Glitter in the Air...

I was lunching with my son after church Sunday when I got the call...  one of the fellows from my high school graduating class had died that morning...  the first of our class since our teens to my knowledge...  and it was surreal.

In the five short days since that call, so many things have happened and I've thought about so much...  I've wanted to write but couldn't quell the ADD jag of my thoughts; then I figured, what the hell...  so forgive me if this is a little "whompy-jawed"...

In the technological time that is now, it took only a matter of hours for the majority of our graduating class as well as other Cavalier classmembers to find out.  Within a day, I had the tentative visitation and burial information and hours after that, I had the concrete plans.

The wonder of it to me was not just that we were able to connect so many people so seamlessly, but that so many people then made it their mission to gather 'round for our fallen classmate and for his wife, another Cav alumnus.

In my 45 years, I've had a lot of anger and hurt over my personal relationships with my parents, each separately and alternately leaving me feeling unloved, unwanted, ignored, inadequate, or incapable of doing anything right.

When I was 15, my mother, who was responsible for the inadequate and incapable stuff, sent me to live with my dad, a man I never really knew prior to about age 14 and who was responsible for the unloved, unwanted, ignored stuff.  The first 15 years of my life with my mother and a step-dad who was in textiles, saw us move 9 times in 7 years and before she'd married him we'd been a few places as well...

As a child I'd learned how to put on "the face" and meet people, maturing with adults faster than my peers...  but I also learned not to connect with people...  if you connect and leave...  well...  it just hurts...  especially if home already hurts...

That said, it was probably the best thing my mother ever did for me.  For starters, I didn't really know my dad, so it was like staying at a stranger's home and for the first time in a long time I was kind of on my best behavior...  I still got in trouble but not like I had before...  and I was surrounded by good kids...  the adage my mother'd told me years before coming to fruition in my life...  water rises to its own level...  and I mostly did...

Living in this stable, if distant, house with my dad, step-mom & brother, and being integrated into this close-knit group of classmates, I learned for the first time what it was to feel some normalcy and security...  some freedom...  what it was not to be "the mommy" to my mother, what it was not to mother my siblings, what it was to have friends who knew all your bad stuff and good stuff and who had your back and loved you anyway...  what it was to do the harmless things kids do and have partners in crime and be a relatively normal teenager for a change...

I learned from my best friend's parents what it is to look at your child's best friend, take them in, and treat them and love them like they're your own (I'll never be able to adequately thank the Davenports or the Nimers for their generosity, love and guidance)...

And in this close-knit group of classmates I learned what it meant to really open my heart to another person and allow their friendship in completely - not to keep everything close to my chest for fear of separation and loss...

In the 31 years since then, life's been up and down...  and way down...  and I've learned and grown...  but the way down times have been so reminiscent of my younger years in some ways that I learned to shut down and hold things close to me again...

And all of that, and a little more, has been on my mind since we lost our classmate and friend Sunday...

He was 44 years old.  Now I'd thought about his age from the moment I got the call...  it was this abstract idea of "someone my age" is dead and gone...  but sitting in the church waiting for the service to begin, it hit me harder than a ton of bricks could've when I saw it in print on the funeral pamphlet.  Black and white.  Committed to paper.  44.  We're babies...  we're kids...  we're teenagers for Christ's sake, one of us cannot be gone to anything other than a freak accident...  certainly not to anything "natural"!

But he is.

And he left behind an amazing family...  he's italian...  and as so many traditional italian families are, his family is insanely close...  close enough that I'd be uncomfortable...  but that closeness breeds a love that I think is like pure undiluted concentrate...

And he left behind a wife...  the fellow classmate...  and two kids, ages 6 and 4...

And as I stood at the funeral home, looking at the sea of matured faces belonging to all those kids I loved way back then - the kids who accepted the new girl, standing beside her when jerks made lewd comments or snarky made-up stories about her reputation were circulated - and I realized as I never had in all those years in between...

This group of kids...  this group of mature adults...  they were all family...  close family...  and they'd do anything within their power to stand beside our widow and for our missing man...  and they are my family.  That's strong stuff for me.  Strong!

Now our lost classmate is one of those fellows who, as a friend worded it, never knew a natural enemy.  Every comment I heard or read - from family or "just" friends - was about how loving he was, how thoughtful, how sweet...  I'd only seen him during one period from the time we graduated until we got together to plan our 20 year class reunion, and that was when we planned our 10 year...  but it was like walking into a room to find one of your closest friends and picking up right where you left off...  he didn't know a stranger...  liked everyone and everyone liked him...  sly humor, ready smile, sweet nature, pure spirit...  and I think all of that was a direct result of his loving italian parents and family.  I think that pure undiluted concentrated love allowed him to, in turn, give the same to his own family and friends...  and thinking about that and seeing the overwhelming support of our school family made me see just what I've been missing...

I've closed myself off...  shuttered my insides to protect them...  it serves me fairly well...  but logically I know I'm missing so much warmth and love...

Our fallen classmate found love...  but only 7+ short years ago...  it was his first marriage...  she'd been a year behind us in school and was a pretty girl, very sweet, with big beautiful dark eyes, wavy chocolate hair...  but eclipsed in her mind I think by her Cali-girl, blonde haired, cheer leader sister...  never fully realizing her own potential and beauty...

And as I watched her at the funeral home doing the creepy-meet widows and widowers have to do, shaking hands, hugging, smiling and giving the "appropriate" and probably nauseating response to "How are you?" a thousand times over when what I think I'd want to do is crawl into bed and not ever come out...  my heart broke for her in slow, agonizing motion.

I ached at the thought that she'd had him for such a short time...  while at the same time smiling that he'd had that time, shared a love with her, brought children into his/their lives and their love...

And while I felt that ache, I also felt some envy...  as a "three time loser", I love love but it doesn't love me back very well and I found myself reviewing some of my mindsets from over the years on that in relation to myownself...

First, after my second marriage collapsed, I swore I'd never fall in love again (trite and cute all at the same time, huh?)...  that there was no such thing as "being in love", that monogamy was bullshit and didn't exist.

Then, after the third one burned to the ground and I got some counseling and found my sense of humor, I decided "practice makes perfect" so I'd just keep trying 'til I got it right...  I'm nothing, if not dogged after all...  ;)

After the collapse of the 5-year thingy a couple of years ago - the most emotionally damaging breakup of a relationship in my entire life, bar none - I found myself back where I'd been as a teen before moving to my dad's...  where I found myself after number two and over many of the years since...  closing off...  protecting...  shuttering...

And then my classmate, my friend...  this man who is a year younger than me...  then he died.

And I've found myself thinking almost non-stop...  in five short days, I've suddenly become blazingly cognizant of the moments when I have the opportunity to either open up or keep my cards close...  I struggle against the urge to protect...

But I don't want to keep my cards close...  I want to relax into the warmth and love of my friends, I want to relax into the warmth and love of that person who has that pure, undiluted concentrate of love that they're not crossing their arms over and protecting...

I have to be fearless...  and I have to look for that person who is fearless in return...  and in my universe, like my classmate and friend, when I find it, I want to let it in and roll around in it 'til I'm pruney...  I want to wallow in that pure undiluted concentrated love that will allow me to, in turn, give the same to those around me...

Like Joey did.

Have you ever fed a lover with just your hands?
Close your eyes and trust it, just trust it
Have you ever thrown a fist full of glitter in the air?
Have you ever looked fear in the face
And said I just don't care?

It's only half past the point of no return
The tip of the iceberg, the sun before the burn
The thunder before lightning, the breath before the phrase
Have you ever felt this way?

Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone?
Your whole life waiting on the ring to prove you're not alone
Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?
Have you ever invited a stranger to come inside?

It's only half past the point of oblivion
The hourglass on the table, the walk before the run
The breath before the kiss and the fear before the flames
Have you ever felt this way?

La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la

There you are, sitting in the garden
Clutching my coffee, calling me sugar
You called me sugar

Have you ever wished for an endless night?
Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight
Have you ever held your breath and asked yourself
Will it ever get better than tonight? Tonight

Rules for Boys!

My friend, Kristy, has a most delightful little boy...  6 years old...  and a few months ago on FaceBook she posted this: 

So "N" and I had a conversation about having a boy as a friend and a boyfriend... He looked at me and very seriously said, "I'm a boy so let me help you."

Then he told me there are rules for girls. I ran and got my notebook so I could write them down. 

Rules for Girls

• Don't act crazy or boys will think you're freaky.
• No saying (he starts talking in his high girl-like voice), "I like.. and I like this.. I like..."
• When boys say "stop" they mean stop. (Ok- I think it's because he gets chased.)
• Don't make boys upset or they may leave or do something crazy like that.
• Boys like to listen to Rock & Roll music, and be in gangs (he means friends) and have lots of fun, & ride motorcycles, & talk, & make jokes, and play guitar.
• Boys like things that are off motorcycles and talk about other girls when they spot them. (hmmmm...)
• Boys like a lot of fun stuff.

Well, I think my 6 year old son has really captured the true simplicity of the rules. Now I must remember them! :) 

The more I thought about his rules the more I thought I should take a cue from this wise little man and give boys a few rules of their own from my universe and simple works here too...

• Don't act like you don't like the girls or the girls will find other boys who do.
• No saying (in my mimicking-a-guy voice) "My ex did this or my ex said that... ".
• When girls say "Don't stop"...  they meeeeean "Don't stop!".  ;)
• Don't make girls upset because they may leave and find other boys who won't.  (Am I onto a theme?)
• Don't spend ALL your free time with the boys listening to rock & roll music, being in gangs, having lots of fun riding motorcycles, talking, making jokes and playing guitar because girls will find other boys who don't.  (Yes, yes...  I see a definite trend here.)
• Girls like things that are on motorcycles, especially boys, and will talk about boys on motorcycles when they spot them.
• Girls like a lot of fun stuff.  Like boys.  And motorcycles.

And there are more, only slightly more complicated...

• Girls, the good ones, would rather have the $15 handmade copper bubble wand you saw at the crafter's fair 6 months ago because you remember how much she loved it than she would the shiny jewelry store ring (you had them wrap) and cookie-cutter Walmart card you picked up on the way to your anniversary dinner...  the thought really does count.
• Girls need to cry...  let them...  you don't have to say a word or fix anything, just put your arms around them and let them spend themselves in your circle of security.
• When you ask what's wrong, girls will tell you...  asking, then mentally tuning to the Dodgers game will take you places you don't want to go...  acknowledge and offer your thoughts...  we don't care whether you agree, we just want to know you're engaged.
• Diamonds don't start cut and polished, keep an eye on the "plain" girls.
• Girls like the smell of a hard day's work on you but will drop you like a hot rock if you use that for an excuse for poor hygeine...  haircuts, manicured hands and feet, body wash and a little man-scaping go a long way.
• Girls like guys who can dress appropriately...  paint spattered cargo shorts and holey tee are fine for a bike ride but not for dinner out where there's silverware and linens.  Have a dress coat and slacks in the closet.  And dress shoes.  With socks.  That aren't white. 
• Girls want to know what's bothering you and help work it out.  It's against the essence of your handle-my-own-shit manhood, but throw them a bone once in a while.  If you can't, explain that and ask for understanding.  Girls understand.  We're good at it.  That's why we want to know what's bothering you.  And we want to know it's not us.  Or that it is.
• Girls want to know you love and want to protect them.  Give them a hand down the steps, send them an unexpected text, pull them close in a crowd, draw some x's and o's on the fogged bathroom mirror...  we just need to know you think of us in ways unrelated to obligation.
• Girls, the good ones, don't care how much you make.  If you are self-sufficient and take care of your own, you're golden.  It's because we can respect you.
• Girls, the good ones, don't mind doing guy-stuff.  Just don't ignore us while you're doing it.  Show us, teach us, talk to us about it...  we're interested in lots of stuff and want to be engaged in something you're interested in.
• Girls want you to share their interests...  you don't have to learn to quilt or bake puff pastries, but help pick the bathroom paint, read the book we're reading, go to the gym with us...  we just want to know you're engaged in something we're interested in.
• Girls need "alone time", too.
• Girls want you to like their family and friends.  If you don't...  pretend.  You can be civil once a month.  We do it for your pervy uncle Ted and your college room mate.
• Girls, the good ones, have corresponding faces for corresponding emotions...  happy, smile...  sad, frown...  watch the ones who don't, you won't be able to respect them.
• Girls want the truth.  No matter how much it hurts.  Because when you man-up, we can respect you.  And if we catch you in the lie, we will be soooo much more pissed. 
• Girls, the good ones, will eat a burger and drink a beer with you, watch Dodgeball and turn up the guitar rock.  We don't all hold out for caviar and Dom, theater or a quartet...  but the good ones are game for those too. 

Girls, in the end, just want that hunter-gatherer they can respect and it all boils down to that...  love us, be honest with us, protect us and take care of your own...  Girls, the good ones, will love you, be honest with you, protect you and take care of you back.

Jokers, Clowns and Other Stuff From the Middle

In the couple of months since my last entry I'd like to say I've been too busy doing amazing things to scribble, but the reality is my brain's just not been in the game.  Not for lack of material...  I just haven't "felt it" - my universe being Groundhog Day broken by occasional spurts of chaos.  But like getting back into the gym after a long break, I know that the thing to do is "just do it" (those damned Nike people, that should'a been my million dollar slogan!), so...

Mom's spinal surgery recuperation, Chapter 1... 

For a week and a half I slept on a love-seat/"sofa" in mom's claustrophobia-inducing two-bedroom, two bath apartment - which is a single bedroom and bath due to the volume of its contents.  Mother and her now dead "estranged" (they still did everything together, they just lived separately) husband, Tooie, are/were pack-rat hoarders the likes of which legends, or reality shows, are made of and after Tooie's death a few months back, hundreds of boxes and bags from his house (I toyed with "thousands" when estimating the bulk if that gives a hint) containing family treasures were sifted through and mountains of them ended up crammed onto every available surface and clogging every pathway in mom's already bursting apartment...  moving through it's a lot like crawling through a kid's play tunnel, though at least mom's not as bad as Tooie was since her 20 sets of candlesticks, 5 bottles of window cleaner, 8 china chickens, 150 wall-hung items, 12 file boxes of email printouts, 112 pieces of mercury glass, 26 totes of everything from gift bags to household tools, etc., etc., are all VERY neatly organized...  another sickness...

But I digress...  

Mom was medicated heavily when I arrived from Roanoke (she's in Annapolis, MD) - oxycodone and/or -deine, valium, various other meds, and mom's highly susceptible to them - so the moment I walked in the door there commenced a discussion about mom checking out of the hospital wherein she insisted repeatedly she wanted her clothes because she was ready to go home and the party of "they" couldn't make her stay...  it went something like this...  "Sarah, where are my clothes?", "Why do you want your clothes, mom?", "Because I'm checking out.", "You can't check out mom, you just had spinal surgery and your doctor hasn't cleared you yet has he?", "No, (insert whine) but I want to go home (insert insistent tone) and they can't make me stay...  now where are my pants?!", "I don't know mom but you're really groggy and I think you need to let me find a nurse or doctor and talk to them before we do anything.", "I want to go home!", "Mom, you can't even stand right now...", "Sarah, I want to leave, I want my pants!  Where are my PANTS?!", this in a borderline freak-out tone...  a few more go-'rounds like that...  I finally lose my patience and bark at her...  then, fortunately, the meds kicked back in to their full potential and the fight was over for a while.

Mom was only supposed to be in the hospital 2 to 3 days...  it was 5 before they finally released her.  The delay, a cripplingly painful melon-like fluid build-up on her knee that kept her from not only being able to get out of bed, but also from even being able to lay in any position that didn't cause considerable discomfort...  which necessitated more meds and talk from staff that she would be moved to a rehab facility because she was clearly unable to go home...  which brought on more vehement argument from her about home and rehab and her determination to go to one and refusal to go to the other...  it was wonderful.  Silver lining?  My seestor showed up a couple of hours after I got there with a bag full of magazines, playing cards and the old travel Battleship game which we immediately and with great nostalgic glee set up and played.  =)

Now as eccentric and argumentative as my mom is, times a thousand on meds, she knows what she knows about herownself...  
"Drain the knee.", she said...  "Your doctor's on vacay.", said they...  
"Drain the knee.", she said...  "The on-call's not in the hospital.", said they...   
"Drain the knee.", we said...  "We've called your doctor's office and the on-call but they haven't called back yet, we have to wait.", said they...
"Drain the knee!", we said...  "We're still waiting for the on-call to call us but we'll take you for an x-ray to see if there's fluid on the knee." (Seriously?  The melon doesn't tell you anything?  When it's happened before?  Reeeeally?), said they...
"Drain the knee!!", we said...  "The x-ray shows you have fluid on the knee, we just have to wait for the on-call to call.", said they...  
"REEEEALLY?!", I said...  "GIVE ME THE NUMBER TO THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE AND LET ME CALL THEM!", I said...  
"The doctor just called, he said he's coming in from vacay to drain the knee.", said they...
::smirksmirk::  said we...

She was standing within hours.  Corporate health care bureaucracy.  Shit.

So...  after the cute physical therapist I wanted to fix my seestor up with had a session with mom and cleared her to be released, they began the paperwork and told mom she was going home.  Mom who'd wanted to go home from first consciousness...  mom who argued for her pants...  mom who wanted to go home now...  mom who petitioned for her clothes, her pants, anything she could put on and leave in...  mom who insisted they couldn't keep her there...  mom who said she would, under NO circumstances, go to rehab...  

"Wait...  what?  They said I'm what??"  Sudden alarm.  "I can't go home, I'm not supposed to go home.  The physical therapist said I'm supposed to go to rehab!"  "Yes, mom, the physical therapist...  did you notice a ring, I wanna set Jen up with him...  you just had the session with told the nurse that since you can get up on your own steam and take some steps, you're cleared to go home now.", "But that isn't what he said to me!  I didn't notice a ring, I think he's single.  He said I had to do all these things before I could go!", "What things, mom?", "I don't know...  something about this and that and this and that I had to go to rehab.  So I know I'm not supposed to leave yet!", "I talked to the nurse mom, they're doing your paperwork now.", "Wait!  Are you sure??  That's not what he said!!", panic creeping in...

I told her I'd go talk to the nurse and physical therapist and confirm, knowing it was the only way, and set out down the hall with my seestor a few steps behind telling me we should just tell her she's going home and be done.  Brief confab with seestor to say I know mom's control-freak self will not accept the answer unless it comes straight from Cutie-pie p.t., "And besides, he's cute, you should play kissy-face with him."...  seestor agrees - on the confirmation, not the kissy-face - we confirm with nurse and request tete-a-tete with Cutie-pie p.t. (who the nurse seemed to want desperately to guard in his little locked p.t. room - is that to keep folks out or patients in?! - since she kept saying "I think he's gone...  I think he's getting ready to leave...  I think he's going home now...", "Just get him...", said we, "unless you want to argue it with our mom."  Nurse promptly throws Cutie-pie p.t. under the bus and he's in mom's room in minutes.  heheheh).  Cutie-pie p.t. assures mom that what he said was if this happened and that didn't and this did, then she would've had to go to rehab but since that wasn't the case, she was walking fine, she could go...  mom, o' lady of the pants, vixen of vexation, dame of determination, tries to persuade Cutie-pie p.t. that he hadn't actually cleared her to go home but he's goooood...  patient...  firm...  and we finally roll her out.

Of course, by this time, it's 5:00 p.m. on Friday and everything in the hospital closes at 5:00 so not only can we not get her a walker, a necessity in the days to come, but we can't get a wheelchair for her either - an immediate necessity as I can't, small as she is, carry her silly, drugged up self to the car.  To add to the challenge of the game, the departments we'd get them from are closed 'til Monday  ::sigh::  Eventually, the sweet young nurse wrangles a new-with-tags walker that she had no idea how to "record" (presumably for inventory and a bazillion dollar charge to the insurance company) and we're off...  I've decided we'll just put mom in a computer chair from the computer lab at her building and roll her upstairs.  My seestor's abandoned us for much needed rest in the midst of the the walker/wheelchair fiasco so it's just me and mom driving home in my 4x4 Escape...  not a smooth ride, definitely not suitable for a spinal patient.  We did 25 mph the whole way home.

Mom's spinal surgery recuperation, Chapter 2...  

The next 7 days, locked in mom's apartment amid the mountains of mom's and Tooie's stuff all kind of ran together...  and was emotionally draining...  the catalyst definitely bourne of mom's oxycodone...  she was a source of great mirth as well as great upset for me while she was on it.  Funny...  the party of "they" say alcohol is truth serum...  so too, evidently, is oxycodone.

Anyway, my first FaceBook post was "Mom + oxycodone = hilARIOUS conversations!  =)"

Which was the result of mom swearing by God and all that's holy that SOMEONE has spiked (I loved the word "spiked", denoting some malicious canning company conspiracy) her canned, jellied cranberry sauce.  She was heavily sedated but she was tenacious when she slurrily insisted "My cranberry sauce is hot!  It's spicy, Sarah!", "It's not spicy, mom, it's ok.", "I'm telling you, Sarah, it's spicy!  Someone has spiked it with something hot!  I can't eat it!!", "Mom, it's the cranberry sauce from the can that you, yourownself, opened...  it's not spicy." ::taking a taste::  "It's not spicy, mom, try another bite...", "Sarah, I'm TELLING you, someone put something spicy in it and I can NOT eat it!!!", "Ok, ok, mom!"  I took it away but served it to her the very next day, waiting expectantly...  as she ate every bite.  ;-D

Then there was her "coffee".  She uses the biggest coffee cup I've ever seen - big ol' pottery-type mug - and she shovels in powdered creamer and sugar until there's, NO exaggeration, about an inch and a half of stuff in the bottom of the cup...  then she pours her coffee in from the pot.  What she ends up with is a viscose coffee-flavored syrup that makes my head hurt just to take a sip.  I've set her up in her bed with mountains of pillows to recline on, hold her head, elevate her arms, prop her leg on...  I've put everything she says she needs beside her on the bed, most of which she didn't need and which took up the whole other side of the mattress, but which she insisted she might need and what would she do if I weren't there to get it for her?  Seriously mom?  I took a week and a half off work, I'm going nowhere soon!  =-/  I've run a rut in the carpet ferrying child-sized helpings of food and drink back and forth from the kitchen when she's finally hungry or thirsty and, on this particular occasion, had ferried the industrial sized bottle of powdered creamer and the sugar bowl back to her, along with her empty mug and a spoon.  In go heaping spoonfuls of creamer and sugar and, when the mound meets sufficient height requirements, I shuttle it all back to the kitchen and pour her coffee in, which she insists I MUST bring back to her to stir.  So I do.  Against my better judgment, I do.  I pull the folding table over, set the coffee, coaster, napkins, spoon, etc. up on it, make sure it's close enough for her to reach it, and watch as she, who refuses to allow me to help, proceeds to sink her spoon into the goopy mess and begin to stir, sloshing small rivulets of it over the edges of the mug to the napkins underneath...  I watch, relaxing somewhat that there's no catastophy, as she puts it down, puts the spoon down, rearranges a couple of things on the bed beside her as we chat - she, groggy from the constant flow of oxycodone - and then clumsily picks the mug back up...  "Let me help you, mom, you're looking a little sleepy.", "I'm perfectly fine, Sarah, stop fussing over me!"

it took about 3 seconds...

she takes a small sip, drunkly commenting to me about the TV show she's "watching", and almost instantly she drifts off to sleep and proceeds to spill the coffee down her front.

Second FaceBook post:  "Mom + Oxycodone = coffee spilled down her front when she falls asleep sitting up because she insists she's perfectly fine...  ;)"

::sigh::

Then there's our Thanksgiving feast.  As previously scribbled, mom was very excited that before she went into the hospital she'd gotten sliced turkey from the deli for Thanksgiving "feast" sammiches...  and...  AAAND...  wait for it...  "mashed potatoes in a tub!!"  =)  By Sunday she's regained enough strength and sobriety that she wants to have our Thanksgiving "feast"...  followed by the eggnog - bourbon spiked of course - she had us pick up the morning after she came home when she insisted she was well enough despite spinal surgery to go grocery shopping.  ::eye roll::

Third FaceBook post:  "We.  Love.  Eggnog...  with bourbon.  =D  Mom is only allowed a few SIPS since Mom + oxy + bourbon = E.R."

I tell her we will but she can ONLY have a FEW sips of eggnog so we don't end up back at the hospital...  I get no argument, but I could see it on her face...  she'd show me, oh yes she would! =-/  I prepare the sammiches and bring her the HUGE wine-glass helping of eggnog and bourbon she insists she can drink all of and she prepares it with the same dogged intensity found in her coffee preparation, this requiring eggnog, bourbon and just the right amount of nutmeg.  17 and a half minutes later it's ready...  she takes a sip, rolling her eyes and murmuring her appreciation...  I go to the kitchen to pour mine (30 seconds prep for me!) and return a moment later to find her, eggnog sitting on the tray in front of her, passed completely out with her head lolling back (which couldn't've been good but seriously, how could I have seen that coming?!) on her neck brace!  Off to bed I packed little Kathleen, thankful I didn't have to argue about taking away her eggnog.

Now I think I mentioned...  mom's well organized...  which is an understatement of monolithic proportions...  but she's also become painfully anal-retentive in her cleanliness now that all we kids are gone and, as she always has been, is utterly convinced that without her we would not remember to breath, much less put things back where we find them.  As such, we are all instructed in strict step-by-step format on things like:  spraying all three shower walls and the curtain down, top to bottom, when we get out lest we leave a stray hair (the meltdown when it's not a head-hair is amazing)...  not folding back the towel draped on the end of the bed for the cats so we can sit down because then we might forget to put it back (so suck it up and have a hairy ass or stand while talking to her)...  washing off each dish as we use it and putting it in the dishwasher immediately (if we don't want to hear vehement inquiries of "Who left this plate in the sink and didn't rinse it off?!!  Dammit, if you're going to use a dish, PUT IT IN THE DISHWASHER!!" - which sounds reasonable until you live it...  as a grown adult...  with dishes of your own...  that you manage to wash and reuse on a daily basis.  =-/...  wiping down the surfaces of the bathroom if we use any kind of airborne personal product (ignoring all logic that she sprays hairspray for, no joke, two uninterrupted minutes when she's getting ready in the mornings and doesn't wipe it down and it's fine - ours is somehow stickier or smells worse or whatever other justification she can think of.)...  if we need band-aids, scissors, string, tape, scrap paper, a book or any other thing, we are flogged through the same step-by-step hoops and, in EVERY case, we are quizzed when done to confirm that we have, in fact, followed and completed to mom's satisfaction each and every step.

SO...

Imagine MY dread when, upon my arrival at mom's apartment my first night in Annapolis, I suddenly remember that mom now has two of Tooie's cats...  and a gargantuan litter box for the two of them that would accommodate a herd of bison...  and I know...  standing at the threshold of the bathroom where she has it stationed...  mere feet from her bed...  where she's laying recuperating...  I know what yo-yo hell I'm in for each and every time she hears a paw rustle the sand within that bear cave of a box...  I will spend 20 of 24 hours of each day running to the box to scoop and dispose of kitty poops, real or imagined!  Adding to the dread is the fact that one of the cats is ancient and I'm not entirely confident she'll seek out the box, and the other, being what appears to be a mix of orange tabby and Maine coon, is a small pony.  Seriously.  A pony.

The fourth FaceBook post I never got around to...  it would've read:  "Mom + oxy = peace in the land of O.C.D."

I scooped the box each morning, carefully vacuuming each and every stray piece of sand up and repositioning the mats she's placed in front of the box (I won't even go into the circus that results from having to essentially pole vault the box just to take a shower), assuring mom I'd done it and then waiting expectantly all day to hear her summons me for poop-scooping duty...

Not a word.  Until the last day I was there, not a word.

I like to think that was God's small concession to my sanity for that week.  =)

Mom's spinal surgery recuperation, Chapter 3...

The last day I was at mom's and after she'd been up and around a few days poking lethargically at boxes, we came down to it.

I'd spent the day clearing all the plants from in front of her living room window, washing down each of the folding tables they'd been on and setting the sofa table newly recovered from Tooie's up in place of them, washing it down, washing all 3 windows top and bottom, inside and out, then rearranging all her plants on the sofa table...  I was exhausted mentally and physically from the week and was alternately glad that I'd finally be going home and getting away from the bickering and sniping that's part of mom's world and agonizing that poor, helpless mom would be there by herself and thinking maybe I should try to wrangle another week off to stay with her...  instead, I spent most of the late afternoon/evening clearing out as much as possible in her living room and rearranging boxes, tables and piles in the most convenient way I could so she could work after I was gone without having to strain herself...

We'd spent time going through accordion files mom had set aside with my and my siblings names on them and which contained tons of memorabilia we'd forgotten or never seen...

One of these treasures was a black and white photo of my grandmother in her 40's Sunday best and my biological grandfather in his Navy uniform, set in a cardboard folding frame whose front was stamped with art deco design, palm trees, and the words "The World Famous Cocoanut Grove", California (where mom was born)...  the back was stamped "June 28, 1944", three weeks to the day after my mother's birth, and the kids looking back at me were heartbreakingly lovely.

My seestor, who has a scanner, has been in charge of scanning and sharing all the old photos from Tooie's with us as mom gets them sorted through...  I'm too far away to help and my brother is more than happy to leave it to her...  

And this is where we come to an age-old wrestling match that my seestor has learned to work around, my brother ignores and I, in my maturity, argue about every chance I get because it makes me crazy...

Mom is O.C.D. and a total control-freak (yes, yes, I knoooow).  My seestor surmises it has a lot to do with her childhood, parents divorcing, her mother remarrying and feeling totally unable to control anything in her life.  I think she's probably right.  As such, ANYthing mom has that is of any value, monetary, sentimental, whatever...  she keeps an iron-fisted reign on.  Insanely so right after my grandmother died, down to recipe cards and bottles of plant seeds...  though with Tooie's passing and the resulting mountains of mess she's gotten better...

but one long-running bone of contention still between us:  a Colt .45 revolver my father gave her when I was a baby.  They've been divorced for 43 years and I would LOVE to have it, learn about it, use it...  but nope.  NO deal.

Anyway...  my last night...  I was getting ready to go to the drugstore to make some copies of some old photos of mom and me and to pick up a couple of items for her when we come to the picture of my grandmother and biological grandfather...  and I say, iron-fist in mind, "I know Jen is taking everything and scanning it but I also know she's really behind and I would reeeeally love to have a copy of this...  would it be ok if I took it and copied it and brought it riiight back?"

The change in her was palpable.  "No."  "Why?", I asked.  "Because I said no.", "I'll bring it right back; Jen's overrun scanning and I'd really like to copy and frame it."  "No."  "Good Lord, mom, why not?  Jen's taking the photos out and not bringing them back for weeks; I'll bring it right back!" I insisted.  "No.  I know Jen will take care of them.".  "What?!!  What the hell do you think I'm going to do with it?  I'll copy it and bring it straight back.  Jen will take care of them?  What about me and Ren?", and then she said it...

"Renny," she said, "isn't a thief.  I can't trust you to bring it back."

An eternity of stunned silence from me; it was like she'd physically slapped me.

I knew, you see, exactly where this was going.  When I was in my late teens or early 20's, I was a liar of the first caliber, and what my mother would term a thief, though my "pilfering" was limited pretty much to borrowing her clothes, shoes, and in this instance, taking a photo.  I'd been going through some old ones of hers and found one I'd never seen of her, as a teen which I'd also not seen...  and I took it to frame.  She saw it a year or two later when she came to Roanoke to visit, exclaimed unhappily about me having it and I told her, laughing, about having taken it since I had no pictures of her (long running family joke is none exist of her) and none of her young, which was the end of it.  I thought.

Now clearly it was wrong of me to have taken it, but that was 25 years ago and I have MORE than proved who I am as a person and in my family in the intervening years.

I was stunned.  And hurt.  And angry.  But mostly hurt.

And the weight of the entire week fell squarely on me at that very second and I lost what little restraint I had.  Sobbing and shaking in anger I told her I could not believe she'd held onto that for 25 years and never said anything, I couldn't believe that despite me proving over and over again in the intervening years that I was not that person any more, THIS was how she looked at me...  that despite who she knows me to be that she would still hold that photo's theft against me...  that I couldn't change who I was then but that I was a different person than I'd been at 20 and she damned well knew it, that it was wrong of me to take it, terribly wrong, I was deeply sorry I had taken it without her permission, but that she was wrong.  Wrong as she could possibly be.  About me.  About her stance on me taking the Cocoanut Grove photo to copy...

"Good Lord, Jen's loading them into her car and driving them all the way to Baltimore and keeping them in the house with Lula (her wonderful, giant, AMAZING, wolfie-type dog) for fuck sake, and all I want to do was take it to fucking CVS a mile away and bring it right back, goddammit!!!

"Oh.  Well that's fine.  I thought you wanted to take it home to Roanoke."

:::giant balloon whizzing around the room blasting out every ounce of air:::

What...

the hell...

just happened...?!!

And there it was.  I had a choice...  be my mother, hold onto my anger, stroking it and feeding it to keep it alive...   or, also like my mother, let it go and proceed as she was about to...  as though nothing ever happened.

It was insane...  after the week I'd spent with her - the longest easily in 20 years - it was too crazy to wrap my brain around...  too crazy to want to hang onto...  I knew it'd just eat at me.

So I let it go.

And I knew, though it'd been packed for years, exactly where that photo was and that next time I went to my mom's I'd return it, gift wrapped, with my sincere apologies.  There're just some things too crazy to hang onto.


Well I don't know why I came here tonight
I got the feeling that something ain't right
I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

Yes I'm stuck in the middle with you
And I'm wondering what it is I should do
It's so hard to keep the smile from my face
Losing control, yeah I'm all over the place
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

Well you started out with nothing
And you're proud that you're a self-made man
And your friends they all come crawlin'
Slap you on the back and say 'Please, please.'

Trying to make some sense of it all
But I can see that it makes no sense at all
Is it cool to go to sleep on the floor
Well I don't think I can take anymore
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

Well you started out with nothing
And you're proud that you're a self-made man
And your friends they all come crawlin'
Slap you on the back and say 'Please, please.'

Yeah I don't know why I came here tonight
I got the feeling that something ain't right
I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

(Yes I'm) stuck in the middle with you
Stuck in the middle with you
(Here I am) stuck in the middle with you.

R.I.P Gerry Rafferty 1/4/11

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.