drawers...  and I call her in. 

She comes to the door and sees me in the floor...  and I ask her...  "So, whatcha got in your dresser?"

She eyeballs me warily and says "Huh?"  (my favorite slack-jaw teenage response)

I ask again.  "I don't know, what're you talking about?", she says with the look that tells me my princess, my delicate flower, knows EXACTLY what I'm talking about...

So I take it out.  The container.  And Emily, who's always been FAR more brazen than I ever hoped to be just stands there looking me in the eye.  A little defiant, really.  And I was the one who couldn't stand it...  no twisting in the wind for her...  no agonizing...  sweating bullets...  and no real "TALK"... 

But...

I did ask her exactly what Pop had asked me all those years ago...  "WHAT were you DOING?!" "I don't knooooww...  I really didn't think they would grow!", she said...  "Then why??" I asked...  just the same as my Pop...

and as I sat in my floor, looking up at her and waiting for her answer, ready for the discipline I'd have to mete out, I heard it...

It was the most surreal moment of my parents-coming-back-to-haunt-me universe...  and the most amusing...  I truly felt my Pop's pain for the first time in my life and I couldn't do a damned thing but laugh...

"I don't know, I just wanted to see if I could do it!". 

Wait.  What?

And I knew it'd come back around...

Kids Say the Darndest Things...

The grandboys, Thursdays w/ me and Eye Spy:

I get my grandboys every Thursday while their mom works her 'late' night...  I often deliver them to her at work to facilitate an earlier arrival home for them...

Me:  I spy something blue... (sitting in mom's work parking lot, facing and choosing a small, metal handicap parking sign)
Elijah (5) and brother Matthew (7) make multiple guesses until mommy comes out of work...
Me:  Ok, guys, mommy's here...  give up?
E&M:  YEEEEESS!!  What IS it??
Me:  See the sign over there...?  It has blue with some red writing on it?
E&M:  Looking everywhere but where I'm pointing, of course...  "No, what is it??"
Me:  (realizing maybe using the correct label of what I've 'spied' will be more recognizable for them) "See the handicap parking sign over there...?"
Elijah:  (leaning up between the seats, very excitedly exclaiming)  "YES!!  The one with the GRAMPA on it!!"

::fade to black with loud laughter and one puzzled 5 y.o.::

Me, Emily and Tacos:

Emily, age 4ish...  I would drive her to daycare each morning, hand jacked back between the seats so I could hold her hand all the way to 'school' (losing ALL feeling!)  and then pick her up each evening and hear all about her day...

Em:  "Mommy, mommy, I leawned a new nuwsewy whyme today at school, you wanna heaw it??"
Me:  "Of course I want to hear it, go ahead!"
Em:  "Ok...  Maaawy, Maaawy, quite contwawy, how does youw gaah-den gwow?  Wif' silvew bellws and taco shellws an' pwetty maids allw inna wow...!"

::uncontrolled laughter, baffled toddler::

Michael David Awful Dean and Budding Independence:

Michael, age 6ish, hands on buffet, feet back and spread so he's almost doing a push-up, one leg swinging back and front...  each of us asserting some long forgotten point...

Me:  "Michael, I said yes..."
Michael:  "Noooo, mommy..."
Me:  "Michael David, I said yes!"
Michael:  "No, mommy, I don't want to..."
Me:  "And why not, Michael David...?!"
Michael:  "Pee-cause me saaaay so, mommy!"

::stifled laughter from behind my hand::

Emily Sarah and Budding Independence:

Emily, age 7ish, butt leaning on the side of her bed, arms folded across her chest, me standing in her doorway & her back to me...  each of us asserting some long forgotten point...

Me:  "No, Emily..."
Em:  "Yes, mommy!"
Me:  "I said no, Emily, and I mean it and I don't want to hear another word about it!"
::I turn to leave the room::
Em:  (muttered under her breath to my back)  "Yooouuu bitch!"

::stifled guffaws from the bathroom where I sequestered myself as I marveled that not only did my 7 year old SAY what she said, but with appropriate application and vehemence::

Michael David and Pirate Ships:

Michael, age 7ish...  insanely proud owner of an enormous Fisher Price pirate ship with lots of lovely, losable little men and pieces that he played with night and day...  discussing some topic with his step-dad, Mark, who's made some point to Michael D...

Michael:  "No it isn't, new-Mahk"
Carlock:  "Sure it is, Buddy..."
Michael:  "Nuh uh, new-Mahk...  liar, liar, BOAT's on fire!"

::peales of laughter from both adults, another perplexed young'un::

The Ponies:

A former co-worker's friend recently took her granddaughter to the mall to ride the hobby horses.  The grandmother put several quarters into the machine but nothing happened and finally, she had to tell her granddaughter she didn't have any more money.  That evening when the granddaughter's parents picked her up, they asked her what she and her grandmother had done that day.

Her reply: "Well, Grandma lost all her money on the horses."  =D

Radio Edit...

I took the grandboys with me to my son's final (senior year) parents' night band presentation (senior year)...  the entire band marches in the public entrance to the auditorium behind the audience, drum corp first and going directly to the stage, the rest of the band behind them and ringing the auditorium and essentially giving us a concert 'in the round'...

The band plays full volume as though they're on the field and it's thundrous and absolutely resplendent!

The boys, now 7 and 5, were TOTALLY mezmerized and never moved except to stare in awe around the auditorium at all the teenagers playing their hearts out at full volume...

I often, on our way to meet their mom at her work, put on a few of our favorite "toe-tappin'" songs and me and the boys will sing along at full volume with them often asking me to "Play it again, Grammommy!"...

So at the end, of the parents' night band concert, as the last notes were fading away... the littlest grandboy turns to me and says, "Hey, Grammommy..."

"Yes, Elijah?"

Elijah, continuing to look wide-eyed around the auditorium at all the band members, "We should get that music for our radio!"  =D

****  I'll continue to update when I think of more or when more material's made available to me but in the meantime let me say that here's one of the many reasons I love to be around kids...  there is NO better laughter or enjoyment in this world than the usually unintended humour of a child and I, for one, love to soak in the joy it gives my little universe.  ****

Revolutions...

I just have never..." ~Neo

"Heard a program speak of love?" ~Rama-Kandra

"It's a... human emotion." ~Neo

"No, it is a word. What matters is the connection the word implies. I see that you are in love. Can you tell me what you would give to hold on to that connection?" ~Rama-Kandra

"Anything." ~Neo

Simply stated, this is what every human wants, I think. 

What I can't fathom is...  we all seem to want that amazing connection but so often are just flat unwilling to do the work to achieve it...  to hold onto that connection...

To quote a friend "Some [people] see beneath the surface and love that aspect of connecting mentally. Others just want to touch the surface."

Yep, because to see beneath the surface and connect mentally takes effort, dedication, purpose...  touching the surface, not so much.  But the reward...  man, oh MAN...  our folks always told us anything worth doing is worth doing right...  right?  So the reward has got to be amazing for the effort, right??

I've spent so much time in relationships that never connected it's sad, really...  I appreciate that I learned from each one and I wouldn't trade the experience, but the time invested was not always positive or productive...  the first one was because I was young and didn't think I had anywhere to go and was too inexperienced, insecure and just plain scared to try to stand on my own; the second was because I was pregnant & depressed and thought it would be stability for my daughter and unborn baby; the third was because he had doubts, I walked away, he didn't want anyone else playing with his 'toy' and came back, and I 'won'.  Didn't I?  Um.  And those were the ones I made legal...  the last one was 5 years.  I was totally committed.  May as well have had the paper but wasn't sure I'd ever do that again.  Net, net...  same result...  it was, again, for the wrong reasons.  And each one had the same thread...  I thought I could change them...  fix them...  save them...  and there was ultimately no connection.  ::sigh::

So these days, the whole subject of love and connection fascinates me in a way it never has before...  is it my age?  My 'experience'?  Desperation?  ;)  Over the last couple of years I've done some soul-searching, some introspection, some working on me...  I've looked at my past motivations...  I've looked at what I rationally want and expect from a partner.  I've realized that to settle because something is comfortable and safe is not where I want to be ever again because while comfort is wonderful, boredom is inexcusable...

Boredom means lack of connection...

A conversation with another friend wrestling with connecting had each of us defining what it is to be a savior versus a 'fixer'.  I think we're both fixers.  He feels he's more a savior. 

savior - a person who saves, rescues or delivers (from harm)...
fixer - a person who desires to fix, rescue or support something/someone that's broken...

I think it's essentially the same.

And on inspection, I think rationally what we really want is to be and have a partner...

partner - a person who is associated with another in some action or endeavor; a player on the same side or team as another...

His thoughts on partnership hit it on the head and I'll paraphrase...  [we all seem to want] a partnership so strong neither can imagine it being any other way... where not being together is unthinkable... and I'll add, one in which it cannot be imagined that any aspect of your life good and/or bad happens without the other a part of it, sharing it.  Seeing beneath the surface and connecting...  love...  the connection that the word implies... 

To make that deep, meaningful, can't-exist-without-you connection...  to see beneath the surface and connect mentally...  to make the effort, have the dedication, have the purpose...  because the reward...  man, oh MAN...  to be joined together in the endeavor...  to be on the same side as another...  to do it right because it's worth it...  to connect, to protect, to be protected...  amazing reward...  that's what I want in my universe.

Truth or Consequences

Building on a comment from a previous post...  I believe firmly in truth.  And if I don't get it or give it, I believe firmly in manning up and taking your lumps.  I try to give and I expect truth from everyone in my life; I am often disappointed.

I've always told those around me...  "Tell me the truth up front no matter how much it sucks because I may get pissed but I'll work through it and I'll get over it; if you lie to me and I find out, though, I'll be WAY more pissed and you'll have a FAR bigger problem on your hands (and we always seem to find out, don't we?)."

Funny thing about that?  In my teens I was an aaaaMAAAAAZING liar!  Lie about anything.  Color of the sky, whether I'd brushed my teeth, whether I'd walked or run home...  you name it.  In our household were my mother, me and my younger brother and sister and, looking at a snippet of time when I was about 14 and my brother and sister were ages 4 and 1, here's how it'd go...

MOM:  "Sarah, where are my tan corduroys and my white banded collar top?"  ME:  (indignant, of course)  "I don't know, why would I know??"
MOM:  "Because they're not in my drawers, they were yesterday, you've worn other clothing of mine, I haven't worn them and no one else in the house would!"
ME:  (totally pissy now) "Well I don't knooooow, Mooootheerrrr, I wouldn't wear your stuff anyway, I don't like it!"  (yes, totally ignoring the fact I'd been previously busted)
MOM:  "Well who WOULD then?!"
ME:  "I saaaaid I don't knooooow...  maybe Ren or Jen did something with them!!!  Why are you always accusing me?!!"  (sheauuh, riiiight...  what the hell was I THINKing?!)

This back and forth, I'm sorry to say, was often daily and how my mother kept from putting me in a sack and dropping me in the closest river, I'll never know.

::sigh::

The silver lining?  I developed an intolerance for my own bullshit...  good thing since I have ZERO tolerance for it from anyone else...

This intolerance applies, too, in the case of omitting or dissembling...  all too often (usually in the midst of a problem over information not divulged) I've had people say to me, "I thought you knew ABC...", "No, why would I know...?", "Well because I said XYZ."  Nope.  Didn't have a clue and there's no reason I should.  In my universe, if you mean ABC, you say ABC.  I try to so I assume everyone else does; I'm not a between-the-lines- or mind-reader and I take things said to me at point-blank, face value.

Truth:  IF you say to me "I can't wait for you to get the hell out of my truck!", I take you at your word...

Consequence:  I will-by-God-get-the-hell-outta-your-truck, maybe out of your life, and I will NOT understand that you didn't reeeeally mean for me to get the hell out of either.

Truth:  IF you tell me you don't like drama, can't stand lies and would never tolerate cheating, it will not occur to me you might dabble in any of the three...
Consequence:  I will be utterly shocked and rocked to the core when you create the drama, lie through your teeth and exchange sexts with your 20's-something-cousin's-wife and I will never fully forgive or forget, bank on it.

The converse is also true, of course...

Truth:  If I say "I've daydreamed about having more kids.", I do not mean "I want you to be my sperm donor or adoption partner.", but only that I imagine scenarios in my life same as anyone.  If I grouse that "I've paid all my bills and I'm a little tight.", I'm not saying "Hey Boyfriend, hand me some money," because I'm proud I can pay my own bills and still provide a descent home for my son and I really just need to grouse and have you sympathize because some days are better than others.  If I say "I'm not mad that you'll miss my friend's wedding because you didn't ask off in time but my feelings are hurt so let me deal and I'll get over it.", I don't mean I'm secretly pissed, I really do mean I'm not mad, my feelings are hurt, I'll deal and get over it.
Consequence:  If you try to read between my lines, you will be wrong and there will be misunderstandings and probably some arguments.

And the final truth is, the consequence will ultimately be your failure in my universe.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-chaaaaanges...

19 years of crushing.  5 years of electronic contact.  5 years together.  This fellow I thought I'd spend the rest of my days with.  This fellow who has a huge mooshy heart...  who served his country for 20 years...  who marked every special ocassion or date large or small with no less than a sentimental card and, more often, with extravagant, extraordinarily thoughtful gifts...  who believed in truth and honesty...  who got misty eyed at the sweetest things...  this fellow I had my first experience with and who I thought I'd have my last experience with...

This fellow changed...  career issues, life issues, money issues...  depression...  the mooshy heart became angry and bitter...  the 20 years of service became the albatross around his neck...  special ocassions became things marked by distant humorous cards at times and a few times were forgotten all together...  this fellow I had my first experience with and would clearly not have my last experience with...

The grass looked greener to him, I think...  through counseling I'd 'learned to fight'...  which simply means I learned not to be a screamer and learned how to listen...  how to try to disengage if things got heated...  how to keep nastiness in check since I've never learned how to put the toothpaste back in the tube...  but this fellow hadn't learned how to fight...  he hadn't learned not to use his career command voice...  he hadn't learned how to listen or disengage or, the worst, how to keep the nastiness in check...  and the more heated things became, the nastier it would get...  and the grass looked greener to him...

I used to say "How can you say such bile-laden, hateful, nasty things to someone you say you love?"  I never got an answer, really...  not that I guess I expected one...  and I kept right at it...  through the nastiness that even eventually turned to my 'fighting method'...  "Just because yoooou've learned how to fight...", "Just because yoooou know what to say in a fight to wiiiin...".  Um.  No.  It's not a game and it's SO totally not about winning.  Which, I suppose, was our failure to rise to the same level and, alternately, if I'm honest with myself, is probably why I never should have stayed so long at the dance; he wanted to win, I wanted to be better together.

Better together...  I always thought eventually, with enough support and love from me, he would reach a point that he was ready to do something about all the problems and issues he felt were holding him back...  and when that day came, I'd stand behind him and support him and work like a mule to help him...  what I didn't understand was that a gargantuan wad of insecurity clogged his every thought that there was no way up, over or around that mountain...  he was smart and funny and quick...  he thought I was smarter and funnier and quicker...  I won't even go into other things he felt inferior in general about...  and it didn't matter how many times or how loudly I proclaimed that he was funny and quick and smart, it wasn't enough.  That was MY failing; not understanding that I could never support him enough because he doubted himself so deeply.

Better apart...  we broke up the first time and my universe was shattered...  I cried for weeks, spent weekends on the couch sobbing...  couldn't eat, couldn't sleep...  every love song made me sad and angry and sent me weeping...  I felt so lonely I ached and I thought I might never recover...  I'd NEVER had this reaction (let's remember 3 marriages here!)...  for about 5 months I'd see him once a week or so, get a text every other day or so...  and that's what worked for him.  Yes, I was desperately unhappy with the way things were before the breakup, but it was the death of a dream and that's damned hard to bear...  so even though I wasn't crazy about the way it was going after the breakup, at least his presence made it easier to get through.

I mourned and dealt and then I started dating.  It didn't go well.  After a couple of weeks he 'got wind' and went screeching howler monkey, making it painfully and loudly clear that he didn't want any other dogs pissing on his tree and then labeling me as all but a 'cheating whore'...  so I went back...  he must love me to react like that, right?  Only things were no different.  I saw him once or twice a week, text every day or so...  and then two and a half months later I went on an annual girls trip over the weekend of my birthday.

The night we returned, the day after my birthday, I hadn't seen him in a week.  I'd texted him to tell him I was bringing his favorite - fresh scallops and lump crab - back and we could have dinner.  "Breaking Bad comes on at 8:30 and I can't miss that." was the reply.  Um.  ::blinkblink::  Whaaaaa'?  ::ahem::  Ok.  A few more sporadic texts arranged we'd have dinner together when I got home.  The day after my birthday, I hadn't seen him in a week.  He wasn't living at my place any more but he still had a key.  I decided that he was just fooling me.  When I came up the street his truck would really be parked in front of my place and he'd be inside with a card, maybe some flowers, candles...  guess what?  It wasn't.  No truck, apartment dark.  Hmmh.  The day after my birthday, I hadn't seen him in a week.  "I knoooow, he's parked around the corner and is inside waiting for me to get in and he'll jump out and grab me and hug me and wish me happy birthday and tell me how happy he is to see me like he did in the beginning..."...  guess what?  Nope.  I carried all my bags up, dropped them in the floor and proceeded to crawl directly into bed and weep.  I gave it a week, didn't say much of anything about being so utterly crushed.  He was having a hard time after all and maybe he meant to make it up to me the following weekend with a quiet dinner at home and some time together.  Long about Thursday that week, I texted to ask if we had plans.  No plans, why would we have plans?  I don't know, maybe since I didn't see you last weekend, or when I got back the day after my birthday?  "I need you to just bear with me, I'm having a hard time at work."

My turn.  Screeching howler monkey.  "I'm DONE with bearing!  I've borne with you for FIVE F*CKING YEARS!  I've borne with you through EVERYthing!  I've borne and borne and borne until I'm SICK of f*cking BEARING!  I'm DONE bearing!"  No response.  For a week, no response.  I call the next Saturday.  Maybe we should just break up for good, he says.  Yup.  Maybe we should.  Better apart.  Than we ever were together because you just wouldn't try to help yourself.

A MONTH later, I find out he apparently thought the grass was greener in another pasture and had been hiding it.  That he'd hooked up with an old neighborhood friend a few weeks before my birthday when he broke it off the second time.  That he wasn't truthful and honest.  That he'd've let things go on for who knows how long.  That this misty eyed fellow with the huge, mooshy heart was just as damaged and black inside as anyone I've known.  Two weeks after that, this fellow I used to know asks if he can bring 'her' to my/our church.  I broke inside then.  It was all gone. 

Ch-ch-ch-ch-chaaaaanges... 

It's been nine months...  I've healed, I've moved on in my mind and in my heart...  and I've tried to do a little introspection...  I know from my counseling no one can do anything I don't let them do...  why the hell did I let him do that to me for four and a half years too long...?  The death of the dream is the only answer I have.  If you've been crazy about someone since you were 15, it's a dream.  And when it comes true, who the hell wants to let go of that? 

He sent me a messsage the other day...  "You spoiled me with knowing how to fight...".  Saaa-WEET!  Seems maybe the grass wasn't any greener and maybe he should've quit worrying about winning and concentrated on being better together.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-chaaaaanges... 

I love him and wish him every happiness and good thing...  the best of all possible things in the best of all possible worlds...  and with my changes, I realize I not only want to, but have let go.

All I Need To Know, I Learned In Kindergarten

Bullshit.

All I need to know I did NOT learn in kindergarten. Yes. I learned to say please and thank you and you're welcome. I learned to share and to take turns and to "do unto others" as I wanted them to do unto me. I learned colors and shapes and numbers and that naptime was a great time to play "Wild Wild West" and be rescued by James West, played by my crush, James Tesh.

I did NOT, however, learn that sometimes I would love people and they just wouldn't love me back, that sometimes people are crappy for no apparent reason and there's not a damned thing I can do about it, or that I'd come to love adult beverages despite their horrid taste and that eventually there would be many of the things I didn't learn that would leave me craving it.

I didn't learn that the day I first heard my childrens' heartbeats on the tinny monitor in the doctor's office I would weep with the utter joy of it and I damned sure didn't learn that to love my children unconditionally would at times be the greatest happiness and at times the hardest trial of my life. I didn't learn about the value of friends and/or lovers who know your history and love you anyway, that gray hairs grow in the DAMNDEST places, that cooking can actually be therapeutic and enjoyable, that one day I'd quit buying wash & wear and learn to love linen, that my brother would die at 17 or my best friend at 34 and that I, by turns, would feel like I also wanted to die in dealing with the tragedy of their losses.

I didn't learn I'd have to put on my big girl panties when the going gets rough or that I'd smile and eat despite how bad the meal is that I've been served with love. I didn't learn that I would understand what it meant to hand my whole heart to someone, and I damned sure didn't learn that person would have the power to bring me to my knees by rejecting it.

I didn't learn that music would speak to me on multiple levels, that music would indeed be a soundtrack of my life, nor that music and lyrics could and would move me to tears. I didn't learn that a flaming bag of dogshit on someones doorstep who did unto me what I wouldn't do unto them would make me feel better, and I didn't learn that I would have the capacity to love so many people or that my love would be returned by just as many. I didn't learn that I would have puppies and kitties who would be like children to me, that they would comfort and love me boundlessly, or that I could lose them as easily as human family and mourn them as deeply.

I didn't learn that my joys would be so high or that my lows would be so bottomless or that I would be able to persevere, regardless. I didn't learn how limitless the human soul can be in its capacity to forgive nor how many times in a lifetime mine would be called on to do so. I didn't learn that there are evil people in the world whose transgressions far exceed human ability to comprehend, nor that there are victims of evil whose innocence I would cry for.

I didn't learn that I would come to believe so deeply in "truth, justice and the American way" or that I'd come to love fabulous hand-bags and runway shoes to distraction.

Kindergarten taught me a lot of important things that carried through in life, but it didn't teach me all I needed to know...

And it certainly didn't teach me I'd still be learning...

"Happy Noo Year to Yoose from Edwin Newman, NBC Noose"

(the ending of Newman's doggerel poem that reviewed each year's events when he worked on The Today Show...)

The news that Edwin Newman died August 13 was reported today.  A small part of my childhood died when I heard.

When I was very young, my grandparents were a huge part of my life.  It was the early 70's, my mother and I lived in Greensboro, my grandparents in Purcelleville, Virginia.  Though my mother says it was only for a week or two at a time during the summer, in my memory I was with my grandparents every summer, all summer long, and there is no distinction between years.

My family life was, at best, highly disfunctional from the start and my grandparents were the ties that held my world together.  Nearly every good memory from my childhood is tied to my grandparents and sometimes I wonder if my lack of a particularly significant recall of life with my mother then was/is a defense mechanism and, therefore, the reason the summers of my memory have no beginning or end.  Regardless, they are memories I hold the most dear. 

I would wake each morning to the smell of coffee percolating, the sound of my Gramma in the kitchen getting things ready for my Baba to eat breakfast before leaving for work, and Baba just down the short hall using the electric razor and preparing to start his work day.  I would lay there and listen until I was ready to get up or until my Gramma called me, whichever came first.

Stumping down to the kitchen, I'd pull out the tall, red and white 50's metal stool with folding step that sat under the edge of the sun-room side of the bar that divided the kitchen area, pull it as close to my Baba's stool as I could, and climb up.  Gramma had the percolated coffee ready to pour, the small saccharine bottle set out next to my Baba's coffee cup with a couple of the small tablets layed out, the AM/FM radio tuned to AM news, small juice glasses of ice cold O.J. sitting at our places, and whatever she'd prepared for breakfast ready to serve.  I almost always wanted cereal; Rice or Corn Chex or Rice Crispies since my mother would only allow me Puffed Rice or Cheerios...  which to a 5+ year old may as well have been cow dung.  The added bonus was that Gramma, unlike my mother, would allow me to not only put sugar on my cereal, but copious, heaping spoonfuls of sugar...  and oooh how I loved that white and silver wheat patterned sugar bowl and the pretty scalloped spoon that gave me such a roguish feeling to use!

Breakfast done, Baba would get his briefcase, do his Mr. Rogers change into his suit-coat, leave for the school board offices in Leesburg, 20 minutes away, and Gramma and I would begin preparation for whatever she planned for us to do that day.  I'd help clear breakfast dishes then head upstairs to wash my face, comb my hair, brush my teeth and change from my nightgown into the shorts and summer top 'uniform' I lived in with when I was with them, then hustle back down the carpet runnered wood steps and off to start the day. 

First thing each day, we would go to the garden and pick whatever green beans, cabbage, bibb lettuce, onions, radishes, etc., were ready for harvesting, over to the strawberry patch and/or the peach tree to do the same, then head off to the Purcelleville post office, P. O. Box 405, to gather mail from the little brass and glass box Gramma would let me twist and turn the little combination lock to open. 

After that, the day might hold a trip to the cool, dark stacks of what was even then the ancient Purcelleville Library (which stands nearly unchanged today), a stop at the recycle tractor trailer parked to receive newspaper bundles my Gramma would tie up with string, or to the Safeway a few blocks down Route 7 to stock up on whatever list items there were, as well as cardboard cartons of green bottled Coca-cola and Sprite, that would sit stored just inside the basement door on the top step to keep cool. 

We might go walk the greens of the Loudon County Country Club with someone from Gramma's ladies golfing group or she might take out the tennis raquets and try, with the patience of Job, to teach me not to lob the tennis balls over the fence but, instead, to volley them over the net...  and if I got REALLY lucky, it might be a day to swim in the country club's small pool and wrap up in Gramma's 50's beach towel replete with buxom, swim cap bedecked diving-beauties.  I still have that beach towel.  One of my most prized possessions.  I wanted to look just like those Barbie-esque beauties. 

Home most days for a lunch of cheese and just picked bibb lettuce with mayo on white bread, an ocassional piece of Juicy Fruit from the ever present pack in the tiny drawer by the fridge; though sometimes, my favorite times, we would drive over to Leesburg and meet Baba at the bowling alley for lunch that, for me, had to include piping hot crinkle fries those places make so well.  Back home to wash laundry and/or clean house and I would be turned loose to explore the neighborhood or ride the bike my Baba had borrowed from his secretary.  The same bike which I promptly, not knowing how to ride a bike yet, got onto the morning after he brought it home from work and careened down the side yard to a bone rattling crash into the side of the VW bus sitting in the neighbor's driveway.  I could ride that damned bike after that, I'll tell you!

Late afternoon would be dinner prep and ironing any of the sheets and clothes that had been, as always, hung on the line to dry.  Gramma would let me 'help', saving Baba's undershirts for me to iron as most women from her generation did for their husbands; his shorts were ironed too.  =)

Then one of my favorite times of day would start...  Gramma would begin making dinner and I would begin my contrbution to the dinner hour, taking out the folding black metal 50's (are we seeing a theme here?) T.V. trays and setting the three of them up along the opposite wall at the end of the kitchen bar.  I'd pull out three dinner plates, three forks, knives, spoons and napkins, and I'd set them all just-so on each tray.  Then Gramma would let me help her make our dinner...  maybe measuring and mixing together coleslaw ingredients, maybe snapping garden fresh green beans for the pot, washing silk from just picked corn or slicing fresh, ripe peaches or strawberries for the cobbler or shortcake dessert...  and she would make the meat.  We might have pot roast or whatever long-cooking main dish she'd prepared or, another of my favorites, on would go the stove eye and over she'd pull the well-seasoned iron skillet to heat...  pork chops and hamburgers were the best...  juicy and browned with just the right salt to them from the seasoning in the skillet.

Baba would arrive home at some point during dinner prep and once Gramma and I were done, I'd be sent off to 'get ready for dinner' - which was code for Gramma and Baba were having their small pre-dinner high ball of scotch and a few minutes alone in the den to talk and relax.  Once in a blue moon they would have a second small scotch and get quite jolly in very short order.  Gramma laughed a lot more than usual when she had a second scotch.  She had a lovely laugh.

Dinner would follow with Gramma and I plating the food and the three of us carrying our trays into the den to watch the NBC Nightly News with Edwin Newman or Walter Kronkite (which bored me to tears then and moves me to tears to hear in old news reels now).  Dessert of strawberry shortcake, peach cobbler, or my personal favorite, root beer floats in the green bumpy glasses with the bronze colored melamine tea spoons.  After, I could always count on Gramma to patiently play round after round of Go Fish or Old Maid with me until she'd finally, gently, shoo me up to shower and scrub with the pink resin, long-handled scrub brush, followed by liberal application of her bath powder.  I'd brush my teeth and reluctantly head downstairs to kiss and hug Baba good night, then begin the slow final trudge of the day up those carpet runnered wooden stairs to the roll-away made with outdoor-smelling, sun-dried sheets and set up for me in Baba's study.  Finally, a solemn recitation of prayers with Gramma sitting on the bed by me, making me feel as warm and safe and loved as I've ever felt.

I met Edwin Newman once.  In about '89 when I was working front desk at the Hotel Roanoke.  He and the fellow who played Ike Godsey on The Waltons, along with a handful of other celebrities, were in town for a charity golf tournament.  He looked the same as he had 19 years earlier delivering the news from my grandparents' television...  sounded the same, too...

That meeting took me back to a very happy time in my life.  His death today takes me back again.  Rest in Peace Mr. Newman, and thank you for the memory.

Signing off.

Chapter 1; It was a dark and stormy night...

Snoopy sits atop his doghouse typing his novel...

"CHAPTER 1"
"It was a dark and stormy night..."

It's no secret to anyone who knows me that my love life is, well, sketchy. First marriage two weeks after high school graduation, baby, divorce, late 20's second marriage, clinical depression, baby, divorce, and an utterly ill-advised third and possibly last marriage towards the tail-end of the clinical depression that skated me right to the edge of suicidal. Aaaaand divorce.

Dark and stormy all right.

The last two marriages and my depression were "counseled" by a doc who (obviously) was my kind of people - plain talking, no-nonsense, funny, down-to-earth - and when we had our last session he said "Well, I think you're...", and I filled in "Normal?" He laughed and said no, he preferred to use the term healthy. He said he felt healthy was a much more accurate adjective because in his estimation, what passes for "normal" in this day and age is pretty damned scary.

Or dark and stormy.

And this is where the two converge... a long-term relationship with a man I thought I'd be with the rest of my life ended last year and I was left feeling mentally and physically like someone had beaten me with a blunt object...  that I was the only person, probably in the world, maybe the entire universe, who was such a bad judge of domestic partners and going through the failure of another relationship at the ripe old age of 43. That although I was healthy, I was an utter and spectacularly flaming failure at love.

Dark, dark, dark.

I turned to online social networking to alleviate the crushing lonliness and to feel connected.  In short order, I  found hundreds of former high school friends...  jocks, heads, nerds, princesses...  and learned again and again and again that time had indeed been the great equalizer...  that though we'd fallen into cliques and categories in our 'Glory Days', we were now in the same foundered life and relationship boats by (as one friend noted) way of having lived the "same shit storms in life".

Storm, storm, storm.

And oddly, these friends I connected or reconnected with - save a few who forgot to wipe the sprinkling of bitterness from around their lips - seem pretty healthy to me...  searching for that rewarding existance and/or that healthy personal relationship, but all essentially on the same plane in terms of views and beliefs...  healthy...

::WAAAAAHHHHHH:: 
(picture winged, horn-blowing cherubs and parting clouds with rays of sunshine beaming down)

Now.  I know it seems sophomoric but what I finally "got" is that it's not just me.  Much as this universe circles me and only me sometimes, it really ain't just me...  that there are a butt-load of healthy people my age out there who made good decisions about domestic partners and who, whatever the reason, are in the same sad little boat I am.  And they're searching, too.  And, like me, they're hoping that the stats are wrong, that we aren't shit out of luck because we're in our 40's, and that we still have time to mold rewarding existences and/or find healthy, loving, long-lived domestic relationships.

But even if we don't, what I try to hold onto is this... with the multitude of close friends I have, the family I have, the connections and reconnections I've made and now cherish in a way I couldn't "back when", I'm not a failure at love - I love many people very much and they love me back - and I'm damned healthy...  it's mastering the decisions about domestic relationships I suck at and since practice makes perfect (and I've surely had enough of that), and I can be damned tenacious, eventually I believe I'll master that too.

::and the curtain falls::