Redhead Editor

Button, button, who's got the...

2009-05-01T17:49:00.006-05:00

I cannot believe it has been 3 months since I last posted. Blame it on facebook. I have been sucked in . I do not, for one moment, believe I have any followers left but will use this space for journaling. And just in case some of you are not on Facebook.

So what have I been up to? Nuttin' much. It's been cold in Missouri. Wore the winter coat up through last week, had one week of spring, and now it's cold and rainy again. My craft for this past winter/spring was in the form of buttons. When Sailor Boy's mother died last year, he and his sister gave me her entire button collection. Now, if you know me, you know I love love love buttons, and I was so humbled by the gesture. But as you can imagine, they were the last (or one of the last) thing I was holding onto. I couldn't exactly just send them back since both he and his sister wanted me to have them, but I couldn't exactly keep them.

So I came up with this plan. Fashioned after a wreath made my of my mother's terribly ugly jewelry that my sister made me for Christmas, I came up with the wreath idea. How do you like it? I am so in love with the final outcome.
In the second picture notice the "L" made of shell buttons since his mother's name begins with an "L." (Figure it out yourself.) I had enough buttons to make his sister a wreath and him a smaller version and have some set aside for my collection. It took hours just to wash the buttons from decades of dirt. And soon I will mail the wreaths to Florida and DC so they can have these mementos of their mother. I know, I am crazy for giving them away, but I just couldn't keep them. And I did put some back for my own personal collection.

Valentine's Day was lovely. Went to KC to go dancing. Stayed in a lovely hotel that made Las Vegas look like a joke. Got some fancy unmentionables from Vicky Secrets. March found me in Springfield at another blues concert. April saw the Mizzou Tigers getting into the Elite Eight NCAA basketball tournament beating Cornell, Marq uette, and Memphis before losing to UConn. Columbia was pretty damn excited. And our coach is sticking around till 2016. It's been fun. Now it's baseball season. Help me!

Tried Soft Paws on the kitty. She does not like them. I glue them on. She chews them off. I glue them on. She glues them off. Well, you get the picture. I thought since she is the sweetest cat in the world that she would tolerate them, but I was wrong. Lovely Shephard suggested I tried a sizzle rope scratching post, but she is ignoring it. As for scratching my brand new couch, let's just say she'd better get a lawyer. I don't want to declaw the little kitty, but I might have to. I have heard they do it by laser now so it's not as cruel. What do you think?

April was still chilly, but I got to KC again and saw my old sex ed buddies on the Plaza before spending the evening dancing. I'm a wild woman. Ha! I am being treated beautifully by a wonderful gentleman we'll call Blues Man. Great cook, makes me breakfast in bed, takes me dancing, loves my cat, and puts down the toilet seat.

Saw the last episode of ER which I have not missed in all 15 years. And am mourning the loss of Bea Arthur. As you may remember, I spend the summer on the couch sobbing over every Lifetime movie and laughing over hours of Golden Girls. I knew I had hit rock bottom when I watched a 4-hr marathon in memory of Estelle Getty. But damn it, those ladies kept me going this summer and now I mourn the loss of Dorothy Zbornak. I would do well to model my life after these 4 wonderful women.

Our choir's Broadway production in March was a big hit. Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man, Oklahoma, Climb Every Mountain. Every cheesy Broadway number out there. With choreography. YIKES! Old people singing AND dancing. And now, we are is putting on the finishing touches for our concert of Mozart's Requiem next week. One daughter, 2 sisters, and Blue Man are coming (along with 4 other friends). I have a posse!

Going to Bonnie Raitt next week for Blues Man's birthday. Life is good.

Happy Groundhog Day

2009-02-01T18:48:00.004-06:00

Rise and shine, Campers. And don't forget your booties cuz it's cold out there.

I have been very negligent of ye ole' blog. Went an entire month without nary a "howdy do" on this thing, and I apologize to the 2 or 3 fan club members who still read my blog. I am well. If it makes you feel any better, I have yet to send out my Christmas cards with my annual letter. I just don't know how to sum up my year. Perhaps I will date it Groundhog Day. Or perhaps it will be a Lenten missive?

The man I have been keeping company with knew how hard New Year's Eve would be for me so we had a quiet evening at home for dinner and then he took me to KC for a night of music and dancing later that weekend. Being with someone right now scares me for I fear my heart is either frozen or encased in plexi-glass, but I have been lucky to find this fine man who is kind and giving and loving beyond my wildest imagination. We do not share the same taste in music, but I am trying to expand my tastes. The choir I am in will be doing a Night on Broadway in March and Mozart's Requiem in May, and I guess he will be expanding his tastes as well.

Mabel (Daughter #1) fainted off the treadmill a couple of weekends ago and hit her head. Needed some staples in the back of her head, and we had to talk her into taking the day off work. Telling her she needed to rest from a concussion didn't convince her. Telling her needed the time to grade papers that she lost while being in the ER all Saturday didn't convince her. But reminding her that she couldn't wash her hair for 48 hrs and would have to teach with dirty hair made her realize that she couldn't teach that way. In the end, she took the Monday afterwards off, called in "ugly," and I came over to wash her hair carefully and not touch the staples. If you know my daughter, she never handled Q-tips in her ear well so nurse after nurse in the ER reminded her that she would need an epidural if she ever gave birth! He b/f got a kick out of that and documented the day with photos on her iPhone. It was determined that she has low blood pressure and she is fine with another war story for the year.

Barack on! Was the inauguration a thing of beauty?? I was so moved and so lucky to be able to watch as much of it as I did during the day. Working at a university in the College of Education, I was able to watch much of it on the internet and then the swearing in on tv in the dean's office. What a momentous occasion. I sure wish my mother had lived long enough to see this day. I have added The Rev. Gene Robinson's prayer that did not get much, if any, air time. Poetry.

"O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will bless us with tears - tears for a world in which over a billion people exist on less than a dollar a day, where young women in many lands are beaten and raped for wanting an education, and thousands die daily from malnutrition, malaria, and AIDS.

Bless this nation with anger - anger at discrimination, at home and abroad, against refugees and immigrants, women, people of color, gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people.

Bless us with discomfort at the easy, simplistic answers we've preferred to hear from our politicians, instead of the truth about ourselves and our world, which we need to face if we are going to rise to the challenges of the future.

Bless us with patience and the knowledge that none of what ails us will be fixed anytime soon, and the understanding that our new president is a human being, not a messiah.

Bless us with humility, open to understanding that our own needs as a nation must always be balanced with those of the world.

Bless us with freedom from mere tolerance, replacing it with a genuine respect and warm embrace of our differences.

Bless us with compassion and generosity, remembering that every religion's God judges us by the way we care for the most vulnerable.

And God, we give you thanks for your child, Barack, as he assumes the office of President of the United States.

Give him wisdom beyond his years, inspire him with President Lincoln's reconciling leadership style, President Kennedy's ability to enlist our best efforts, and Dr. King's dream of a nation for all people. Give him a quiet heart, for our ship of state needs a steady, calm
captain.

Give him stirring words; We will need to be inspired and motivated to make the personal and common sacrifices necessary to facing the challenges ahead.

Make him color-blind, reminding him of his own words that under his leadership, there will be neither red nor blue states, but the United States.

Help him remember his own oppression as a minority, drawing on that experience of discrimination, that he might seek to change the lives of those who are still its victims.

Give him strength to find family time and privacy, and help him remember that even though he is president, a father only gets one shot at his daughters' childhoods.

And please, God, keep him safe. We know we ask too much of our presidents, and we're asking far too much of this one. We implore you, O good and great God, to keep him safe. Hold him in the palm of your hand, that he might do the work we have called him to do, that he might find
joy in this impossible calling, and that in the end, he might lead us as a nation to a place of integrity, prosperity, and peace. Amen."

It has been cold in Missouri and even colder when I went to Chicago last weekend to visit my friend Bruce and run around in 4-degree temps. I even got to meet a blog friend for breakfast. which was so much fun. Those who do not blog cannot understand how wonderful it is to meet people from all over the world through this and then get to meet them personally. What a joy!

We didn't get the snow St. Louis got last week so life is cold but tolerable in mid-Missouri.

Happy Blogiversary

2008-12-29T23:36:00.003-06:00

Barely getting there under the wire, but I was a bit busy tonight trapped ... I mean, enjoying The Alamo Bowl that Mizzou finally won in overtime. I know I'm not good at math, but how can 4 15-minute quarters turn into FOUR AND A HALF HOURS.

Anyway, today is my 4th blogiversary. And if you've been a follower from the beginning (Howdy Leesa and Pam), you know that I started my blog on my 25th wedding anniversary. The evening of. Now fast forward 4 years, and it should come as no shock that I am no longer married. Within 18 months of starting this blog and meeting two bloggers, I drove off from Colorado and visited Leesa in Montana. All my non-blog friends were afraid I was going to be bludgeoned to death, but it didn't happened. I think I have lifelong friends.

Since then, I have gone through a lot in my "old" age. Job change after job change (after a major lay-off in '03), a kid's high school graduation, a kid's college graduation, an empty nest, separation and divorce, a major move 2 hours away, taught sex ed to teens, lost 60lbs, the love of a lifetime, turned 50, learned to swim, went sailing on the Chesapeake, sold a house in what we thought was the worst housing market until recently, the loss of that aforementioned love, quitting my job, moving back to St. Louis, a breakdown, a move back, a new job, a new place, joined a choir, got a cat, and enjoyed a new life. and you've been there through it all or at least most of it or just some of it if you're a new reader.

I have met 4 bloggers personally, talked to several, met bloggers on both sides of the US and in the UK, been grateful at every step of the way for your friendship. I even have secret blog readers who never reveal themselves, but that's ok. I never figured out how to tell who was reading my blog, but I know it's available to all. I try not to censor too much, but I don't reveal everything either. If we talk or IM, you know far more about me. I don't blog often these days, but I am still here erratically. I still love reading your blogs and IMing with you. And I have to say I have met some of the most wonderful people through this blog.

Happy 4th blogiversary to me. Love you all.

Gobble, gobble

2008-11-25T22:34:00.006-06:00

Before I begin my rant, let me wish you a Happy Turkey Day. For my foreign readers, look up the origin here.

Last week was my daughter's play where she was the stage manager. It was excellent, and I was so proud of her (especially when the director passed me during the intermission and whispered as she pointed to my daughter, "She has been so wonderful, as usual").

But here are my rants: If you're going to pull out in front of me as I'm trying to go the theater, do not drive 20 mph down the street and 10 mph through campus. And if you sit next to me, stop fidgeting and cracking your knuckles even if your girlfriend did drag you to the theater. Guess I have to thank you for not texting throughout the production. I wanted to attend the Sunday matinee, but my ex didn't want to be in the same zip code with me so I was forced to go to the Saturday evening production. I'm glad I forced myself to go out at night. If you ever get a chance to go see "The Pillowman," go. Fabulous play!

I am at my sister's for Thanksgiving and it's difficult for 2 reasons. One, this is where I came when I crashed this summer so it's sort of like returning to the insane asylum. I mean, my sister is wonderful, but it's just friggin' weird to be back here. I don't remember much (like where I drove or where she keeps things) so I was obviously on survival mode. Much like my high school years when I realized I couldn't remember anyone at my 10-yr reunion. And the second reason it's difficult is Sailor Boy was in town last Thanksgiving and we spent all Wednesday before T'giving with my sister and daughter, and then when they left us alone, we spent a romantic evening together in front of the fire. It was a lovely day together. I just gotta get through the holidays. And to that... I have a new rule: Your first Christmas after having your heart broken by a sailor, you shouldn't have to sing "I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In" for a holiday concert! Oh well, I will be fine, but of all the songs to pick.... grrrrrr!

Now you have a wonderful Turkey Day!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know just how this turkey feels!!!

May your stuffing be tasty
May your turkey plump,
May your potatoes and gravy
Have never a lump.
May your yams be delicious
And your pies take the prize,
And may your Thanksgiving dinner stay off your thighs!

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

Meet Jewel...

2008-10-28T20:11:00.014-05:00

I'm not as bad as Leesa and Amy. I just got one cat. One 1-yr-old cat. She was a stray who had kittens in my daughter's house this summer, and the neighbor started feeding her but kept her outside. And had her fixed and got her shots and taken care of for fleas. So she really was a free cat. Isn't she beautiful?

Within minutes of coming into my house (after weeks of deciding if I could make an outdoor cat stay indoors), she was in my lap purring loudly, on her back, belly up, taking a nap. Never saw a cat do that. So well adapted to her surroundings so quickly. She is the sweetest cat I have ever met. Her purr is very loud, and yet her purr is demure. She even slept with me from the first night at the bottom of the bed on the sheet I provided. I have become one of those cat ladies who talks to her cat. I promise to keep the posts about her to a minimum. Oh, who am I kidding???

Yes, I am allergic, but I know how to manage things as an adult. (Don't put my face in their fur would be the first step.) She snuzzles and follows me around the house in the morning when I get ready for work. She has no ambition to run away which I feared she would since she has never lived indoors. I really believe she is relieved not to have to fight the street traffic any more.

And she used the kitty litter box immediately.

And because she is the sweetest cat I have ever met, I have named her after my favorite teacher who was the sweetest person I ever knew. Mrs. Helen Jewel Brakke. So I have named my new kitty Jewel. Not like the gem stone Jewel, but after Mrs. Brakke.

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are, you are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

Edward Lear
(1812-1888)

Could this be considered an anniversary?

2008-10-14T21:01:00.005-05:00

2 years ago today I packed up my things, or what could fit in my car and my sister's car, and left. I had told my husband the month before that it was over. After 26 years of marriage, it was over. And as he sat in shock (although I reminded him that he couldn't possibly be shocked, really), I went about packing up and moving on. If you've been a "fan," you know I took a road trip to Montana for a week with a blogger friend watching the house and pets of another blogger friend. Somehow they knew back in June that I needed something to cling to, something to put some umph in my life. Little did they know and little did I know that it was more than just a road trip to Montana.

Last month my dear Pam who, by marriage, has the same last name as I do so we consider ourselves sisters not only by name but by a common bond that you gain from reading blogs and then driving 15 hrs one way and spending a week in the mountains of Montana. She and her lovely husband, 4 dogs, and 3 cats moved across the country to Vermont and took the time to stop in Missouri to see me. I sure hope you notice that together we have lost enough weight to make another adult, and damn, we look good. A lot has happened in 2 years, but we promise not to let so much time pass before we see each other again. That means I will be visiting Vermont one day since she has already seen Missouri. Now say a special prayer for her Gracie since she (and Hank) got hit by a car the other day. One broken leg and one amputated leg later and Gracie is home to recuperate but could use the good positive thoughts.

So how do I feel 2 years after walking out? I am in my own place with my own couch and my own mattress (since my ex never returned my mattress as deigned by the divorce decree) and a sea 'o boxes. There I go with the water images! As of last weekend, I started unpacking some of those boxes. I have been living as a nomad for 2 years now and finally came to grips with questions such as "Do I belong here?" "Will I be staying?" "Where is my home?" "Do I deserve to be happy?" I am learning to live in my own skin and call this place home. I think I've come a long way, esp since this summer when you saw me at my very worst.

I am very fortunate to have a job at the university, and while it may not be challenging per se, I am having to learn a lot of new things which does challenge me. I have come to the conclusion that while I hate numbers and accounting, I am so regretful that I didn't or, rather, couldn't have majored in something more profitable. I resent that the numbers people in the world make all the money while those of us who know the placement of a comma and an apostrophe are swept by the wayside. But as much training as I have undergone in that area, I have discovered that not only do I not have the brains for accounting (vouchers, POs, MoCodes), I also DON'T CARE. I hear Charlie Brown's teacher every time they open their mouths to explain another procedure. God, accountants are boring. (Sorry if I have offended anyone out there.) I love my new place and am so grateful for those friends who have helped me move and set up the place, but I can barely afford it along with my car payment and sit still so nothing major happens. (I haven't decided whether to buy or rent in the future with my share of the equity.) But it's a start. My new cell phone has a pedometer, and I am fascinated by how many steps I can take on purpose and accidentally. I am trying to get 2 to 3 miles in a day walking around campus. After all, I work on one of most beautiful campuses anywhere. I have joined a choir with one performance already done and another coming up next month. This was something I had promised myself last year when I moved here but never did it because I never wanted to put roots down here if I was going to move soon.

Well, we all know that didn't happen and isn't going to happen. And I am fine with that. Matter of fact, I am glad I am here. I have volunteered for Planned Parenthood (my old employer). I am making new friends. I am enjoying being single. It's been 2 long years or I can't believe it's gone so quickly. Thanks for coming along for the ride.

One to Two Degrees of Separation

2008-09-30T18:44:00.003-05:00

I have been in town 5 weeks and at my new job for 4, and I promise to update you on the progress. I will even tell you about the incredible luck I experienced on moving day. And I promise, Sister, to post about “where were you 2 years ago?” But for today, I would like to add another entry to 6 degrees of separation.

when I saw her I have had a many instances of 6 degrees of separation, but lately it’s been eerie. When I gave my new landlady my rent deposit, we started up a conversation about Greek life at Mizzou when I saw her Tri Delt certificate on the wall. I told her I was not Greek but that my daughter was a Chi O. I said, “I am sure your parents felt you were safer by being in a sorority” when I guessed she was older than I was. She said, “When my parents dropped me off at college from Hannibal…” and I said, as I catch myself saying a lot, “I only know one person from Hannibal…” When I mentioned the name of my godmother, she said, “Not only did we go to the same high school, we graduated the same year and will have our 50th high school reunion next month.” I had no idea my godmother was 68. Later, I was telling my sister and her best friend this story, and the friend said, “I only know one person…” and we found out that she taught with the woman whose basement I lived in last year…forty years ago. (She taught with her forty years ago. I did not live in this woman's basement forty years ago.)

The other day at work I started small talk with a student and couldn’t ask her “So what high school did you go to?” when I found out she was from my hometown. (It’s a St. Louis thing.) I asked her her last name, and it did not ring a bell so I asked for her mother’s maiden name which did ring a bell. I said, “Your mother wouldn’t happen to have a brother named Alan, would she?” She said, “Yes, that’s my uncle.” I said, “Well, your uncle was my mother’s landlord.” When I told her to tell her uncle that she met this woman’s daughter, she said, “I met her when I was a little girl.” (You can’t forget my mother nor her name.) Today I was chit-chatting with a co-worker and asked “So where did you go to high school?” (She was from St. Louis.) When she said, “Hazelwood East,” we discovered I knew her yearbook teacher from my days as a yearbook advisor from the early 80s.

But this last one today almost made me giggle out loud. I walk at lunch to keep the fat monster away. Today there was a vendor fair at the Union so I hiked over there knowing there would be freebies. I’m all about the freebie, so as I walked around the vendor tables, I recognized the Office Max rep. I caught his eye and started smiling at him, and he finally said, “Are you trying to make me crack up?” So I walked around until he was finished with his sales pitch before coming back and having a wonderful conversation. Not only did I know the Office Max sales rep. *I slept with the Office Max sales rep. Is that ONE degree of separation?

*Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist. This was many many many many years ago.

Six Degrees

2008-09-26T18:01:00.003-05:00

I know... I "owe" my loyal fans an update, and I promise I will get there. I have been in town a month and at my job that long and things are going well. I am doing much better, but I will update later. But today it's time for a story.

My sister is an English teacher in a school district just outside St. Louis. She did her typical first day introductions, and a student came up the next day and said, "I told my mom all about you, and she said you reminded her of an English teacher she had who influenced her life." The mom asked her daughter her teacher's name, and she said, "Miss B." And the mom said, "Well, that's too much of a coincidence. MY English teacher's name was Miss B and she sounds just like your English teacher. Does she have red hair?" And her daughter said, "No, she has gray hair, but I'll ask if they're related."

The mother went to another room and pulled out a folded paper with a poem written by her English teacher and given to her 27 years ago when she was freshman . The poetic note applauded her on her writing talent and praised her singing talent, too. She said, "Take this to your English teacher and ask her if she is related to MY Miss B." The next day the student came up to my sister and said, "Here is a poem my mom's English teacher wrote to her when she was in 9th grade. Do you think you could be related to this Miss B?" My sister took one look at the worn handwritten piece of paper and said, "I definitely am related to THIS poet." And the student said, "How do you know?" And my sister said, "Because I recognize my sister's handwriting."

I couldn’t believe this woman had kept something I wrote all these year. Ya just never know. When my sister eventually found out the mother's name (damn lost identity due to name change at marriage), I barely recognized the name. I had over 140 freshmen a year and some stood out for good and bad reasons. I remember she had black hair and a beautiful voice (which was part of the subject of the poem from what my sister told me). But I made an indelible impression on her. And we should remember that.

Six degrees of separation. Does that give you goosebumps? Well, it gave me goosebumps and tears. That story made me feel that I, indeed, made a difference in someone's life. I needed that at this point in my life and thought I would share that with you. And it’s not really about me. I just find the world, and all of its smallness, remarkable.

I bet all of us have a "six degrees of separation" story that brings us goosebumps. I have several, but this may be one my favorites.

Back later with a real update.

It was a million dollar experience...

2008-08-21T21:44:00.010-05:00

I wouldn't give a nickel for.*

A recovering alcoholic (RA) friend of mine told me earlier this summer, “Alcohol may be Sailor Boy’s drug, but he is your drug.” Ouch! If that’s not co-dependency, I don’t know what is. When I would call this RA friend as opposed to calling “my drug” on road trips, he would remark that I hadn’t hit bottom if I still craved talking to Sailor Boy. “You haven’t been hurt enough,” he would say. He has been tough on me ever since I broke it off with Sailor Boy, ever since I learned he battled alcoholism, ever since I continue to need Sailor Boy. And while he apologizes for being an asshole (his word), he does not mince words, does not hold back, does not take my shit, does not pity me or coddle me. He walks the walk and talks the talk, but he doesn’t preach. When I told him once that I hadn’t talked to SB since June 28 or Skyped since his birthday (TWO weeks), I asked if he was proud of me. He said, “Hell no,” and I felt liked the little girl who’d been admonished for trying hard but not hard enough. Or the Olympic sand volleyballer for not winning with a higher score. Hadn’t I done my best? Wasn’t I trying my hardest?” Wasn’t I succeeding in making baby steps? NO, NO, and NO. I was hurt. He said, “That’s like my not drinking for 3 weeks and then having a beer over the weekend. Would you be proud of me?” Ouch! It hurt, but I got the point. All or nothing. Black or white. Band-aid completely ripped off and quickly. When I would express my burning desire to talk to Sailor Boy (esp while on the road), my friend would say, ‘You haven’t hurt enough.” (The classic “You haven’t hit the bottom.”)

So for this reason, I did not tell my friend that I went to see Sailor Boy over the weekend. I didn’t lie to him (even though I knew of my travel plans the last time we talked as I zoomed down the highway), but I also was not honest with him. I felt he would end the conversation with, “Then I can’t help you” or “This conversation is over if you’re not getting the message.” And while he agrees that I’ve had to do this “my way,” he is very quick to tell me it’s the wrong way. When I told him I took off the necklace Sailor Boy gave me, he’d ask, “And have you thrown it away?” And when I’d say, “I took Sailor Boy out of speed dial,” he’d say “And have you deleted his number altogether?” Damn, he keeps asking the hard questions. And I would always fear he would stop being my friend and “go to” guy if I didn’t play this AA game with the right rules. In our last conversation, he even admitted that giving up a toxic co-dependent relationship is probably harder than giving up alcohol, drugs, or cigarettes. The co-dependent relationship, when not toxic, feels so good and those are the memories that surface when you’re missing the “drug.”

But I think my friend resigned himself in knowing I had to do this “my way,” which, in his experience, is the wrong way. He knows of what he speaks. I have had several friends tell me that I needed to cut off all contact completely in order to let the wounds start to heal, but that’s not the way I operate. So maybe for all the wrong reasons, I flew out to see SB. To say good-bye to my “drug,” to be embraced by “my drug” one last time. Little could I imagine that in saying “good-bye,” I also let go. I hope my RA friend is proud of me now. I will always be forever grateful for his brutal honesty and his willingness to take my calls and IMs when I have needed him most. He's my Roc!

I kept thinking he would reimburse me when I would show up for our weekends together. I paid for all but 1 trip (and he makes considerably more than I do), but I guess that’s at the heart of co-dependency and neediness, huh? With each trip loving friends would say, “And I sure hope he’s paying for your tickets,” knowing my lifestyle, and I would lie or fudge, “Of course he is” or “We’re taking turns.” But my sister, when she found out the truth, said, “I will support you in any decision you make, but I will never again take you to the airport to see SB if you’ve paid for the ticket.” Not as tough as my RA friend who told me I should break all ties, but I got the message. I never had the guts last year to say, “If you want me on your boat by your side bad enough, you will buy me a ticket.” But the ticket came with some caveats. And I quote: Are you keeping hope alive? I’m confused over your expectations. I am mentally too worn out to do a deep confrontation weekend of any kind. So I don’t want to go there. Can we get together as ‘friends in transition?’ Is there going to be tons of weeping? (The last one was my favorite.) So I responded that I had no plans to confront him. I had no hope in our getting back together or having a future together. My expectations included having a nice relaxed vacation, sailing, seeing sunsets and sunrises on the Chesapeake. And did “friends in transition” mean separate sleeping quarters? Finally, I added, “And I can’t guarantee there won’t be any weeping any more than you can guarantee that you won’t drink and be verbally abusive.” (Hey I got points for that last one.) He said we would not need to sleep in separate quarters because he was not afraid me (whatever the hell that meant) and that he would try not to drink too much and be mean.

Plans were made. Excitement, fear, anxiety, sunscreen, looking for sailing paraphernalia from last year (hat, bikini, sarong). In the meantime I drove back to Columbia to met my landlady, had an on-line lunch date (disaster), helped my friends in their office, help my daughter move to her first apartment, interviewed for a job with the university and get offered the job. Bought a couch/love seat combo and a mattress, turned 51, went to see Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 with my daughters, set up cable/internet, got my utilities switched over to my name, and secured moving details. Not bad for a woman who does not know what the fuck she is doing, has changed meds for depression, has bouts of anxiety/panic attacks, wonders why she couldn’t have stayed in a boring, loveless marriage for another 27 years, and feels like a failure most days. Oh, and is trying to shake off this co-dependency “drug” problem while grieving through a broken heart she has never experienced before in her life.

Where to begin without boring you? My plane was 3 hrs late in leaving because of bad weather in Maryland, but he picked me up in his little red sportscar, greeted me with a big hug and kiss. Twice on the drive home, he said, “Kiss me.” Boy, where is this going? We got to his new house, and he showed me around. It was just as dusty and cluttered as his old house I visited in March. Some things never change. And no, he had not bought a mattress. We would be sleeping on an airbed (Do not confuse this with an Sleep Number bed). We’re talking Coleman camping airbed that he sleeps on. An airbed with a leak. We cuddled, we kissed, we did not sleep in separate quarters per his e-mail, but he made it obvious that we would sleep. I envisioned a lot of events this weekend as “last times.” I wept as we held each other. And that’s all. Ok, I thought. First night jitters.

The next day we walked around Annapolis before heading to a friend’s in Baltimore. As we walked through a set of souvenir shops in this quaint town, he said, “Oh, I didn’t get you a birthday present. Look around. What would you like?” And I thought, “I’d like a man who knows what I want for my birthday,” but I didn’t say it. I sure as hell didn’t want a chip and dip tray in the shape of a lobster. I was not about to pick out something from a stupid souvenir shop. We get to the friends’ house, and they greet us with rum and cokes. The men went out for more beer and wine and champagne and ice. Another couple arrived and we make dinner. Admiral Nelson also attends the party. And because Sailor Boy never brought any food, I am intent on bussing dishes, filling the dishwasher, cleaning the kitchen. I watch as the 5 of them get very drunk. Champagne comes out and I have a half a glass. (There was enough for each of us to have a bottle). Say what?

We sleep on another airbed, but this one doesn’t have leaks. Just cuddling. Breakfast and beer the next morning and we’re off on a boat ride to meet up with more friends. Sailor Boy barely talks to me, but I am ok with this because I am enjoying the ride. There are a lot of people on the water, friends in this particular group. Sunscreen applied. Hats tied on. Sailor Boy gets in the water to greet others and ignores me. I see several people I had met last summer and meet some for the first time, but Sailor Boy never introduces me. It is obvious I am on my own. That’s ok. This is my vacation. We end up on someone else’s boat where someone I know from last summer greets me with a hug and a kiss and, when looking across from me, says, “Whoa, what is going on? I am getting this incredibly strong sad vibe from you.” I said, “I’ll tell you later.” On the ride home, Sailor Boy stays on this boat while I tread the water back to the other boat. Several others are following us back to the house.

More booze, more food. I continue to bus plates and clean dishes in my attempt to contribute. I am so glad I will not spend a lifetime with this cheap man who does not contribute. He figures since he is a single man, his friends will feed him, and they do. But he is a mooch in every sense of the word, and it’s embarrassing. I had a mojito, half a mojito because the mint keeps getting stuck in my teeth. One sweet woman sits next to me and drunkenly asks me if I’m going to bring my kids out here to get on his boat. I said no. She kept badgering me in her drunken state, and I keep trying to brush it off with, “No, I don’t think so.” She keeps at it till I finally say, “It’s complicated.” She won’t let up, and I finally have to say that Sailor Boy and I have broken up and this is our good-bye weekend, and I assure her my kids will never be out to go sailing.” I start to cry and she holds me and tries to assure me it’s not necessarily over, and I assure her it is so over. Soon Sailor Boy sits next to me and says, “I just got a lecture from Melissa.” And I assure him I had nothing to do with that and never asked her to say a word. He is not angry but asks how it came about, and I told him that she simply asked when my kids were coming out and I told her they weren’t. I had no idea then what she said to him. I later found out that she got in his face and said she adored me and I was wonderful and what was he thinking. She gave him a real talking to.

The neighbor across the canal has a hot tub that we spy and yell over asking to use it. There is an incident where Sailor Boy takes it upon himself to go to the hot tub without permission while the rest of us are trying to schmooze with the owner before invading his hot tub. When he returns, SB is pissed that I didn’t follow him and he promptly goes to sleep (passes out?) on the couch in the middle of the party. I have never seen this much drinking (and I went to Mizzou in the 70s) especially among adults. Weren’t we too old for this shit? Eventually, a group of us end up in the hot tub for a while whereupon Sailor Boy informs me that he has no intention of making love to me the entire weekend. End of discussion. We return back to the house while the drunken host jumps into the canal to swim home and Sailor Boy has to run along the perimeter to help him out of the water so he doesn’t drown. I set up on the couch because it is obvious that I am not wanted in “that” way, and it is too painful to sleep with Sailor Boy one more night. From the living room, I overhear a horrible drunken incident between our hosts. It was horrifying, and while everyone else was drunk, too, they are trying to keep a horrible situation into becoming violent. I was sickened by what was happening and so glad it was not going to be part of my life. I drift off with the cat a few minutes here or there. I crawl into the airbed around 6 to talk to Sailor Boy. More tears. I realize I am going to be saying good bye to these friends that morning and it will be tough, and he is very kind about how we will handle this. I start sobbing and have a panic attack where I can’t breath and ask SB to go get me some water. I take my medication and sleep a little longer. Breakfast. Sailor Boy gets out his camera while we say good bye so he can take pictures of me with some of these sweet people I have met and will never see again. No tears.

On the drive home, we have a serious discussion about how mean he was to me in his drunken state and I get a lot out about his alcoholism. I get the chance to say “The first step is not in accepting you’re an alcoholic. The first step is admitting it’s a problem.” He gets it. He has heard this before somewhere, I suspect. He said he really needs to take this seriously and cut down. His sister has told him so. He knows his family history. We get to the grocery store to pick up supplies for our sailing trip that night, and I stop him in the produce section to say my final statement. “In the end of my mother’s life, she lived every hour for another cigarette. If given a choice between another cigarette or a visit from her daughters or granddaughters, she would have taken the cigarette. I love you. I will always love you, and I don’t want to see your life reduced to wanting another drink more than you want to be with your children and future grandchildren. You will die alone.” Whoa. He said, “Ouch.” But he meant it. He held me tight and thanked me for my brutal honesty. I think I struck a nerve.

Ok, this is longer than you have time to read, but I have to get it out. We drive to the boat. Unforgettable. The boat he named after me. I have been assured it would be bad luck to rename the boat so he is “stuck” with the name. He has already admitted he has started dating. Can’t wait till he has to explain the name to the next women in his life. The sunset is beautiful, as always. I click away. Tears roll down my cheek. This is my last time on the Chesapeake. His idea of “slowing down” consists of 4 beers and 2 rum and cokes. He does all the work. He makes me dinner, cleans up, and I do not lift a finger. I am a guest. No longer first mate in training. I have no choice but to sleep with him as the other bunks are cluttered with crap. I take 2 sleeping pills. I woke up around 6 desperate not to miss the sunrise. My last sunrise on the Chesapeake. I am in a sarong and freezing (?) as I snap away. The moon is still out and the sun rises in brilliant golds and purples. I am shivering and Sailor Boy brings me his robe. Tears pouring down my face, and I finally say, “I know what I want for my birthday. I want a collage of sunrise and sunset pictures you have taken. Framed.” I can’t stop weeping at the beauty, the finality. He agrees to my request (yah, I ain’t holding my breath). He makes breakfast. We eat in silence and I take something for the anxiety and slip back into bed. He motors back to the slip, and I am totally unaware that the boat has even moved. I hated that I had missed the sail back, but it wasn’t really a sail since there was no wind and he had motored back, but it was eerie to wake up to a dead still boat and no Sailor Boy. I get dressed and go running outside to look for Sailor Boy and find him just walking around. We drive back to the house and have a sandwich (and wine) and make plans for a movie and dinner. Even though I have already seen it, I decide that Mama Mia! is the perfect movie since it’s fun and includes water and sailing and no violence. We pass by a camera shop and I point out multiple-holed mats that would be perfect for my birthday present request. We go to dinner afterwards and head back to the house where we walk around his neighborhood (see photo to the right). We sit down to watch the Olympics.

As we sat there, tears start to roll down my face because I realize that the decision not to make love one last time was made for me. My opinion, my input was not even considered. I am angry. I am hurt. I resent this. These would be my last tears. Sailor Boy falls asleep, and I know we won’t be talking that night. At 10 he says he is crashing (is?) and needs to go to bed, and I said, “Well, I still want to talk, but we can wait till the morning.” He says he appreciates that and heads to bed, airbed with leak. I stay out in the living room. I have no intention of sleeping next to him. If he doesn't want my body, he can't have my warmth. I put a pillow over my shoulder for warmth. Around 3:30, he wakes up and stands in the livingroom. I look up and tell him I am awake, and he asks why I am sleeping out there, and I say, “I want you so badly and I can’t sleep next to you if you don’t want me.” He said, “Well, the least I can do is get you a blanket,” and before I know it, this horrible, rough, sandpaper excuse for a blanket gets dropped on my delicate shoulders. A horse would have balked at this blanket that must be a leftover from some Boy Scout marshmallow roast from 1904. I think I could file my fingernails with it. I shake it off and replace it with the pillow.

Around 4 I get up to pee and see the office and computer light on and walk in to see what he is doing. He said he had some work e-mails he was answering, and I mention that I thought he was too tired to talk (from the night before) so it’s odd to see him awake. He said he would only be a few minutes, and I go back to the couch. I roll over at 5, and the lights are still on. Now I would like his robe to warm up with and go back to the office where he is still on the computer. I say, “Funny, you couldn’t stay awake to talk, but you can stay awake to do work on the computer.” He said, “Fine, let’s go talk.” And we go to the leaky airbed. I gather up my courage to say, “I had all sorts of scenarios in my mind for this weekend. I imagined being on the boat. I imagined strolling through Annapolis. I was hankering for a Maryland crab cake. I wondered whether we would see your friends so I could say good bye. I imagined sunsets and sunrises. I hoped we could go for a walk. But never in my wildest imagination did I ever think we would not make love one last time. Never. And I resent that I was not included in on that decision.” He rankled and sat up and said, “I told you not to have any expectations.” I said, “It wasn’t an expectation. It was a hope, a desire, a vision.” He said, “There is no compromise in this decision. I didn’t think it required a discussion.” I said, “I understand that there is no compromise between 0 and 1, but I sure would have liked to have been included in on the discussion. I would have liked to have thought my opinion mattered.” He was clearly getting agitated and said, “I am not a fucking machine.” OK, excuse me? I almost busted out laughing. I wanted to say, “Hey, Buddy, when we were having sex, you were no fucking machine.” But something happened at that point. I felt myself whoosh up, sort of like on Ghost, lift off the bed. Let go. I had nothing to say. I had nothing left to say. He fell asleep and I watched him sleep till he startled awake at 6:30 and asked for another hour like he needed my permission. He woke at 7:30, and I was still watching him (and still not sleeping). He got out of “the passion pit,” as he called it, the gaping crevice in the middle caused when the airbed leaks, and I had to laugh at the thought that he called it that. Irony. He blows it back up while I’m still in the bed. A fun ride in bed (finally). And I fall asleep till 10:30.

Breakfast. Friendly chit chat about the Olympics. Packing. Checking time to leave. He puts the top down on the convertible and off we go. Hair in the wind. In the past I usually wept on the way to the airport because I knew we would be saying good bye and didn’t know when we would be seeing each other, panicking over the landscape, trying to learn street names, wondering where I would bank or work or walk, trying to memorize directions (which is laughable). Instead, I looked at the beauty in the Maryland landscape, the trees, the wildflowers, my hair in the wind. We got to the airport and I got my stuff on the curb. He walked over and put his arms around me. He said, “You are a wonderful woman and don’t ever forget that.” Pause. "You are the sweetest, most giving woman I have ever known." Pause. “I am so glad I e-mailed you last year.” Pause. “And you were and always will be unforgettable.” At each pause, I am sure he expected a response, and at each pause, I had nothing to say. Nothing left to say. At each pause, he kissed me. And at each pause, I had nothing left to say. I turned around and wheeled my suitcase into the airport and didn’t look back. In my silence, I had said good bye. In my silence, I had let go. In my silence, I am ready to move on.

* If you care to comment, I do not need to hear/read that Sailor Boy is a cheap, selfish SOB. I already know that. I loved this man more than any man I have ever loved before, and he has/had a lot of wonderful qualities, but he loved alcohol more. I don't need to be reminded of what I already know. Loving him was the highest high I have ever been on and losing him was the lowest low I have ever experienced. I have greatly appreciated you all for your love and support, but please don't be mean in your comments.

Moving to Columbia

2008-08-13T14:00:00.004-05:00

Guess it is good luck to interview on your birthday. I got offered the job at the university. So now I'm employed. Which is better than not being employed. Not my dream job, but it's a start... with benefits. Have to PAY for parking and there's no guarantee the garage they pick for you is anywhere close to your building so a lot of walking (which is good... I am not complaining.). I just can't believe they make employees pay for parking. That's bull shit.

The question of the week is... how to keep a straight face while you're buying Astroglide and Preparation H at the same time. It's an age thing. You youngins' will understand later. People my age reading this will laugh so hard you might dribble a little!

Leaving on a small vacation out east before I start packing in panic mode. Denial is a valuable thing. If I don't pack, it's not really happening. But the Ticker above will keep ticking away whether I pack or not so I had better get cracking.

P.S. The "paws" in the Ticker are supposed to represent Tiger paws, not bear paws. They were they closest I could come to represent the MU Tigers. And the sailboat... well, you get it.

Happy Fifty-One

2008-08-05T14:26:00.006-05:00

August 6th
Happy 51st Birthday to me. I have always loved my birthday. I do not feel like celebrating this year. It has nothing to do with my age. It has everything to do with what's going on in my life right now. I am heading down the road to interview ON my birthday. Is that good luck or should there be a law against interviewing ON your birthday? Let's hope it's a good omen. I think I will feel much better when I get a job. Can you believe it? Another call. I have TWO interviews today.

Then afterwards it's lunch with the daughters and then after my second interview we'll go see Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2. A chick flick with my favorites chicks. My sisters and their husband/friend will take me to dinner on Friday and then it's home to see the Olympic Opening Ceremonies. Maybe once I celebrate with the my daughters and I do well on the interviews (And one of them offers me a job) and I celebrate with the sisters and see the opening ceremonies, I will feel better about my birthday.

And then I have to start packing. Now I want to vomit.

Two years from when???

2008-07-11T21:13:00.008-05:00

A recently divorced friend of mine (who read all the books) told me recently that "they" say you shouldn't get into another relationship for two years afterwards. I said, "After what? After you tell your husband you're leaving? After you run away from home? After you file for divorce? Or after the divorce is final?" Two years from when??? (Not that I am looking for anything or anyone at this stage.) I just don't think "they" are clear.

On another note, some have wondered about the path of the flood in Missouri which has since subsided, but I wanted to assure you I am high, dry, and safe. Ok, maybe it's a little wet around here, but I am safe. And remember... all is well. I can swim.

I am including images of the water lapping up on the side of the highway. One exit away from me has been closed for 2 weeks, not just because of the water (which is very close) but because of the deer leaping over the road because they have been displaced by the water. The signs on the highway do warn about the deer leaping over cars which is a strange sign to see. Just had a huge storm tonight, but we are all safe where I am staying for the summer.

Still looking for a job but have decided that I need to go back to the college town from which I moved. I cannot find a job here, and even if I could, I cannot afford to live in the "big city." So I will be moving back to College Town USA in a month or two. Wish me luck. I am pretty tired of being unrooted (not uprooted), uncertain, and on shaky ground. It will feel good to be settled although I doubt I will ever feel settled ever again. (Friends assure me I will one day. "When?" I ask. Perhaps in two years.) Ok, there goes the melo-drama again. My sister has been so wonderful to me for letting me stay here while I am regrouping and recouping, but I have to find a job. Pray for me to find a job. (I have already found a condo to rent and will be moving again in August.)

This is not the way I thought things would turn out, but I continue to be thankful for good health and wonderful supportive friends and family.

Shit happens... bird shit, that is!

2008-06-25T15:40:00.006-05:00

You would think watching baby birds was a beautiful thing. And for the most part, you would be right. For 3 weeks now I have sat in my sister's livingroom (while surfing the internet for jobs), watching a nest of barn swallows grow from featherless, peeping almost invisible blobs while their parents flitted back and forth to feed their squawking brood. Back and forth. Back and forth. and I thought I was exhausted as a new mother. Sometimes they fly for insects while other times they are trying to get your attention so you don't notice their babies are in the corner.

Last week, we noticed there were not three but FOUR babies. One was smaller than his bubbas and was hidden off to the side. Now we see 4 little bobbing feathery heads peeping their constant hunger. Back and forth. Walking on the porch is like taking your life in your hands as Mom & Pop zig and zag to get past you to feed their starving babies. There are just 2 problems. First, my sister lives across the street from THREE barns. These idiotic birds do not know their own name as they have chosen to take up residence on a porch. So we are renaming them Front Porch Swallows.

Second, they shit like you would not believe. All down the column. For a while, it was just Mom & Pop excrement. But once the babies grew up into 4 visible squawking starving progeny, they, too, have learned to turn their butts around and poop over the nest and down the column. So much for nature. It's nasty. Who knew that birds knew how to keep their nests clean by balancing their poopy butts over the edge and blasting down the sides of the column?

I have done research on Wikipedia and the baby birds stick around another week after they have learned to fly as Mom & Pop continue to feed them. So much for kicking them completely out of the nest. To take these photos, I was actually dive bombed by the babies as they perfect their flying technique. Not so much dive bomb as flying low cuz they can't get fly as high or fast as their parents and aunts and uncles. My sister says, "One week... and that nest is out of here." We will soon relocate their home to the other side of the street where there are actually barns. So much for nature. (Leesa, by now, would have taken up residence on the porch for the last 4 weeks and taken daily, if not hourly, time lapsed photos of the birds. I'm not into nature or photography as much as she is so you'll have to live with what I offer. My apologies to Leesa.)

How am I doing, you ask? Making decisions. (No details yet) Watching too much cable. Excited about Obama. IMing with friends. Looking for a job. Trying not to rely too much on medication. Taking walks. Trying not to be in too much contact with Sailor Boy. Put my clothes in a dresser. I've even been sleeping under the covers... long story. Feeling so unsure of myself and so scared at times. Who knew someone of my age could be so uncertain about tomorrow? So grateful for my sister and all of you out there who are holding me in your thoughts and prayers.

The necklace

2008-06-07T14:18:00.004-05:00

I finally took the necklace off. 16 months I have worn the jade heart that Sailor Boy gave me for our first Valentine's Day. Never took it off. The chain broke in Vegas, and I got a replacement one right away so people wouldn't notice and ask questions. It was too painful, too raw. But in unpacking some more shit today, I found my cross necklace from years ago. Simple, silver, and meaningful.

It's a big step.

My life in quotes

2008-05-28T23:37:00.016-05:00

Pain is always equal to the force of our denial and effort we spend to hang onto that which is bad for us.

A very wise and dear friend said that to me the other night. Pretty effing profound, wouldn't you say? He knows of what he speaks.

So my life is reduced to quotes. Live with it.

The babbling brook would lose its song
if you removed the rocks.

Don't cry because it's over.
Smile because it happened.

Pain and Suffering are inevitable,
but Misery is optional

Another dear friend sent me an e-card with this message:

To believe is to know in your heart that life is happening
exactly as it is meant to.
To believe is to look for hidden gifts in every new day.
To believe is to trust everything is going to be all right.

I went back to the middle of the state this week to help a friend in her husband's doctor's office. Lots of filing and faxing. But it taught me a valuable lesson... Just when you think your life sucks (jobless, homeless, loveless), I highly recommend you check out other people's lives and be very thankful for your health. I was amazed and blown away by the people my age who are on multiple meds for multiple maladies. I really have nothing to complain about. The one that brought me to tears was the woman with MS already in a wheelchair... at 28. She found out her diagnosis her senior year in college. Her mother also has it. Quitcher bitchin'.

We went shopping one day and everywhere I turned, sailboats, seascapes, beaches, bubble bath named Sea Island Cotton and Dancing Waters, summer themes. My sister said the same thing happened to her after she was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a mastectomy. She said she saw boobs everywhere. So now when I see things that remind me of Sailor Boy, I say, "Boobs. Everywhere, boobs." It makes me giggle. And it makes people wonder.

Went to dinner with my former priest from back home. A wonderful and wise man who has known me since I was 12. Baptized my daughter. Memorialized my mother. He is retired now, and we still stay in touch. At first we skirted around the many issues in my life because I was on the verge of tears at every question. We met on the day the house closed, and I was very emotional. Once we started to talk about my life in transition, he said, "Men and women see love and passion differently. Maybe you weren't madly and passionately in love at all." (I thought it curious that he used the cliche that I had used all year.) He said, "Maybe... maybe... you were just horny." And instead of tears, I burst out laughing in the restaurant. He turned a mild shade of pink, having forgotten who he was or who I was to him, and we laughed out loud together. It felt good to laugh.

I pre-signed last week without the ex, and it was traumatic. The woman at the title company was, perhaps, the rudest, most unprofessional person I have ever done business with. The ex would not allow me to get in one last time to say "good bye." (I know, I can be maudlin, can't I?) But eventually the real estate agent reminded him that it was my right and she had a key. I am glad I got to see it so I would not romanticize what it once meant to me. It was filthy (again), dog fur and dust everywhere, and the smell of dog urine throughout the basement (again). The place was no longer my home. The whole weekend was very emotional, but especially Tuesday at 10:30 when I knew it was over. Yes, I am glad to be out from under the mortgage, but it truly was the last piece of the puzzle. It is the only house I have known as an adult, and the only house in which we raised the girls. I highly recommend you change houses every so many years so you don't pack all your memories into one location. And I am reminded, especially when others tell of how quickly their house sold, that it took 15 months for this house to sell, and it did so on the weekend I broke up with Sailor Boy. It was what was keeping me here and not moving to be with him. Or was it? Was God my real estate agent? That's another blog post.

Went to see Sex and the City (the movie) with the girls. I thought it was a great movie, but don't ask me for an honest review. I was very vulnerable and cried through much of it. (Caution: Spoilers coming.) No, I was not left at the altar. No, my husband did not have an affair. No, I wasn't tempted by a gorgeous hunk in LA. No, I didn't give birth. But there were many other emotions that I could relate to throughout the movie. The 2 1/2 hrs went by fast. I was never bored. The costuming was incredible and fun. And, damn, there were some fine butts shown on the silver screen.

They'll be good times again for me and you,
But we just can't stay together,
don't you feel it too.
Still I'm glad for what we had
and how I once loved you.
It's too late, Baby, now it's too late.
Though we really did try to make it.

Something inside has died and I can't hide it,
I just can't fake it.

It's too late, now Darling.
It's too late.

I may vomit

2008-05-17T19:00:00.003-05:00

Wow! A little melodramatic, are we?

Seriously, why is it that our kids can zero into our vulnerabilities without even trying. I mean, she does not mean to be making me sick to my stomach with worry. Daughter #2 has waited to the last minute to figure out housing not only for the coming school year but this summer. Officially, she is homeless as of right now. Both her car and my car are packed with all her worldy goods. I can't even pack my stuff in my car to leave town on Friday because I have all of her stuff in there with no place to put it.

Some things were out of Dorothy's control. Trouble with roommates. And by trouble, I mean one girl decided not to come back to school and another has a cat. So at her b'day celebration last night (She turned 20 yesterday, the last day of finals!), she talked to a couple of other students who need housing (Is procrastination contagious?) or who need a roommate or who waited till the last minute. We have a few plans in the works, but for right now, both of us are close to vomiting at any point.

And this is just feeding into my inadequacies as a mother. If I had a place in town for her to stay while she got her act together? If I had a place back in St. Louis for her to stay till summer school started and she found a place to live. If I had my friggin' act together. If, If, If... for a moment last week I even questioned why I left her father for a new life. Ok, that was a brief moment, but it was a moment of panic and worry. I'm past it.

I leave town in 5 days. No job. I'm lucky to have my sister to live with while looking for work. I know that. I am not homeless, but I sure feel terribly disheveled, uprooted, uncertain. The broken heart, you ask? Still breaking into a million pieces. Some days bad, some better, some days tearful, some heartsick, some angry. That can't be helping any. My head does know it's the best thing, but letting go is so damn hard. I feel vulnerable and alone.

I can't sleep and I'm starting to have panic attacks. Don't know if it's from the broken heart, the fear of the future and the unknown, saying good-bye to this town and the few people I have gotten so close to in the past 18 months, or a kid who has no place to live. I know a friend whose son has a brain tumor. I know a family who lost their son last month in a car accident. I know people with much bigger problems. But this is what I am dealing with right now.

I've always had a strong stomach, but I feel like I could vomit at any moment.

Wanted: One single man with benefits

2008-05-08T19:49:00.003-05:00

And not those kinds of benefits. Not friends with benefits. Nope, not those. I mean health care benefits.

First, I interviewed with my current organization on the affiliate in St. Louis. There is an educator position available, but they are turning it into 2 part time positions. You wonder why? Wonder no more. You don't have to pay part time people benefits. When I raised the concern yesterday (as in , don't bother interviewing me if you can't offer me benefits) the HR person said we could discuss more during the phone interview. What she meant was "Are you willing to help us out PRN until you get full time work?" Bull shit.

So I drove off to St. Louis, had lunch with 2 former work friends from my publishing days and got 2 books I worked on for my interview. Hated driving in the big city again after 18 months of small college town driving. Found the place for the interview. I was great. She loved me. I was about to meet the CEO when she said, "Oh, by the way, we offer a retirement plan but no healthcare benefits. Is that a deal breaker?" WHAT??? Are you kidding me??? I said, "Yes, it's a deal breaker." She said, "Well, I heard you say 'divorce' and thought it might be," and I wanted to say, "Did you think my ex had benefits when we were married??? Because he never had a job with bennies. It was all me!" I gathered my things, and she apologized for having me drive in all this way for the interview. She did ask if I had looked into obtaining health care benefits on my own, and I told her that was a bust when I was unemployed (and freelancing) years ago because I have pre-existing conditions. I mentioned high cholesterol but did not mention depression so she wouldn't think I would come back and go "postal" on her. "Maybe," she said, "I should have mentioned this earlier?" Do ya think???? I was furious. One vacation day and 2 tanks of gas later and this is the sign of the times. I am still fuming. I know it's the beginning of my job search and that the job sounded boring, but damn it, what do they expect in this day and age???

So if you know of any single men out there with great benefits, let me know. Will marry for insurance.

Rising From the Ashes...

2008-04-25T12:34:00.001-05:00

This is not original but has been circulating on e-mail, and it spoke to me today. I have been up and down so much this week that I swear I'm on a roller coaster ride from hell. And by "up," I don't mean "high." I mean not as low as some days. And by "down" I don't mean suicidal. I mean not as high as I've been this last year. According to my dear blogger friend in New York, I should be going through this cycle several times in the next few weeks, but I just want to let you all know, I'm hanging in there. Up, down, high, low, but I'm still kicking. Hugs to all of you who have been there for me now and in the future. I could not get through this without you. You're the best.

Old Age, I decided, is a gift..........

I am now, probably for the first time in my life, the person I have always wanted to be. Oh, not my body! I sometime despair over my body, the wrinkles, the baggy eyes, and the sagging butt. And often I am taken aback by that old person that lives in my mirror (who looks like my mother!), but I don't agonize over those things for long.

I would never trade my amazing friends, my wonderful life, my loving family for less gray hair or a flatter belly. As I've aged, I've become more kind to myself, and less critical of myself. I've become my own friend. I don't chide myself for eating that extra cookie or for not making my bed or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need but looks so avante garde on my patio.

I am entitled to a treat, to be messy, to be extravagant. I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.

Whose business is it if I choose to read or play on the computer until 4 AM and sleep until noon? I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60&70's, and if I, at the same time, wish to weep over a lost love, I will. I will walk the beach in a swim suit that is stretched over a bulging body and will dive into the waves with abandon if I choose to, despite the pitying glances from the jet set . They, too, will get old.

I know I am sometimes forgetful. But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten. And I eventually remember the important things.

Sure, over the years my heart has been broken. How can your heart not break when you lose a loved one or when a child suffers or even when somebody's beloved pet gets hit by a car? But broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion. A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.

I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning gray and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face. So many have never laughed and so many have died before their hair could turn silver.

As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about what other people think. I don't question myself anymore. I've even earned the right to be wrong. So, to answer your question, I like being old. It has set me free. I like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been or worrying about what will be. And I shall eat dessert every single day. (If I feel like it)

The Fairy Tale Is Fading Away

2008-04-21T08:22:00.004-05:00

I think I was in love with the fairy tale. That's why I put up with being treated with 50% of the effort while I was giving 200%. Once old friends, lonely boy seeks out lonely girl on the internet after 20 years apart. And for the past year, this love has been like none other. I have never felt this way about another man in my life. At the ripe age of 50, I felt a love that truly made me walk on air. If you had seen me through my divorce and the subsequent months, you would think I had swallowed Tinker Bell. I was downright giddy. For God's sake, I learned how to swim for this man. And now the fairy tale is slowly, painfully sliding into the sunset. I deserve to be treated better. I was willing to put up with so much because I have never felt a love this strong, this powerful. But Vegas brought out a lot of realities that were too painful to ignore. And while my heart is hurting now, the pain excrutiating, I am coming out into the light. I remember thinking last year that if I had been my friend, I would slap me and say "Snap out of it." I was that freakishly happy. Well, now if I were my friend, I would say, "It takes one hell of a man to be better than no man at all." It's time I listened to this friend.

Walking back into my apartment, reminders of Sailor Boy are everywhere. Photos of us, lotion he gave me, a photo of me in the Bay, a pirate action figure, tee-shirts, a pitcher from the Valentine's flowers. This morning I looked up on my dresser to see my Beanie Baby Crab and Lion (Zodiac signs). Maybe I should have known when the chain from my heart necklace broke when I was in Vegas. So utterly cliche. And now my own heart is breaking.

I did not even feel this kind of pain when my 27-year marriage ended. Because that had ended years before and I had work to do. This pain is almost unbearable and gut-wrenching... another thing I thought I was too old to experience. I was wrong.

We are in the negotiation stage. You will not see "busy skyping" on my IM messages. After 14 months of 2 hours almost every night on Skype, we are taking a break and reflecting. Maybe I'll be his once-in-a-while sailing girlfriend for long weekends. I don't know. We're not talking much about details. The pain is too deep.

Oh, and by the way, I am quitting my job, moving back to St. Louis, and the house has a contract on it. I won't believe it until the keys are actually turned over. There are too many changes for me to catch my breath. Please hold me in your thoughts and prayers.

My colon passed with flying colors

2008-04-07T09:10:00.003-05:00

A colonoscopy is a piece of cake. Mmmmmm, piece of cake. I'm hungry. Just kidding. I would have never jeopardized my colonoscopy by introducing solids during the Day of Evacuation. But trust me, I wanted to. Every dream, and I had many, involved accidentally eating something I shouldn't which meant ANYTHING. I didn't sleep well the night before my procedure (hereby deemed The Super Dooper Pooper Snooper) out of nervousness or trips to the bathroom. But when I did sleep, it always involved food. Food accidentally being eaten out of habit, out of forgetfulness, out of boredom. I think at one point I actually dreamed of eating birthday cake, and we all know it's no where near my birthday.

But seriously, folks, I worried for nothing. The day before the test you drink nothing but liquids so there really is nothing in you... but liquid. Drinking the mixture, I will admit, isn't the tastiest of potions. Phospho-soda does taste, to quote Dave Barry, like "a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser with just a hint of lemon." So you chug it in a 1/2 glass of water. Then they tell you to chase it with 3 glasses of water. NO SHIT SHERLOCK. It didn't take reading medical instructions to figure that one out. You willingly pour anything down your gullet to get rid of that taste, but it goes away. It does not linger. (Dave Barry took Movi-Prep which I cannot attest to, but I assume it tastes as bad as Phospho-soda.)

I wished my appointment had been in the morning (a) to get it over with (b) so I could come back home and sleep the rest of the day or (c) so I could start eating sooner, but alas, it was in the afternoon. The biggest factor of not eating is boredom. Really. You don't realize how much or how often we stick something in our mouth our of boredom. But once I was taken to the Endoscopy Center, the nurses, anesthetists, and even the person who makes a living sticking tubing up people's butts were wonderful. Before putting the IV in, the nurse brought me warm blankets. They explained everything. My blood pressure was fine. And away we went. You even get chauffeured down the hall in one of those beds with wheels. The one I thought I would get when I had kids, but they made me "jump on down" into a wheelchair after delivering an 8 pound bowling ball. I finally got the escorted bed.

The nurse anesthetist administering the "milk of amnesia" said to think of a nice dream, and before I could think about being in Vegas with Sailor Boy, I was already back in my recovery room with those heated blanket on my legs. I am thinking about getting the "milk of amnesia" for my next tooth cleaning.

Hell, I should have had some for the last 10 years of my marriage.

Blue Bamboo Diffuser

2008-03-30T21:50:00.008-05:00

I meant to share with you the sentiment on one of the cards my sister gave our niece upon the occasion of her 40th birthday.

How could you know...

when you were 20 and imposisbly sexy and unable to imagine yourself otherwise,

that time would teach you something.

That age is not a loss but an exhange of wisdom for youth,

grace for foolishness, love for lust.

And it is an exchange that will seem a very unfair trade,

not for the woman, but for the girl.

I forgot to tell you the funny thing that happened to me NOT on the way to the forum but in the bathroom of The London Tea Room at my niece's birthday celebration. If you recall, she turned 40 2 weeks ago, and my sisters and I took her to high tea at a lovely tea room. We were dressed as if we had all gone to church. It was still chilly (since it's March) so I wore this very nice layered gored lavender skirt with a white top, and a
very colorful sweater.

After we ordered our tea, I had to use the bathroom. Nice little room as far as loo's go. A one-holer. Well, as I explained, I had on layers. So as not to drop my very long skirt made up of copious amounts of material into the commode, I gathered it in front of me and flipped it over my shoulder. Perfect plan so the skirt would be spared the icy plunge.

However, I did not take into account the diffuser of Blue Bamboo oil on the back of the toilet tank. Are you seeing where this is going? I heard the glass diffuser topple, and before I could say "Queen Elizabeth II," oily diffuser liquid was oozing down the sides and front of the toilet tank and onto the tile floor around my feet. The 6 "pick-up" sticks were rolling in the oil on the slippery porcelain.

Now I won't go into detail about what happened when one is peeing and one must jump up quickly from the toilet seat. I don't even want to think about it, but it does take a lot of brain cells for your synapses to scream, "Jump, squeeze, jump hold, GET OUT OF THE WAY OF THE OIL BUT STOP PEEING." I managed. And I managed not to get the oily diffuser all over the back of my sweater by sitting forward when necessary. Pretty fit manuevering for an old gal.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry as I sat there with my lavender skirt lopped over my shoulder and urine-colored oil seeping down the toilet tank onto the floor like lava from Mt. Vesuvius. Do you know how many paper towels it takes to clean up diffuser oil? You know, the cheap butcher-paper kid of hand towels. Let's just say LOTS.

To my credit, I DID clean up the toilet and the surrounding floor tile (with my skirt still lopped over my shoulder). Hell, from a distance, this goop looked like pee, and I didn't want anyone to think I had peed oil. I kid you not... when I returned to the table, my niece said, "My, you smell nice. What are you wearing?" After our tea, we went shopping in the nearby British goods store. At the last display was the table of Blue Bamboo Diffusers and candles. I took a whiff and knew I had smelled that somewhere before. Not a bad smell, not too overpowering. I inquired about the Blue Bamboo line of products and the proprietor said, "We use that in the bathrooms here, and everyone loves the smell so much that we sell a lot of these." I wasn't interested in purchasing any that day. It was a smell, subtle as it was, I could do without. And besides, it was following me home... for free.

I did not tell my family members so as not to detract from the festivities of the afternoon. But on the way home, I did tell my sister the funny story of spilling the oil all over the bathroom. My funny sister called me while I was driving out of town and said, "My car smells lovely. Thanks for the air freshener." Funny!

Going for my Oh-My-God-I-Must-Be-50 routine colonoscopy this Friday. And if you don't think I'm not going to be posting about that in detail, well, you're just full of ... you get the idea!

A Poodle? Are you nuts?

2008-03-28T08:44:00.001-05:00

Cheez doodles and ice cream

2008-03-14T22:06:00.004-05:00

Lately, I have taken to eating cheez (with a "z") puffs and ice cream (Moose Tracks). Both on sale and soon gone so this divergence is short-lived. Try as I might, I cannot find the nutritional components except, perhaps, dairy in the ice cream. Can you say "depressed"?

Work is crap. Because they do not trust our boss and want him to quit, they are making his life miserable and, subsequently, the people under him. We have to account for every minute of every day on our Outlook calendar. I can understand presentations. I log those in anyway. But now we are to log in "reading a journal article on sex," "checking out videos on this website," "planning for a presentation." How much longer before we have to record "taking a dump" or "looking for a new job?" We are 5 adults who manage our time. We do not need to record our every waking moment and be babysat.

Taking more swimming lessons. Even went on my own the other day to practice putting my head under water. I didn't like it, but I did it. And finally scheduled my colonoscopy because of this hysterical article. Good for 50-yr-old me. (Of course, I haven't gotten there, but I need all the accolades I can get beforehand.)

Going back to St. Louis for my niece's 40th b'day this weekend.

Of Kirkwood and Art Linkletter

2008-02-28T22:38:00.003-06:00

Today my profile says I come from the Middle of the State, but it once read that I was located in Kirkwood, Missouri. Yep, that Kirkwood. The Kirkwood that was in the paper 3 weeks ago tonight, splashed across the world as the City Council shootings unfolded. I was horrified along about this tragedy with the rest of my little suburb and the rest of the country and even the world. Here are some articles to read to catch up on the happenings in case you were living in a cave. It has been in every paper, on every news station, and on the minds of everyone back home. I knew 3 of those murdered, 2 of them well, and even drove back for the funeral of the councilwoman who was to be running for mayor in April. And she would have won. I lived in Kirkwood for 20 years, and no matter where I move to in the future, it will always be home to me. One of the starkest images was driving back home for Connie's funeral and seeing not one Kirkwood police on the streets. The community was being protected by Missouri Highway Patrol and other municipalities. I heard the procession for the younger of the two cops rode through 7 miles of town and took 2 hours to complete in temperatures that never got over the teens. The black bunting still drapes City Hall. We (and I still consider myself a part of that little berg) will never be the same. You can say it was about black vs. white, right vs. wrong, the big guy vs. the little guy, growth vs. slums, stagnation vs. blighting, but in the end, it was one man who snapped over what he thought was injustices and went far far, too far the wrong way. He volunteered at my daughters' elementary school and could only be described by those of us who barely knew him in town as a "teddy bear." Now his family must live in the same town where he took 5 vital members of the community. Those who died that night will forever be known as The Kirkwood Six because he was one of them, too, shot and killed in the end. My heart continues to weigh heavy with sadness over this horrifying tragedy.

Ok, it took me 3 weeks to get those words out. My heart still hurts.

So I was thinking about my niece's upcoming 40th birthday and recalled what I was doing 40 years ago today. (I have older nephews, having become an aunt at 7.) 2 weeks prior to today 40 years ago I got my first pair of glasses. Imagine red hair, freckles, divorced mother, no car, and now put glasses on my face. Oh, I was a looker. 40 years ago today on a Tuesday morning I was hit by a car. The hip smacked into the grill, my chin collided with the hood ornament, and I was thrown to the asphalt, skidding about 20 feet (although it could have been 10 feet or 50 since I had spacial problems back then, too). I had borrowed my sister's blouse that morning, a blue-green blouse with a huge circle collar that laid outside my black jumper, both sewn by our mother. I was 10 to her 15 and had no business borrowing her clothes. I was soon to be found out. My glasses that, as you recall, I had just gotten 2 weeks earlier, flew off my face, did a half gainer, and landed, temples pointing down, in the rain grate, found later unscratched. The beautiful circular collar of watercolor was now soaked in blood, and I recall someone saying, "We have to call the police," and my remarking (while still on my knees in the middle of the street), "Don't call the police. I didn't do anything wrong." Hey, I was a kid with a single mother who knew the word truant.

I remember the neighbor boy (who would later give me several of his private collection of MAD magazines) running to get my big sister, whose blouse I had borrowed, and I remember looking up at my house and seeing her take the 11 porch steps in ONE LEAP. I knew she was going to bean me for borrowing her now blood-soaked blouse. I knew fear. The two of us sat up front in the ambulance while whizzing through town with the siren blaring, going 70 miles an hour without seat belts. Gotta love the 60s. The same ambulance driver would eventually drop my big sister off at high school where a teacher had to tell her that there was blood all over her outfit.

I remember my mother showing up after her cab ride (remember we didn't have a car) and saying, "Ok, so what have you done now? How does the car look?" as if I had been in a schoolyard scuffle. It was her feeble, inappropriate attempt at relieving the tension that she must have felt. As a mother, I cannot imagine my supervisor at work tapping me on the shoulder and saying, "Can you come with me" as they gave her the news her little girl was hit by a car. And finally, I remember the doctor telling me I had "contusions, abrasions, and lacerations." I knew I was dying. Sadly, I was wheeled into a room to wait for the x-ray results as my mother was sitting next to a stranger. My mother had no friends, let alone male friends, and I remember thinking it was weird when she asked, "Do you know who this is?" Of course not, Lady. I was hit by a car. I don't have amnesia. Turns out it was the man who hit me. He worked at the Federal Pen up the street and had driven to work the same way for 25 years until that morning. He decided to shake it up a bit. In the end, he drove us home and even carried me into the house as I no longer could walk because of the aforementioned contusions. As an adult now, I cannot imagine the anguish he went through after hitting a little kid with his car. My mother took the rest of the day off while I watched Art Linkletter. Another big sister took off from college and stayed with me the rest of the week until I recuperated and returned to school the next week. I can't imagine not having sick days to take care of my kid(s) or having to ask my college-kid to take off from school to watch my kid. Looking back, my pain was minimal over that of the adults involved.

Two weeks later I became an aunt for the 3rd time. I so was the most popular kid in 5th grade for those couple of weeks.

Holy crap, Art Linkletter is still alive.

Counting M&Ms and Findings Buttons

2008-02-07T08:41:00.000-06:00

Funny title... I know. But you'll get it soon enough.

The answer growing was was never "go outside and play." My mother worked nights until I was 7 and worked days after that so was never home during the long summer days when you might hear a mother answer "go play outside" when a kid was bored. It was never the answer. Outdoors was not a reward for us small city kids. It was where we went when there was a slight breeze that made it cooler than the stifling heat of the un-air conditioned apartment we lived in. Cooling off involved sitting in metal tubs that only accommodated a body when scrunched up with knees to chin filled with cold water. To date, I have never climbed a tree.

Adventure took on a whole new meaning in my house. My sister roller skated up and down the High Street sidewalk crashing and colliding way too often for me to take skate key in hand. (You young readers are wondering "what the hell is a skate key?" Google it.) Adventure to me was locating 5 matching buttons from the button box when my mother was sewing something. Hey, that could take all afternoon for a bored kid. While my sisters were voracious readers, adventure to me was setting M&Ms out in a row in front of the tv (that I sat 2 feet in front of on the floor),ordering them by color, eating them in conscious fashion of comparative numbers, no color having more than the other while watching Gilligan's Island or Brady Bunch. Adventure was filling up jugs of water when the Water Company called to tell us that they were turning off the water for failure to pay the bill. What an adventure. Adventure was crossing the main street in town to catch the city bus for school each morning. This Feb 28th will mark the 40th anniversary of the day I got hit by a car on that adventure. See, I wasn't too good at some of those adventures.

But going outside was never the solution to being bored for a kid like me. Going outside meant more allergies, more asthma, more sunburns. You young readers can't imagine life before air conditioning or antihistamines, but I was a miserable walking snot ball as a child because of the grasses, weeds, and trees. You never closed the windows in the summer because there was no air conditioning so I suffered greatly as a child. Plus, living downtown we had few neighbor kids to start of a game of softball or basketball or stickball. And if you recall, that street was far too busy to play in. My sisters and I did not take up the cause of Title IX which guaranteed girls' participation in sports. My big protest was staging a sit-in to allow girls to wear slacks to school when I was in 8th grade. I got sent home but felt victorious in my rebellion, and I'd like to consider it an adventure, but we all know it didn't call for athletic prowess. Oh, gym class. Don't even get me started. Gym in grade school meant tetherball, which I was pretty good at (You basically stand still for this "sport.") And do you remember that torturous goddamn rope bolted to the ceiling of the gymnasium? Who invented that torture device.

So what's my point? I am not an athlete, never was and never aspired to be. (I was the kid in grade school who promised to do your homework if you would bat for me.) Didn't join sports teams, growing up with sisters in a city environment. Never played outside as an answer to "What can I do today, Mom?" So I find myself in love with a man whose middle name is "outdoors," who lives for adventure, who wants to spend the rest of his life moving, going, doing and wants a partner to do those things with. Half the things he mentions, like hiking, swimming, sailing, I have never tried or desired to try. The other half, like skiing, skating, horseback riding, I have tried with disastrous results. Horrible experiences. And now he ponders ... is love enough? Will I ever be good enough? Will I be nothing more than a disappointed left behind? I contend I am willing to try, but at 50, is that a pipe dream? Or a hip waiting to break?