tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45699550348314895692024-03-14T05:42:58.097-04:00f8hasit...a little from the mind dealing with 'Overwhelm'. Welcome to the bubble in which I live...f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.comBlogger163125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-83182856147459265992012-11-27T10:02:00.002-05:002015-11-13T08:52:32.625-05:00just a blinking line...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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That damn little blinking cursor.<br />
<br />
Sometimes just looking at it makes me want to scream, and other times the darn thing can’t keep up with my typing and ends up 8 words behind dragging along like a ball at the end of a chain. Other times it’s me at the end with the ball pulling me into that black abyss know as writers block.<br />
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I’ve always had little stories bouncing around in my head. <br />
<br />
Sometimes I’ll sit down and jot down the ideas to come back to have a go at it later, sometimes the whole story comes flowing out on the first seating at the computer. Then there are those times when I have it, or almost have it and then…bam. <em>Nothing.</em></div>
<br />
For me, small things can trigger a story. The other day I was out in the yard and heard a far off cry of a train whistle. There are railroad tracks that run straight through the center of the city I live in, but years ago there was a proposition the city made with the rail line to divert the majority of the train traffic south of our enclave. Subsequently we don’t hear as many train whistles as we used to.<br />
<br />
I stood up from my fall raking chores and listened. I mentally noted which direction it was coming from, heading east it sounds from the frequency of the horn. If it were headed west there would have been a break in the series when it came to the bridge. Funny how your mind can place things without truly even consciously thinking about them...<br />
<br />
In a second not only had no more than 10 memories and stories to go with burst into my head, then the memories started to morph into ideas of stories. Within 10 minutes I had a full page of notes. I remembered sitting at my grandpa's farm eating ice cream and pie on the porch at dusk and hearing the train. "I wonder where it's headed..." my grandpa always said. It never changed, that dialogue. He'd then start into a story, but it would always start with those words..."I wonder where it's headed." I'd settle in and get comfortable because I knew then I was about to hear a <em>'good un'</em>.<br />
<br />
I went back to my yard work and came back to my office and computer later that afternoon. I looked at what I’d jotted down and had, well….nuthin’. Not nothing really, there were a bunch of ideas, but what had seemed so clear, so precise, so perfect somehow got lost in the doubt factor.<br />
<br />
That’s what I call it. <em><strong>The doubt factor.</strong></em><br />
<br />
Every so often it rears its lousy head. Little voices in my own head left behind as reverberations from those from my past that put them there. I <strong>know</strong> in my conscious and logical mind that these voices don’t mean much. They are words from lost men whose only hope to redeem themselves as real humans were to put down or use those around them. You know the type. You’ve probably yourself had a run in or two with some. But even though those voices are silenced in real time, they still….just every so often…make themselves heard again.<br />
<br />
“Nancy...Why write? And a blog? Stupid. Just stupid…nobody cares.” I can hear him say.<br />
<br />
“Because it makes me happy. I like it. I really don’t care if anyone reads it or not, I just like doing it. Feeds the right side of my brain.”<br />
<br />
“It’s a waste of your time.”<br />
<br />
<em>Alrighty. Thanks for the positive input and reinforcement. By the way, get the hell out of my life will you?</em> My mind is saying to itself. <em>He’s not worth it. He’s a nobody, a nothing, <strong>a loser</strong>. </em><br />
<br />
My words are clear. And true. And yet I can hear his faintly in the back of my mind.<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
Be silent. <br />
Go away! I don’t want or need to hear your voice. <strong>Ever again!</strong><br />
<br />
So I return to my screen. I will my voice to be heard loud enough to drown out anything else that might interfere.<br />
<br />
And watch the cursor blink at me.<br />
It looks like it’s winking really. <em>Go ahead</em>, it whispers to me. <em>Just one word.</em> Then another will come. And another, and another…it’s easy, you love it. <em><strong>You want it.</strong></em><br />
<br />
The little blinking cursor seduces me. Makes me follow it to the next page. The word count starts racking up on the lower left corner. 500, then 600, 700. The loser voice no longer holds any weight. It’s speaking but it can’t be heard over the clicking of the keys from my fingertips. I like the sound of the keys. It’s soothing.<br />
<br />
And makes me wonder why it took me so long to get back. I do like it. I do want it. I do enjoy it...<br />
<br />
About two years ago I had an idea and started writing a story. Before I knew it, it was more than a story and on it’s way to becoming a book. One morning when out walking with a friend she asked me what I’d been doing in my spare time. “Oh, I’ve been writing.” <br />
<br />
“Your blog?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“A little, but not much with the blogging as of late.” I responded. “I haven’t quite had the time to devote lately and well, sorry to say, I haven’t even signed on in several months.”<br />
<br />
She looked at me from under her hood with a questioning glance. “Why…?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know. I’ve been writing this kinda book…” I trailed off, waiting for some sort of rebuke.<br />
<br />
“Really! Can I read it?” she exclaimed.<br />
<br />
“Well…it’s not done or anything…” but I ended up printing up some of the pages and gave then to her the next walk we had planned. And then promptly forgot about it.<br />
<br />
Several months later I got a call. If the caller ID shows a number I’m not familiar with I let it roll to voicemail. If it’s someone I know, they usually follow with a call to my cell. Not quite sure why I even have a landline, I so rarely use it or check the messages.<br />
<br />
“Hi…Nancy? My names Bill. I happened upon a story you’ve written and well, I need about another 600 pages and then when we edit it we should have a fairly good novel. Will you give me first look at it when you’re done? No pressure.”<br />
<br />
I about dropped the phone out of shock. Really? Wow. That’s…well, frickin’ amazing!<br />
As it turns out she gave it to her husband, who gave it to a co-worker, who gave it to his friend, who gave it to his wife, who gave it to her college roommate, who gave it to her husband, who gave it to his workout buddy Bill.<br />
<br />
But for some reason now the blinking cursor isn’t seducing me. It taunts me. <em>You can’t do it, can you. Watch me blink. I’m not moving. I should be moving, but I’m not. C’mon. Just try. Try to keep up. Try to make me move.</em><br />
<br />
I now truly understand when in the movies they depict the writer sitting in front of the computer with nothing coming out. I get it now. The pressure is great. Almost too great. It’s no longer fun, it’s like a job. What if no one wants to read it anyway? What if it is a waste of time?<br />
<br />
<em>Silence you buffoon. I won't have any of that language. Stay out of my head.</em><br />
<br />
So I sit back down to write the next chapter and what comes out? <br />
<strong><em>This.</em></strong><br />
<br />
I'll now flip to the other open Word page and see what happens there.<br />
That is, if I can get past this doubt factor...<br />
<br />
:)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-22941080648318253092012-07-01T20:26:00.001-04:002012-07-02T00:02:36.669-04:00obsessed...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7BvK-qDlw0l-fXFhkkKYD8jxBJWpiIkvF72YScdCLnDJAvhoZbFkHcIeijiqcIUQkHvFb6SzUFZwR3IrLXM8vPcZk-YgKzMblIxXg7byd6s0E2mdf3ufl_N0YmSiygZWnNQ5M0drIHnb_/s1600/photo+(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7BvK-qDlw0l-fXFhkkKYD8jxBJWpiIkvF72YScdCLnDJAvhoZbFkHcIeijiqcIUQkHvFb6SzUFZwR3IrLXM8vPcZk-YgKzMblIxXg7byd6s0E2mdf3ufl_N0YmSiygZWnNQ5M0drIHnb_/s1600/photo+(5).JPG" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am obsessed.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am not, nor ever have been a groupie. A devotee. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Or a</span> follower. I have never been haunted by
infatuation or tormented by all consuming thoughts. But I am now <strong>officially</strong>
<em>obsessed</em>.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sure...in the past there have been men that I thought that I
wouldn’t be able to survive without. There have been shoes that I thought that I needed
to live. That dessert that knew would complete me. And that unforgiving fourth
martini that would make me loose control of my logical capacities. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These were not obsessions though. Far from it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I enjoy the whole social networking thing. Linkedin. Get it. Great way to network for business. Twitter.
Sure, have an account, but rarely use it anymore. I just don’t really tweet or give a
tweet to be honest. Facebook. Yes and no. I get some weird satisfaction in deleting ‘friends’
that I really don’t want or need to keep in contact with. Yelp keeps me
informed locally about the hot spots. Shelfari lets me find books that interest
me. Pininterest for well, just about everything that I didn’t know I needed,
wanted or needed to know about until I saw it. Foursquare lets me know where my
friends are at. There’s hundreds of social sites. Many that I’ve never even
heard of before, but they all have at least one thing in common.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hear my teenage daughter all the time. “Did you see how
many friends he has!!!!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Is it a contest, I wonder?</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I guess I don’t understand <em>that</em> part of it. I don’t think
that I want to have that many friends knowing all my business. And really, do
they care where I am or what I’m doing? Probably not. But it <strong>is</strong> fun to participate on the forum from time
to time.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Blogging? I've been</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> more addicted to it than any of the other social
networks. I really, really, really enjoy reading others peoples stories and
thoughts. It makes me happy to see comments on my own writings. It brings me
joy and satisfaction unlike any other pursuits that I’ve had. Although I have been lax of late. :(</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some of my blogging friends are friends that I’ve never met,
but have a connection to that would rival that of some of my pals that live in
town. I have the honor of actually introducing two new lovebirds that met
<em>through</em> <em>my blog</em> and now are embarking on an adventure together. He picking up
and moving to a land across the sea. How cool is that?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But my new obsession?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><em>Instagram.</em></strong></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am beyond a doubt hooked. Just like the idiom, I fell for
it hook, line and sinker.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Growing up I glowed when I got my first camera. A Kodak Brownie.
I still own it. I remember taking it to the zoo on it's first use and of course, since I was
a wee photographer when we developed the film (which I knew would be masterpieces to rival anything found in the art museum)
I either cut the heads off people or the bodies off the animals. If you were
looking for sky and cloud shots, there were several to choose from.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The cost of developing the film got me thinking about ‘it’s
not the quantity of photos taken, but the quality of those you take.’ I’m still
a firm believer in that even in the digital age where developing film has
become a bit of a lost art.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I purchased my first 35mm camera, a Minolta, in middle
school. I saved money and when everyone else was spending their money at the
local deli for penny candy or buying ice cream sundaes at the new ice cream
shop that opened, I saved and bought a camera. Complete with interchangeable
lenses, thank you very much. It traveled with me everywhere. I still own it. It sits in my dressing room next to my Brownie.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I preferred black and white photography. Not surprisingly I
was motivated by the contrast in Ansel Adams pictures. I liked to take close up
shots of things and make the viewer wonder what the bigger picture looked like.
When I was a child I colored dark. I wouldn’t lightly draw and softly color things
in. The side of my hand would be deeply stained with crayon from dragging it
over the picture made. I would press hard to get the color to be that OF the
crayon. If it was purple, my drawing was PURPLE. I pressed hard and broke many
crayons. When some students could use the same 64 pack of Crayolas for several
years, I went through several packs in a month. “Mrs. Veres, you’ll need to
send in some more crayons for Nancy. She has used all of hers….<em>again</em>.” So it
wasn’t farfetched that I honed my love for high contrast in pictures, the
negative space used long, long ago.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I now own a Nikon. I don’t take my big camera everywhere
with me like I used to, but I DO love the photos I get when I DO use it. They
are crisp and sharp and fast. You can catch a wave with the droplets hanging in
air with that bad boy. I have a small point and shoot Sony which I also love. It’s
lovely to take on vacation when you just want to slip a camera in your pocket and
not be bothered with the care the Nikon takes. But lately I’ve gotten lazy and
don’t take either with me. I just use my iPhone. Amazingly, it takes some
pretty good pictures. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">AND I can answer calls at the same time. Jatch golden eggs, harvest zombies or play scrabble when I'm bored. Woo-Hoo.
Multitasking at it’s best. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>While </em>drinking a latte.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Oh yeah, I’m bad like that.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">OR upload my photos
on Instagram. Just like that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And look at others photos. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And get followers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And follow other people….you get the 'picture'.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">YUP. Hooked. Done. Sunk.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I absolutely <em>adore</em> Instagram. The other day when it wasn’t
working properly (for about 12 hours!) I started to check every five minutes or
so. “It’s still down? What the hell! HOW am I going to upload this pic? HOW am
I going to see what Jackonly (<em>oooh, he’s so handsome</em>), or lenz_of_the_azn_eyez
(<em>wow, great pics</em>), Oona (<em>serenity in photo</em>), or sibamos (<em>black and white
brillance</em>) have posted? I don’t <strong>‘know’</strong> any of these people. It's not going to change my life but somehow we got
interconnected through our photos. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And I NEED to SEE them.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sure some people I follow I know. I’m following a couple neighbors, a few people from Facebook, a bloggy friend or two, my
hairdresser…the gal that stopped by my garage sale yesterday "was Instagram working for you?" she asked me. "It's driving me bonkers!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All I could do is nod in agreement, while checking it once again with my left hand. "Yeah, I'll get right to you on a price for that tent...I'm checking something very important here."</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The majority of the people that I follow and that are following me as well are people all over the world
that also have a love of photography and post their photos for all to see. I
absolutely LOVE it. Love love love love love.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As a relative newbie I’m starting to pick up on the hashtag thing. There on some
that overuse hashtags but I find it quite fascinating. A lady over in
Israel ‘liked’ my photo because I hashtagged <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>#thegivingtree of a recent photo I posted of a tree stump that looked like it was weeping. There is no other way
she would have ever found that picture. That intrigues me. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t stop looking at my phone. I’m obsessed with seeing
the news of whom I’m following whose photos their liking. I’m obsessed with
finding out how those that like my photos find me. And I’m obsessed with
finding others with similar photography tastes as mine own.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it seems nor can my daughter! </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mantra of late is “put down the phone.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“<em>But I’m just on Instagram…”</em> she’ll whine. As if that’s acceptable
when we’re at dinner but being on the phone texting or on Facebook isn’t.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s your <strong>phone</strong>. We’re at <strong>dinner</strong>. Put it <strong>down</strong>.” I’ll calmly
instruct. That's when I hear the familiar chime that someone has liked or
followed on Instagram and it’s all I can do to NOT look at my own phone screen.
She watches me intently as she heard the sound as well challenging me
with her glare.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Do. Not. Look. Do. Not. Look. DO. NOT. LOOK!!!! I instruct myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Damn. I
looked. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She laughs. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And nods in acceptance completely understanding now that I've been introduced to my newest time usurper.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her photos are better than mine ever were at her age. She
has caught the ‘bug’. The shutter bug to be exact. I bought her a camera for
Christmas. A little bit better than my first Brownie…it’s a Nikon. It’s not a pocket, but not an interchangeable lens
one. <em>Yet. </em></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That I felt was a little too spendy for a 13 year old. She’s got to
have to have something to look forward to after all. But she’s brilliant, really quite brillant with
the iPhoneagraphy. Actually I think she prefers the iPhone over the camera. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She’s got the eye. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She wants to learn how to develop film. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She’d like a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>darkroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">AND She likes black and white high contrast as well.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And yes, when she was little she used to destroy her crayons
trying to achieve the right color. That apple, I guess, doesn’t fall too far
from the tree.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now if I can just get enough followers and likes to make it to the <em>popular page </em>my life will be <strong><em>perfect.</em></strong>
</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You know, there’s a little gap where the Donald Pliner wedge sandals didn’t quite fill…</span><br />
<br />:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="border: 0px currentColor !important;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-47554443861456241342012-06-17T16:28:00.000-04:002012-06-17T16:28:17.326-04:00the Stumeister...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbW2_UsygkFkcAvgjJpOiBwKp228r0w8GFRUsWmlWcxFIvIoozVc7cPhW57zNeo0s4XKgogqAFkOF-w02vPet8KOacyN7HpKJhd94egwzgJvULHP-e-PtuOgS76J59pN4f-J7K88e-pbCC/s1600/stuey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbW2_UsygkFkcAvgjJpOiBwKp228r0w8GFRUsWmlWcxFIvIoozVc7cPhW57zNeo0s4XKgogqAFkOF-w02vPet8KOacyN7HpKJhd94egwzgJvULHP-e-PtuOgS76J59pN4f-J7K88e-pbCC/s320/stuey.jpg" width="154" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I didn’t see it coming.</span> <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m a planner. I like schedules. I like to know where I’m supposed to be and when I’m supposed to be there. I used to think that I was spontaneous. I <em>used</em> to be spontaneous, but I'm not so much anymore. I was the girl in high school when someone said in the middle of a gathering, “hey…I have some cousins in Eastlake having a party”, I’d be the one saying, “Let’s go! It’s just 120 miles!”</span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That happened. <em>My parents were not pleased.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Somewhere, somehow that <em>spontaneous me</em> died. Or retreated. Or maybe I just grew up. Sure, it raises its head every so often and shows itself. Case in point---sitting on the beach watching the lake waves one moment; and the next driving to West Virginia to gamble. Probably not one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Or seeing an offer on Groupon and then booking a flight to the Dominican Republic that leaves in two days. <strong>That </strong>one was a good decision.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I <strong>do</strong> like having plans. When going on vacation I read about it and find out of the way places that only locals know about. I keep my fridge somewhat stocked just in case friends stop over and I always carry my passport just in case a flight is leaving somewhere...so plans? Yes. I dig them.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not Franklin Planner plans like my brother. If it’s not in his planner, it’s not going to happen…but, you know, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>plans. I like a semblance of order. It gives me a sense of comfort. And I suppose of control.</span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over Easter spring break I planned to take a little trip south to the Island. You’ve heard about it before. Amelia Island…<em>It’s my happy place.</em> I was in need of a little happy recharge, so I loaded up the Commander and off we went. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I decided to bring Sienna, my labradoodle, on this trek with us. Sienna is the perfect dog. Never barks, easy going, doesn’t shed, never complains. Just perfect. Plus she loves water, so I thought it would be nice to have her join me on my long morning walks.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The other pup, Stuey, is quite handsome, but like many handsome guys…high maintenance. He’s<strong> not</strong> easy going, barks at everything, complains a lot and is not a water dog. Taking him for the walks would be good, but I worried about leaving him alone in the cottage if we went out. I'm sure he'd ahve been fine, but I didn't want to worry about him so I made arrangements to leave him behind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Two days into our vacation I got a call, “Have you noticed anything wrong with Stu’s breathing?” I thought about it but couldn’t think of anything offhand. We’d had a few unseasonably warm days and there was one night when he was wheezing or something a bit. I thought it might be the heat, or allergies as the trees were letting off a ton of pollen. I remember it being bedtime and here’s Stu making this ruckus.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You have to know a little background on the Stumeister. He’s an American Bulldog, looks like Petey from the little rascals, is quite the good looking dog and very well knows it. He thinks he’s Alpha but as I had a throw down with him one day, “You’re NOT Alpha. You’re not even Omega. Fact is you might not even be Gamma.” All this said whilst I had my hands on his collar standing over him as he lay on the ground belly up.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As before mentioned, he’s a little headstrong, requires tons of attention, thinks he’s a lapdog <em>(at 110 pounds),</em> takes up most of the bed at night and has separation anxiety. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He has started scenting my dressing room. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">WITH his urine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes, you read that correctly. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Urine.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On <strong>my</strong> stuff because I wasn’t spending enough time with him and he wants everyone within nose shot to know I’m HIS. Of course he sprayed my blazers, mostly. All the things that can’t be washed but need to be dry cleaned.<em> IF</em> the cleaners<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>can even salvage the damage…that is.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Why would I deal with all of this from a pet?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Because I love him.</strong> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As you know, I'm a sucker for handsome men. They get me each and every time...</span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And although part of me DID want to take him with us I felt it best to leave him at home. This way <strong>MY</strong> vacation would<em> STAY</em> <strong>MY</strong> vacation and not a caretaker event for my pup.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So the worried call about his breathing troubled me. Not only did I remember that one instance but Boo said she’d heard him ‘coughing’ a few times. His behavior didn’t seem changed, but there was a little something amiss…I just didn’t think that much of it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stuey was staying with Boo’s dad. “He was pretty bad. His gums were blue so I took him to the vet.” They did some x-rays and determined there was something in his chest cavity. Fluid, to be exact. They sedated Stu and drained several liters. Apparently this relieved the pressure for Stu and although not as rambunctious as usual, he seemed fine. Three days later he needed to have a chest tap again. I called and spoke to the vet.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Dr. Peddi…honestly, what do you think?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well…I know what you’re asking. I can hear it in your voice. It could be a couple of things…one of which is treatable and the other two aren’t.” she told me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I hate to ask this, but what would the potential cost be?” We’d already racked up over $2000 in expenses with the chest taps, x-rays, medication and service calls.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Anywhere between $2000 and $6000 for surgery and if it’s the one thing I think it might be we’d just sew him back up and euthanize him….”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had to be logical. Sidestep and leave my heart out of this decision.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This was a <em>pet.</em> And I’m looking at a potential 6 months of mortgage payments to maybe keep him alive?....</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Do you, may I…” I was trying to get through the words but kept choking up, “Can I bring him in to you to..you know…put him….” </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I couldn’t finish. Somehow I felt as if I said it then I’d have betrayed Stuey.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes, Nancy. I’ll be here this Friday. <em>Is that ok?”</em> she asked. Dr. Peddi is the best. So kind; so considerate.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I spent the next whole day just attending to Stuey. He had steak and cheese and all his favorites, although not much. He wasn’t eating much, but enjoyed what he did. I tried to get him up on the bed in his usual spot, but he kept sliding down to the floor. So I propped him with pillows to get him comfortable and slept on the floor with him. I would doze only to awaken with him standing over me, struggling for air. It was disconcerting to find him standing over me. Looking down, struggling for air, silently pleading with me to stay awake with him. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was afraid to fall asleep. I kept thinking that he’d pass while I slept and although that might have been the easiest thing to happen, for me at least, I couldn’t let him go alone. The most comfortable position was that of standing with his neck extended and head slightly raised. I suppose that opened the air passages. It was painful to watch him. I wept a lot. <em>Heck, I’m weeping now…</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stroked him and cuddled him and told him what a great dog he had been and how we would miss him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His big black eyes looked deep into my soul seeming to understand my sorrow. He would lick my face from time to time whisking away the tears. By morning we were both exhausted. And ready.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I couldn’t watch him struggle any longer. It would have been selfish to try to keep him. I loaded him into the passenger seat and we went for our last car ride.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The clinic was wonderful . The receptionists knew why we were there and they all pushed back tears of their own as we walked by them to the big back room. They had the lights dimmed, soft music playing and a large blanket on the floor. He wagged his tail when he saw Dr. Peddi and she plopped down on the floor with us and hugged him. “Hey big fella…” she said scratching him behind the ears. “I’d hoped not to see you…”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He answered her soothing voice with a nuzzle. I felt a pang of regret for bringing him. I wondered if it was too late. Maybe I shouldn’t make this decision and just let it happen naturally. I think Dr. Peddi felt my confusion. “It’s really the best thing. You don’t want to be there or see him if he goes into duress.” She gave him an injection for anxiety. “It’s like an out of body experience this way for him…” Dr. Peddi explained.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He started to pant and had big google eyes. Big guy was stoned out of his gourd and the comical look on his face made me laugh through my tears. I thought about taking a picture of him, but didn’t. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Big Stu went into cardiac arrest before they even gave him the final injection, he was that weak. And then, Poof! <em>he was gone.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hadn’t planned on returning from vacation to put down my dog.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I didn’t have it on my calendar. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Amazingly enough without him around my house seems to stay cleaner. Longer. I no longer have to put things on my leather chairs to keep him from jumping into them. I don’t have to cover my couch to keep in clean from drool or muddy paw prints. There aren’t little white hairs in all of my black clothing. My back yard no longer has worn spots from running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mailman no longer passes our house from fear of his bark and my dressing room no longer smells like pee.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>But I miss him like the dickens.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sienna misses him as well. She tries to tussle with me or Boo and it isn’t quite the same as it was with him. I’ve been taking Sienna down to the dog park for social hour with other pooches, but she doesn’t like the gravel they have in the fenced in area. I think it hurts her paws. She keeps running back to check with me and then looks about. I think she’s waiting to see if THIS is where Stu is…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When out for walks she always stops and sniffs the same places. I think she can still smell the beast and thinks he might be here. Or there. But is disappointed to not find him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Boo is asking me when we’re getting another dog. I’m just not quite ready for it. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Yet.</em> I kind of like my house staying clean. I like the yard growing lush. I enjoy my pee free home.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, I might be soon. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I just need to put it on the calendar. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Cause if it’s on the calendar, then….well. I ‘m a planner, remember?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">:-)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJI0syV32ner8vRU70qMOxVhkjOSxdD1eXxvOJvr6u1eYFjrRU_89zcJ7NAvWqJu-NjuUM-jlwF3aGor-l-jiAl733t4SWa-VRyjKteJ825hl5-mPcpxyg1ZfLVYhla6fwi8oTDU3nEnzf/s1600/028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJI0syV32ner8vRU70qMOxVhkjOSxdD1eXxvOJvr6u1eYFjrRU_89zcJ7NAvWqJu-NjuUM-jlwF3aGor-l-jiAl733t4SWa-VRyjKteJ825hl5-mPcpxyg1ZfLVYhla6fwi8oTDU3nEnzf/s320/028.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Rest in Peace dearest Stuey...4/20/12 </span></div><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="border: 0px currentColor !important;" /></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-35754812430354841102012-06-06T10:28:00.000-04:002012-06-06T10:28:48.411-04:00Sing along why don't cha...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipecpkhKP0tO6Hibz6-CSBvELPaLaOjmu14qrnitBj0Oy11uMA4AOxQ5MG9aI6Czfrk1xtKKXXrQxJgVY2al-N6VjUyvKMW6iy9oRvJZvi26tgnVy4paN8-Y4IHClxcG3lQYjt-N2NOTIy/s1600/birthday+me.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipecpkhKP0tO6Hibz6-CSBvELPaLaOjmu14qrnitBj0Oy11uMA4AOxQ5MG9aI6Czfrk1xtKKXXrQxJgVY2al-N6VjUyvKMW6iy9oRvJZvi26tgnVy4paN8-Y4IHClxcG3lQYjt-N2NOTIy/s320/birthday+me.JPG" width="241" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I just celebrated a birthday.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">No, no…I’m not telling you this in order to receive more
birthday wishes. (although feel free as it makes me feel all warm, fuzzy and
loved)…no, I’m sharing this with you, well, just because.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The day before my birthday the doorbell rang. I was nearby
and wouldn’t be able to pass off that I wasn’t home, so as one normally does
when the doorbell rings, I answered it. There stood a man holding a bouquet of
flowers.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Nancy?” he inquired.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes, I’m Nancy.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Here ma’am, these are for you…” as he handed over the
bouquet to me.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I accepted the flowers but cringed at the sound of ‘ma’am’.
Ma’am was my mother and my mothers mother before that and my mothers mothers mother. I wasn’t ready for that moniker
and inwardly was a little off put by it. “Thank you. Thank you so very much!” I
said, “But please for future reference…<em>ma’am </em>is my mother.” I smiled to let him know I was just kidding with him.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He laughed, grinned and waved, “Yes ma’….I mean <strong>miss</strong>. I get
that a lot. But I was raised in the south. Everyone is ma’am there or you get a
whoopin’.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Yes, sir. I bet you would. And if I were 10 years younger
and you were….</em>Oh Nancy. <strong>Stop yourself!</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I did smile though. The thought pleased me, just a tad.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The flowers were just lovely. It held several rubrim lilys
(my favorite), some daisies, some tulips, some curly willow branches and some
other exotic things that I don’t know the name of but are oh, so lovely. I
unwrapped the box it was stapled into and it revealed a modern square vase that
was just as beautiful as the flowers themselves.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tucked in the flowers was a card, which I then opened to
find out who was so thoughtful (and prompt!) with birthday wishes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It read: <strong>Happy Birthday Love, Dad</strong></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hmmm. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Birthday, check: that must be for me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Love, Dad….Dad
sent <em>ME </em>flowers? He never sends flowers. I’ve never, ever gotten flowers from
Dad. He used to stop and buy a carnation or rose or a grocery bouquet every so
often for mom as she loved flowers and flower arranging, but he’s really not
the <em>‘send flowers’</em> kind of guy.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I turned the card over. Was it a mistake? I half expected
them to be from my ex-husband. HE’s the flower sending type of guy, but my dad?
Never.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I called my brother. “Did you have something to do with
this? I got flowers from Dad!” I exclaimed.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I talked to him the other day and reminded him there was a big birthday
coming up, but no…the flowers were all his idea. He needed your address, but
he’s the one that said “Hey, I should send her flowers!” he chuckled, "I thought you might be surprised."</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wow. Yup. Yes, Indeedy it was (and still is!) surprising!</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The day <strong>of </strong>my birthday, well wishes coming via Facebook were off
the chart. My daughter bought me some exquisite chocolates with money she’d
saved. Her friends all sent me text messages wishing ‘Happy Birthday to mom #2!’.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got a birthday video from a close
friend in Florida and his toddler daughter with a charming rendition of the
birthday song. Even the people at the Melting Pot brought me not one, but two huge
boxes of the most beautiful chocolate covered strawberries. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Heck, I even received a text message from my ex boyfriend sending
birthday wishes. Truly, I wouldn’t have expected him to remember. And if he
did, actually acknowledge it.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was all rather surprising.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And touching.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been to many huge birthday parties. I’ve been to ones
thrown by the birthday girl (or guy), ones thrown by friends, spouses and significant
others. I been to surprise parties and some that were supposed to be surprises
but turned out not to be. I’ve even been the host of some of the above…but
I’ve never had anyone throw me a party. At least as an adult. My mother used to throw the bomb diggity of birthday bashes when I was little...</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wait. There was that ONE time...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I was turning 40. I was going through
a divorce, I had the day off, I wasn’t dating anyone special and didn’t have
any plans…so I loaded up the baby and went to visit my parents. I didn’t feel
like being alone.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Around 8 o’clock I got a call from one of my girls that
worked for me.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Nancy!!! Where are you? I thought you were coming to the
Pub!” she exclaimed. “C’mon! Get here!”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I can’t, Lauren. Sorry...I’m in Toledo.”</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“WHAT? You CAN’T BE! Everyone’s here! We even got you a cake!!!!!!” she whined, "How long will it take you to GET HERE?!"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yeah, two hours. Ain't going to happen.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ah….the first rule of surprise parties, Have control over
the<em> surpriseee.</em> That will go down in the column of good intentions, although fail. I’m to
understand that they all had a smashing great time. Albeit sans the birthday girl.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve never been one to blow my own horn. I have a hard time
drawing attention to myself. I enjoy attention, but not if it has to be asked
for. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why no one really knew it WAS my
birthday. Those closest to me know, and those linked to me via some social
network or another probably got an email ‘You have friends with birthdays this
week’ but otherwise I’m not about to go around telling everyone ‘It’s my Birthday!’,
although I have been doing that a lot this year with all the coupons being sent
to me. Everywhere I hand one in I get a gaggle of people wishing me Happy
Happy.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I smile and thank them but really, please…don’t’ sing. I don’t
need to wear a sombrero, I don’t need to be serenaded, I don’t want that free
dessert. Well, no..I take that back…bring me a free dessert. AND a <em>martini.</em></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And more of those scrumptious chocolate covered strawberries.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I might make this birthday a birth WEEK celebration. Hell, maybe a birth MONTH!</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And you know...I might even learn to like; <em>the birthday song.</em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri;">:-)</span></em></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="border: 0px currentColor !important;" /></a><br />
PS: It has turned into a birth week celebration thus far. Monday I was surprised by the ladies at work that not only brought me in a delicious (YUM!) chocolate cake but then took me out for drinks. I love my co-workers...This milestone is off to a good start.<br />
<br />
<br />f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-34795093898749640592012-05-19T10:11:00.000-04:002012-05-20T20:44:58.183-04:00time edited...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Where does the time go?<br />
<br />
Is there a place that all those wasted minutes stack up? Large piles of hours and minutes and seconds of time just waiting to be used? Properly...<br />
<br />
I’ve always been pretty good at time management. I am rarely late. I'm usually where I say I’m going to be at any given time and I try to use my time wisely. I’ll blame my mother for that one. She was the queen of time management.<br />
<br />
I think back and wonder how she did all that she did. AND make it seem so effortless.<br />
<br />
I try to emulate her, and without sounding conceited, I do a pretty damn good job at it. But I still seem to <em>not quite</em> measure up to my mother. She wasn’t a queen…she was a damned <em>goddess</em>.<br />
<br />
I used to golf with an older woman who was spry and witty and funny and downright <strong>did not act her age</strong>. She cracked me up, turthfully, each week that I golfed with her. One day I asked her, "What's your secret? I want to be like you when I get older." <br />
<br />
"<em>Honey...",</em> she purred, "when I hit fifty instead of <strong>adding</strong> a year at each birthday, I suptract a year. I'm now 27 and loving it more this time around!"<br />
<br />
I’ve been driving in to see my dad once every week. He’s getting up in age and although in great health, his memory is lapsing and with my mom gone…well, I now have the hat of making sure everything is going smoothly with his home.<br />
<br />
He has a bookkeeper that comes in three times a week and makes sure all his mail is sorted, opened and answered. A housekeeper that comes once a week to basically dust and put a load of laundry in. A handyman who comes two or three times a week just to putz in the yard and help out with whatever is needed at the moment. He goes to bible study once a week but has lunch with the minister at least twice a week. Those aren’t just <em>'gobble down a sandwich and leave'</em> meetings, but two hour long debates on politics and the stock market meetings. <br />
<br />
In a nutshell, he’s got a good support group at hand and isn’t just sitting around watching the time fly. He’s a pretty busy guy at 86…which in turn, keeps him pretty fit and healthy.<br />
<br />
When I drive in I usually just spend the day. We’ll have breakfast, then do some paperwork, tour the yard (which is like out of Better Homes and Gardens) and many times dig up plantings for me to take home with me for my own yard. We talk, we laugh, sometimes we disagree and argue…but not much.<br />
<br />
My dad was a ceramic engineer. He has over 65 patents in his name from his research. Many of them are only known in technical circles and others may be used by you daily. Long story short, he’s a brilliant man. A little quirky, but brilliant.<br />
<br />
He has a dry sense of humor and likes to tell jokes. He has good delivery of them, and even if I’ve heard them before I like to listen. Growing up I don’t remember tons of jovial banter, he was stern. But lately there is some little prankster boy in him trying to get out and I never know what stunt he’s going to pull.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago we were out planting flowers in the front yard.<br />
<br />
“Nancy, can you go get that curved downspout from over by the garage? I need to use it over on this side to divert some water into these beds…” he asked me.<br />
<br />
“Sure thing dad…” Never one to question what hes asked of me I immediately started over to the downspout. I bent over to grab it and while lifting it up something green and animal like fell out and hit my thigh. I jumped, let out a small scream while my mind was busy trying to identify the foreign object.<br />
<br />
Granted, the jump and scream were a bit of an overreaction. But just a week earlier I had a similar experience that I did <strong>not</strong> enjoy. While vacationing in Florida I would wake early and take my dog Sienna down to the beach and we’d walk, and walk, and walk. I wouldn’t turn on the lights so as not to wake BooBear. In the dark I would grab my beach shorts (normally discarded haphazardly on the floor in the dressing room), brush my teeth and comb my fingers through my hair and be off. I stopped briefly to check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It was just getting to be daybreak so there was enough illumination to see a little, but not a lot. I leaned forward and peered into the glass. I dragged a washcloth over my face to get rid of the eye makeup smudges beneath my lashes. I put on some lip balm, straightened up, smoothed my tee and was about ready to go. I noticed that my camera strap was in my pocket…”Good” I thought, “I won’t have to search in the dark for my camera…”<br />
<br />
Then my camera strap moved.<br />
<br />
“<em>What the hell…?”</em><br />
<br />
I know they exist. <br />
I’ve seen them. <em>In photos.</em><br />
<br />
But I’ve never seen one here at the beach cottage. And here it was residing in my pocket and now crawling out to find out why it’s being moved and oh my God it’s crawling down my shorts and if it gets on the skin of my leg I’m not going to be able to contain my scream Oh my God please don’t touch my skin please don’t touch my skin PLEASE DON’T TOUCH MY SKIN!!!!!<br />
<br />
I quickly sashayed trying hard to move fast and make it to the bathroom without moving so IT wouldn't move. I was silently wishing my shorts were longer in length as the bug was now just at the hem. I got to the next room just in time to flick it OFF my shorts and into the toilet. I flushed so fast my arm movement was barely visible.<br />
<br />
It was a palmetto bug about the size of my thumb. Yuck.<br />
<br />
I texted my friend who owns the cottage. <br />
<br />
'MICHELLE!!!! Your not goin to believe what crawled out of my pocket an almost got on my skin this morning!!!!…a palmetto bug. Or at least I think it was a palmetto bug. EEEWWWW’<br />
<br />
I normally wouldn't call or text anyone that early in the morning, but I figured after that scare it was ok to wake her if she wasn’t up yet.<br />
<br />
‘oh! THOSE are the GOOD bugs. They eat the BAD bugs’<br />
<br />
Good bugs?<br />
Bad bugs?<br />
<br />
Personally, I don’t care if it’s a good bug<em><strong> or</strong></em> a bad bug….if it’s on my skin…well just thinking about it is making the hair on my arms stand up…double yuck.<br />
<br />
So my jump and scream overreaction over what turns out to be a toy? <br />
<br />
Yeah. Warranted.<br />
<br />
This gila monster or something of its ilk came flying out the drainpipe, bounced off me and landed in the grass. I heard laughter and looked up. Here was my dad peering around the corner of the house laughing at me.<br />
<br />
Not laughing, but snickering “<em>tee-he-he-he”</em> just like the little old lady in the book <em>The Funny Little Woman</em> by Arlene Mosel.<br />
<br />
“<strong>DAD!</strong> What are you trying to DO to me! Did you put that there?”<br />
<br />
“What? Where?” he replied with a gleen in his eye.<br />
<br />
“Very funny Dad…” I said, “Very, very funny.”<br />
<br />
It’s kindof nice seeing this playful side of my dad. This week he rubber banded that same gila monster toy to a napkin holder that has geese on it. It looks like it’s biting the gooses beak. He did this while we were going over some tax figures. Nonchalantly he replaced the napkin holder to the counter and put the napkins back in as if nothing was out of the ordinary.<br />
<br />
It makes me laugh.<br />
It makes me chuckle.<br />
<br />
But also keeps me on my toes while I’m there. What will I find next week? It’s quite amusing really. Two weeks ago while out walking in the back meadow I saw something out of the corner of my eye that seemed out of place. I swung around only to find two large yellow eyes glaring at me from high up in a tree in the woods bordering the field. As my eyes focused on what was out of place it appeared to be a Halloween latex mask nailed to the side of a tree. <br />
<br />
Of a <strong><em>werewolf.</em></strong><br />
<br />
When I got back to the house and asked him about it his reply was, “Funny isn’t it?”<br />
<br />
Nice, Dad.<br />
<br />
I guess time hasn’t gone anywhere. Or maybe it’s just managed to circle around in on itself. Or he's doing the same thing like the woman I used to golf with, except his math is a bit different. He IS brillabt after all.<br />
<br />
My dad is not longer 86, but 12.<br />
Playing pranks <strong>and </strong>giving me a heart attack.<br />
<br />
I better get my will in order.<br />
<em>Just in case.</em><br />
<br />
Who knows what surprises he’ll have for me in the future!<br />
...and if my heart can take it.<br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-14561655209919639732012-03-02T15:27:00.002-05:002012-03-02T15:30:25.575-05:00sometimes it happens...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ2vi23WlujyUDtXTf_PNVn0cqKIqxh01w70_Mu4s7miqSQYIbC3yD0QoYp457vfh39NnrKcJkxqcBEpKRgfAi62bDukJW9QGeLZekvIh8kF1nekEuhyMH_nwSZIgtfcnqnhA8XlNDVD53/s1600/sunset+ai.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ2vi23WlujyUDtXTf_PNVn0cqKIqxh01w70_Mu4s7miqSQYIbC3yD0QoYp457vfh39NnrKcJkxqcBEpKRgfAi62bDukJW9QGeLZekvIh8kF1nekEuhyMH_nwSZIgtfcnqnhA8XlNDVD53/s320/sunset+ai.JPG" uda="true" width="238" /></a></div><br />
I lost a good friend today. <br />
A really, really good friend.<br />
<br />
In the back of my mind, I knew it was coming. I <em>felt </em>the change. The change was almost imperceptible, but it was there…hovering, stealth like over me. That sensation that something is about to happen. And although I expected it…it still made me sad.<br />
<br />
I’ve had this friend for over 10 years. We traveled many places together, seen many things, had many experiences and share loads of secrets. We’ve been together through some great times and many a tear has been spilled on them. We’ve had a relatively long and wonderful relationship…but today, unfortunately, that relationship came to an end.<br />
<br />
We were ripped apart, there's no better way to describe it. That sound of heartbreak, of tearing. I can still hear it in my ears, it’s something akin to the sound of metal on metal of a car crash, or glass breaking. Your mind, without visual, just automatically knows what it is.<br />
<br />
The day started like any other day except that the sun was brightly shining, an oddity here on the north coast mid winter. It’s usually cold, and snowy, and gray. This time of year is <strong><em>full </em></strong>of hues of gray. It’s about this time of year up north that we all start dreaming of sun, and beaches and warmth. This entire winter season has been extremely mild. No snow, a little cold and today; lots of sun.<br />
<br />
My master bedroom is up on the third floor of my home. There is a row of cottage windows facing east that at first dawn lets me know what the weather is like outside without ever having to reach for my phone to pull up <em>Weatherbug</em> for the forecast. There are three skylights that also grant me the knowledge before ever swinging my legs out of bed what kind of outerwear I will need for the day. I like the light that streams in and have never bought draperies to cover these windows, or film to dim the light cascading in through the rooftop. It makes it difficult to sleep in or take daytime naps with all the light in my room, but it’s quite nice. There have been times that I’ve thrown a makeshift blockade to the suns rays when my daughter used to sneak upstairs and crawl into bed with me. I’d wake to see her cherubic face on the pillow with the beams of light dancing on her cheekbones. I’d roll out of bed and either make a barrier of pillows on her side to block the sun or throw a sheet over the windows to douse the rays.<br />
<br />
But this morning it was just me stretching in the suns rays. I was scheduled to work this afternoon but Boo was off from school as the teachers had some meeting to attend and I knew already before even rising that I was going to take the day off. We needed a little mom/daughter girlie time and today was the perfect day to do so.<br />
<br />
I got up, showered and called work. Although <strong>I am</strong> and <strong>wanted</strong> to be completely honest, I found myself spewing a fib. It wasn’t what I had planned but there I was…<em>smack dab in the middle of it.</em><br />
<br />
“Hi Maureen? It’s Nancy. I’m scheduled to be there at 11 but I’m not going to be able to make it today….” I trailed off, wincing...waiting for lashback.<br />
<br />
“OH!...Is everything okay?” she exclaimed.<br />
<br />
“It is, yes. <strong><em>I’m fine</em></strong>. But…” and then I stumbled a bit, mentally. The devil on the one shoulder, the angel on the other. I almost caved and was going to say that I would be a little late and go in to work anyway…and then I thought, <strong>No</strong>…I’m really not needed. I’ve been practicing that little two letter word; <strong>NO</strong>. It’s a hard one to say. For me at least, but I’m making progress. My mouth forms the word, I just need to push the air out through my teeth in order for it to be audible. I reasoned that they would probably cut my shift short anyway so I mustered up and continued…”Boo isn’t feeling well. I’m going to stay home with her today.” I cringed at the sound of my fib, biting my finger.<br />
<br />
“OK…I’ll tell June. I hope she feels better.” No fight. No reprimand. On one hand I was relieved and on the other, worried.<br />
<br />
Tell June…yeah, I thought. <br />
I bet you will.<br />
<br />
Maureen has become the new tattle tale of our store. We have a new manager and she has been sucking up to her with no holdbacks. You can almost<em> feel</em> the breeze from the suction when she walks behind our new leader. If you park somewhere in the yellow lines, not the white ones…Maureen will call June. If you take 22 minutes for a break instead of 15, she’ll call June. If the sales people make 8 calls instead of the required 10, she’ll tell June. She brought chocolates and champagne in for an employee who decided to retire after 10 years with the company and then retreated to the office with June to bad mouth her after she’d left. Nice lady…but not trustworthy. Fact is at the company Christmas party gift exchange she’s the one who will choose the gift YOU chose just because someone else wants it. It’s quite odd. And quite pathetic. <br />
<br />
So to NOT come in to work with her today didn’t quite make me feel badly. Acquaintances, we are. Workmates, we are. Friends, we are not.<br />
<br />
Friends are trusted individuals.<br />
Friends are people you rely on.<br />
Friends are people that you know will always be there for you. <em><strong>No matter what.</strong></em><br />
<br />
I’ve had ‘friends’ in the past with whom I thought were friends but turned out weren’t really my friends. Friends that betrayed me. Friends that have betrayed my trust. I’ve had friends in the past that we just lost touch and we no longer connect. I’ve had friends with whom I have <em>re</em>connected and feels like we picked up right where we left off. There are those that build you up and those that drag you down. Sometimes some of the people with whom we are friends with run its course and they just disappear.<br />
<br />
I was cleaning out my file cabinet the other day. It’s become quite a mess. I’ve been throwing items in there without a filing system in place of stuff that I want to keep but just don’t quite know where to put it. When taking everything out I found a birthday card from a friend. <br />
<br />
I use the word friend, because that’s what I thought she was. I loved this woman. When I met her I thought I’d found a sister. Our girls were classmates and that’s how we first made contact. Our girls were friends and then we became friends. Close friends. And then one day…she just <em>wasn’t </em>anymore.<br />
<br />
I never did know, don’t understand and never got an explanation of what happened. Boo and I went south for Easter break and when I returned, she would no longer return phone calls. Funny thing, I had brought her back a souvenir. She loved drinking wine and there were T-shirts playing off the <em>Life is Good</em> line that said “<em>life sucks</em>”. This particular shirt sported an empty wine bottle tipped on its side and read “out of wine. "<em>Life sucks</em>” under it. I found it particularly humorous. I <em>thought </em>she would too. So I bought it to wear on her new regimen on her treadmill. I brought it back, left it on her porch and waited for the ‘Thank You’ phone call. <br />
<br />
It never came.<br />
I ran into her husband at the music store where our kids took piano lessons. <br />
<br />
“Did your wife get her present I left her?”<br />
<br />
“Well, I’m not sure. What did you leave?”<br />
<br />
“Oh…I brought her a T-shirt from Florida. I thought it was funny and made me think of her! I left it on the back porch...”<br />
<br />
“I’ll have to ask her. I really don’t know…”<br />
<br />
Two weeks passed and I hadn’t heard a peep. So I called. “I left you a present. I thought it was funny. I hope I didn’t offend you with the humor and if I did…please accept my apology.”<br />
Another two weeks later and still no word.<br />
<br />
That was almost a year ago.<br />
<br />
This past summer I was invited to a Bocce Ball party. She and her family were there. I left within a half hour because her obvious avoidance of me reduced me to tears. What the hell happened? It was awkward. It felt horrible. So I claimed a headache to the hostess and left.<br />
<br />
So coming across this card with her written sentiment, “ I didn’t need anymore friends. You were simply the piece of chocolate cake, that fabulous bottle of 1996 Bordeaux, that pretty shiny bauble I wanted in the worst way. Whether or not I needed you, you always made things more colorful, more fun, more hilarious, more beautiful. You have made me believe that there is always room for ‘one more’…because maybe that ‘one’ will make all the difference.”<br />
<br />
She signed it with a “OH, I love you so!”<br />
<br />
2 years later she never spoke to me again. Go figure.<br />
So yeah…I have had (unfortunately) a little experience with losing close friends.Good friends. Friends that you thought would be around forever but then they aren’t.<br />
<br />
Losing my friend today brought back that immediate shock of when I lost that friend a year ago. One minute they were close and the next it was time to throw them away. And throw this friend away I did. I’ve learned that there would be no need to drag this on. There would be no going back, no repair work that could be done. <br />
<br />
So on this seemingly normal day where I showered like usual, I dressed like usual and waited for my daughter to get ready herself…just like usual, I lost another close friend.<br />
<br />
Gathering up Boo's discarded potential outfits I felt it before I heard the sound.<br />
Yes…you guessed it. The entire inner seam of my favorite jeans just gave way. <strong><em>Ripped </em></strong>away to be completely honest. Air rushed in and I started to laugh. Laughing so hard tears trailed down my cheeks. My daughter swung around to find out what the heck was going on with her mom...<br />
<br />
"You okay?...!!! she asked.<br />
"Oh yeah. But loooook." I pointed.<br />
"Oh my. Those are your favorite! That's too funny..totes!"<br />
<br />
Totes m'goats...fer sure.<br />
<br />
I had repaired the back pockets a several times already. There were multiple thin spots and frays along the inside seams. Many of the belt loops had pulled loose over the years. The bottom hems were fringed from wear. These Levi’s were a perfect fit when I bought them, so I bought 4 pairs. All but one had bit the dust, revealing too much skin from too many tears. These were the last remaining pair…and I loved them.<br />
<br />
And now they are gone. Some relationships come to a screeching end and some fade like sunsets.<br />
The difference is…my jeans can be replaced.<br />
<br />
Good thing I was at home when it happened AND wearing undies.<br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-37721641692540888292012-02-06T11:40:00.000-05:002012-02-06T11:40:28.628-05:00easy laughter...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifMzdjlImACcEjz0BDpY90Hu2sbwNlNlaGXGUc9fm7qLFr9CqG0Hy2lIsu8Y_xcoUUNawwZfDFCRs1-UTm3iay7cxxfsoOUMUovI8YO7FHjkOD7jKPZ6_82rXINoBTesoaoiKcBHbFPsoi/s1600/mugs+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifMzdjlImACcEjz0BDpY90Hu2sbwNlNlaGXGUc9fm7qLFr9CqG0Hy2lIsu8Y_xcoUUNawwZfDFCRs1-UTm3iay7cxxfsoOUMUovI8YO7FHjkOD7jKPZ6_82rXINoBTesoaoiKcBHbFPsoi/s1600/mugs+2.jpg" /></a></div>I was just minding my own business. <br />
<br />
<strong>Yes</strong>, I was laughing.<br />
<strong>Yes</strong>, I was having fun.<br />
<strong>Yes</strong>, I was with friends. But I was minding my own damn business and yet, someone was coming up to our table with that familiar look of authority.<br />
<br />
You probably know by now from past stories that I seem to rather approachable. Random strangers in line at the grocery, or passersby at the park, or gas station attendants/toll-booth operators/fast food clerks; I’ve learned…no, <strong><em>experienced</em></strong>, over the years that when someone is walking towards me and looks as though they are about to speak? They usually do.<br />
<br />
I’ve gleaned intimate details of their lives from these veritable strangers. Or their daughters lives; or spouses lives; or the lives of their next door neighbors. I’ve heard about their upcoming surgeries or past surgeries. I heard things that are humorous; things that are sad; and things that are heartwarming…<em>all from strangers.</em> Perfect strangers that obviously needed to speak out about whatever was on their mind…and I just happened to be the person in the line of fire.<br />
<br />
I’m not sure what it <em>IS</em> about me exactly that entices these random incidences to happen. I did at one time wish to be a psychiatrist, but that was long ago and I’m not exactly handing out business cards to listen. My daughter all but has accepted this phenomenon as a regular occurrence. When out to eat she expects the waiter or waitress to strike up in-depth conversation. She used to roll her eyes when it started, she now just sits and waits, absorbing the spectacle and then messages it to her friends. “Yup. Sitting in a restaurant with my mom. And yup, someone is telling her a story…<em><strong>again.”</strong></em><br />
<br />
Last month my friend Laurie and I were out dining. Having beenin the industry I do always try to pay attention when the waiter or waitress says their name and then at least once use him or her name when ordering. I’ve found over the years that you will indeed get better service and hey, it just makes them feel better! So why not? But my thanking Marisa, our waitress, for her exceptional service kindof backfired in a way. Apparently now since she knew our names and we hers Marisa pulled up a chair, sat down and commenced to join in on our converstion. It was the end of the evening. We were her last table. But she might have filled our wine glasses prior to pulling up said chair…that would’ve been nice! It was a tad odd but fun all at the same time. Yet one more story to add to the collection.<br />
<br />
So with all this history with people I don’t know, when I saw someone approaching our table while kicking back, relaxing and enjoying not only the company but the ambiance at a local Irish pub…it wasn’t totally surprising to me, and yet it always is, when an elderly gentleman approached our table.<br />
<br />
“Are ye havin’ fun?” he asked me in a deep Irish brogue.<br />
<br />
“Why yes…yes, I am!” I responded. Putting my hand to the side of my mouth and whispering to him as if we were sharing a secret, “Is it <em>that</em> noticeable?”<br />
<br />
He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Aye, it 'tis…I heard yer laughter way over to the other side dere and taught I should top over and see fer meself what all da ruckus about.” <br />
<br />
“I’m so sorry. Was I being too loud?” I asked.<br />
<br />
I really was taken aback. I mean, I was laughing…but it’s laughter! In a pub! I didn’t know I should have been using 5 star restaurant golf club cocktail party laughter in a pub. His comment actually made me feel suddenly slightly deflated. I didn’t realize that I had been bothering anyone. I made a little mental note; <em>‘don’t laugh so loud’</em> to myself.<br />
<br />
“No my darlin’…<strong><em>I LOVE</em></strong> the sound of yer laughter! I just wanted to you to know yer welcome here <strong>anytime</strong>.” He winked at me. “And to prove it to ya, the next rounds on the house. You’re making all dese people over dere happy with da sound of it.”<br />
<br />
This little compliment almost made me cry.<br />
In a split second I thought about the fact that laughter hadn’t come so easy in the several years past. <br />
<br />
Many of my past memories that I think “<em><strong>well, there was that one time...that was fun</strong></em>” wasn't really. It was forced fun. Not real fun. Doing things, planning things, creating things in only to make <em>him</em> happy. I felt that if I made <em>him</em> laugh, <em>him</em> happy, then I too, would be happy in return. <br />
<br />
Yeah. It doesn't work like that. Go figure...<br />
<br />
I asked my companions “do I laugh too loud?”<br />
<br />
“<strong>NO!!!”</strong> they all replied. “it’s <em>so</em> good to hear! You didn’t laugh for a long time, Nancy. We thought you had forgotten how to.”<br />
<br />
Yikes! Really? How did that happen to me? It still surprises me to think back to where I had ended up mentally. That wasn’t the Nancy that I knew…this laughing Nancy is the one that I’ve always embraced! The one that I’ve always had the mental image of who I was. <strong>Who I am.</strong><br />
<br />
But as it turns out, it had been such a long time since I could feel my eyes twinkle, so long since I'd been happy or when laughter came so easily. It’s been such a very long time since I’ve been this relaxed. And this confident. To feel as though doors are opening and I’m excited to explore and see what the day brings. I used to look forward to bed, where I would toss and turn, unable to sleep because of the stress and depression my relationship had put me. I wanted so desperately for the day to end…quickly, so I wouldn’t have to endure another moment of it. All in hopes that when I awoke, things would be different. Things would have changed. And then I lost that hope. <br />
<br />
Until a year ago October.<br />
It broke my heart. <em>He</em> broke my heart. But it's fully mended now.<br />
<br />
My laughter comes easy.<br />
My confidence in place.<br />
<br />
I even enjoy that strangers talk to me. It’s all pretty cool in the big scheme of things. I’m in a very, very good place right now. And obviously, it shows. <br />
<br />
As it turns out, this spry elderly gentleman is the owner and purveyor of said Pub. “You come back now anytime darlin’”, he said to me as he bowed to me holding my hand. “We’re in dire need of da sound of yer laughter in this place.”<br />
<br />
He had no idea how he hit that on the head. As it turns out, I had been in dire need of hearing my laughter myself. And on my leave I promised him that indeed I would be back. And soon.<br />
<br />
I already own my own mug there, hung from the ceiling with my name on it, but it’s really not been used much since it’s purchase. But me thinks it won’t be gathering any dust from now on out. I do believe that I’ve found my <em>Cheers</em>!<br />
<br />
<strong>Slainte!</strong><br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-60264846550468286972012-01-04T13:11:00.000-05:002012-01-04T13:11:06.187-05:00poor little thing...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BTVzsIi2KbQ/TwSVn6YGVgI/AAAAAAAACS4/aoR1Lm2RoFg/s1600/crazy+box.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; height: 94px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 118px;"><img border="0" rea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BTVzsIi2KbQ/TwSVn6YGVgI/AAAAAAAACS4/aoR1Lm2RoFg/s1600/crazy+box.jpg" /></a></div>I love me some eBay.<br />
<br />
There is something about the online chase for the perfect item gets me all excited. I have been known to set my alarm so I can wake to bid at the very last moment. There's no need in driving up the price hours before the auction close or to allow my fellow bidders to outbid me whilst I sleep. Nah…I’ll just wake, hit the 1-click bid button a few times and <em>Viola!</em> , I’ve now got me a North Face for $100 less than I could buy it at Dick’s Sporting goods.<br />
<br />
<em>Oh yeah.</em><br />
I’m that savvy.<br />
<br />
I also sell quite a bit of stuff on eBay as well.<br />
<br />
It’s like an online garage sale without the people trying to steal your items when you back is turned or offering you ¾ less than what you have it priced for. For instance, at a recent garage sale I had a picnic basket, never used with all the plates, silverware and wine glasses inside staged out on the lawn waiting for the right buyer. It was really quite nice, but a gift that I never used. I had priced it at $50 which was quite the bargain since it was about $150 less than the sticker price.<br />
<br />
“Will you take $10 for that basket?” one of the people browsing my wares asked.<br />
“No, thanks so much. But no.” I responded. (I’m <em>WAY</em> to polite, trust me.)<br />
“15 dollar. That’s a good price! I’ll take it for 15 dollar.”<br />
“No, really, thank you…but I’ll just keep it then.”<br />
“You’re <strong>crazy!</strong> Why you not take $15! That’s a good price! Last offer!”, she persisted.<br />
“ Again, thank you for your offer but the answer is <strong>no</strong>. It's actually a GREAT price at $50.” I tried to explain. Her look of exhasperation with me showed. I gathered up the basket and put it on my back porch. I figured that she just might help herself to it when I was talking to someone else.<br />
<br />
The next day I listed it on eBay. <br />
<br />
Guess how much I got for it?<br />
C'mon, guess!<br />
<br />
Yeah, diggity! The bidding went up to $108! 15 dollars…bah. Shame on her. I bet if I'd have let her have it it would be her that would be collecting $100 right now.<br />
<br />
For the most part the buyers on eBay are delightful. They’ll send me messages “I love Love LOVE this sweater! THANK YOU!” or “You’re the best seller EVER on eBay!”. It’s these messages that keep me listing. <br />
<br />
Oh sure, there have a been a few that were so horrible that I thought I might never get on eBay again. Some that get my blood boiling to a point with the incredulousness of their antics that I can hear my heart beating in my ears and my fingers shaking.<br />
<br />
There was the lady that <strong>insisted</strong> she get her money back that she never received her shoes. She even opened a case against me on eBay. Ummm, yeah right. Delivery confirmation shows they were delivered on your doorstep at 1:01pm September 24th. Don’t mess with me, ma'am…I’ll take you down.<br />
<br />
I love delivery confirmation.<br />
It’s saved me a few times. I would never, ever, send anything without it. <br />
<br />
I’ve sold everything from lots of old gold jewelry for melt to a hard top for a convertible. From snow tires used one season to antique silverware. From an armoire to an old American flag with only 15 stars on it. If I own it, and I’m not using it, and I see no future for my using it…then it goes on ebay.<br />
<br />
In my basement I have 3 bins at the base of the stairs. One is for Goodwill, or Easter Seals, or the veterans…whoever calls me first when the bin is full gets it. The second bin is for the summer garage sale. And the third bin is for eBay. All those goodies, like the picnic basket, that would sell better online than in my yard.<br />
<br />
A recent sales transaction I had made my mind wander and think of a story. I had shipped a box to Texas. She asked if I had sent it yet, which I then traced and it said that it was ‘undeliverable’ . Undeliverable? What did that mean? I suggested that she go to her local postoffice and inquiry. The only time I had seen that before was when a woman kept leaving her dog out on the front porch so the carrier wouldn’t approach due to fear of being bitten. He marked it ‘undeliverable’ because in his mind, it was.<br />
<br />
I waited a few days to see if it would be returned to me or if it indeed would show up on her doorstep. Nothing. A few more and it was returned to me. Box smashed, my name still on it, but the delivery address ripped off.<br />
<br />
I took it up to show my postmaster. They said that I could re-ship it, but I’d have to pay for the shipping again. I pleaded my case that by looking at the shipping itinerary it HAD reached it destination in Austin only to have the label damadged there so they didn’t have a full address. (however, but scanning the bar code all that information is available to them…duh) So someone down there stamped it undeliverable and sent it back to Ohio. The manager at the post agreed with me and sent it again, on it's way at no extra charge.<br />
<br />
But what happened to that box?<br />
<br />
Obviously a sorter somewhere crushed it. Or someone sat on it. Or someone used it to stand on to reach something else..I mean, it was crushed! Do all packages get handled with such disregard? If this box could talk, what would it tell me…?<br />
<br />
I began to wonder about this poor boxes journey. What happened to it from the time that I carefully packaged what was inside, wrapped in bubble wrap and tissue and tied with a ribbon and note. What happened to this poor little box in it’s travels to Texas? AND on it’s return?<br />
<br />
As I stood there and looked at this box, <em>willing </em>it speak to me…by God, it did.<br />
<br />
It told me of the abuse it suffered at the hands of a angry postal employee, it told me of the pain it endured from the massive sorting machine and how the figurine inside was so grateful for the little box trying it’s hardest to protect its charge. <br />
<br />
It was a sad story.<br />
It was an enlightening story.<br />
It was a heartwarming story.<br />
<br />
Complete with a happy ending with the little box making it to its destination and its contents all delivered in one piece. I daydreamed as I saw a short animated film play in my head with the voices of other boxes crying out to this one to ‘watch out!” The Priority Mail eagle stamp on the side coming to life and helping navigate it’s way safely through on the conveyer belts.<br />
<br />
I looked at it and smiled and pondered for one more moment…and then I sealed it back up with heavier packing tape and affixed a new label.<br />
<br />
“Good little box.” I said to it as I patted its sides. “You are a very, very good little box.”<br />
<br />
The postmaster gave me a bit of a quizical look as I stroked the boxes side as I handed it over the counter to him. "It's been through a lot already. Just giving it some encouragement." I awkwardly replied.<br />
<br />
He just smiled at me. Tilted his head a bit as he observed the odd behaviour of his patron. "It'll be ust fine ma'am."<br />
<br />
It was then that I realized I hadn't quite let go....<br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh…and yes. Indeed it WAS a happy ending. It got there the second time and the new owner was very pleased with her purchase. Funny thing is she sent me a note that read, <em>“Geez…that poor little box must have been through a lot! I kind of felt sad for it.”</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-61436490731572869212011-11-21T10:31:00.000-05:002011-11-21T10:31:13.203-05:0012 step scrabble...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdBMwndLDoETRToVFFuQHw6bClPOpx60lm97trkDl1eBdZ54QGUFlVzzOjn9UwArH_lueKvJckq0gmKPn5-_IxxLEeEUGHGFlN_EADvWwQ0SukBJw4bQpzF1V1ry376wnruKyHvijnVWMA/s1600/scrabble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; height: 63px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 98px;"><img border="0" hda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdBMwndLDoETRToVFFuQHw6bClPOpx60lm97trkDl1eBdZ54QGUFlVzzOjn9UwArH_lueKvJckq0gmKPn5-_IxxLEeEUGHGFlN_EADvWwQ0SukBJw4bQpzF1V1ry376wnruKyHvijnVWMA/s1600/scrabble.jpg" /></a></div>I love playing scrabble. <br />
<br />
It was one of those games that we used to play at home growing up. Sure we had the games of Mousetrap, Operation and Twister that all kids had, but when it was game time with the parents we either played cards; Hearts in paticular which usually left someone in tears (me) when my dad would get them all and we would all get 36 points; or Scrabble.<br />
<br />
I have fond memories of playing it with my mom and dad. We played lots and lots of games. Most were unmemorable, the ending always the same with my dad winning. My mom was a good player, but didn't have the savvy my dad did. He could get 30 points with just playing one letter. As a kid, it was highly annoying. But I continued to play. My mother used to write down the unusually high scores in the lid of the scrabble box with the date and who was playing.<br />
<br />
As you might know, my mother passed away a couple of years ago. We had somewhere along the line replaced the older version of our scrabble game with a new one as one of the tiles got lost somewhere in the 25 years that we had that particular game. But I still have the original box and game. It’s old, the cardboard sides are broken, the velvet bag torn…but I keep it. I pull it out from its nesting spot under my bed and look at it from time to time. I read the entries in my mothers’ neat hand and caress the well worn tiles. It holds a lot of nostalgia for me.<br />
<br />
One particular memory holds like it was yesterday. I had come home for a visit from college and played a quick game with my dad before going to bed. It was my dad’s birthday and as a joke I had given him a paperweight. I had it engraved with “<strong><em>Lifetime Achievement Award for Outstanding Scrabble Play”.</em></strong> I thought it was funny. It did bring a smile to his face. And it still to this day sits on the bureau in the living room.<br />
<br />
Ironically it was that very night we played a quick game. And I beat him.<br />
For the <em>first time</em> in my life.<br />
<br />
I had come close several times, but I had never won. His vocabulary was just superior to mine own, his plays more clever, the use of tiles played close to not allow others free play. Triples were guarded and rather than make the big 6 letter word that might open up one for the next player, he’d be content taking a lesser single score and look for that spot the next turn. It was like when we played chess…he was always severals moves ahead.<br />
<br />
But this time it was I who won. And he couldn’t believe it.<br />
<br />
Oh sure, he gave me the congratulations. When I went up to get ready for bed and then came back down for a glass of water, there he was...sitting on the couch <strong><em>RE</em></strong> adding all the scores just to make sure. <br />
<br />
The game HAD been close. <br />
I won by a mere 6 points. <br />
But I won.<br />
<br />
It was the first time that I really felt as if I had become a young adult.<br />
<br />
Here we are so many years later; Enter <strong>Words with Friends.</strong><br />
<br />
Help me.<br />
There must be a twelve step program for me somewhere.<br />
<br />
I am addicted.<br />
<br />
You’ll find me in a basement somewhere, iPhone tucked into my palm nervously glancing at it to see if any one of my 23 opponents has made a arecent play. <br />
<br />
“Hi, I’m Nancy. I haven’t played a word in 46 seconds….”<br />
"Hi Nancy..." all the other people with smart phones will answer.<br />
<br />
I wake up in the middle of the night and make a play. I’ll take a break from work to see what the score of a particular game is. The other night my daughter had crawled into bed with me. My phone was under my pillow. I heard the familiar ‘ding’ when someone plays. I pulled out my phone to see…”Mom? Are you playing words? What time is it?” came her voice. I had forgotton she was even there. The glow from my phone illuminating the room. “Uhmmm, yeah. I’ll turn it off. Sorry. It’s late.”<br />
<br />
And I did turn it off. <br />
For a moment.<br />
<br />
I grabbed my phone and snuck into the bathroom for a quick bladder release and a double word score.<br />
I know. It’s sad.<br />
<br />
It’s been years since I downloaded the app. At first I was just playing with my then boyfriend. He had a Blackberry so we would just pass my phone back and forth between us to play. We'd be out to dinner and between bites we'd make plays. I should've seen this addiction coming. But I didn't.<br />
<br />
At the time I thought it odd to just pick up a random opponent. But one afternoon I got bored waiting for him to get home from work to play. I wanted to play NOW. So I did. I hit the Random Opponent button. Enter in Justbreysmom. Turns out she lives in Arizona, her name is Melissa and yes, she has a son named Brey. We’ve now been playing for over 3 years. I can’t even fathom how many games we’ve completed. I feel as if I should send her a Christmas card.<br />
<br />
I’ve many games going with people that I feel as if I know. But don’t really. There’s Km in Malassia whom I can’t tell if she cheats or not. Her knowledge of the English language is seamingly better than my own. Or sparkles4u, she (I assume she’s a she…but I really don’t know!) she either plays poorly or really really good. I’ve had to look up a few of her words just to know what they are.<br />
<br />
The Facebook connection has gotten me playing with a lot of people now that I DO know. But I still like to pick up random games from time to time. You can always tell if they are newbies by the plays they make. Simple two letter words from the get go. One I started yesterday; her first play was “no”. Which I turned into “noirs” making it a double word, she added “head” to the s which opened up the triple.<br />
<br />
Silly girl.<br />
Leaving open a triple. <br />
<br />
I’m currently beating her by 160 points. We have 48 more letters to play.<br />
Her screen name is aptly named WeepingGirl.<br />
<br />
Joe146 couldn’t take the heat and quit the game when he opened up the triple and I added a s to his play of zinc. It was an 86 point play. C’mon dude. Play it out! Bah.<br />
<br />
The highest single play that I’ve ever made was 162 points. I played a triple word with the Q and Z with the Z landing on the triple letter. It was beautiful. My opponent, Jennifer, didn’t resign. She just played harder. She’s a tough competitor. Her husband, also my friend and a good scrabble player, I’ve played as well. He is currently on Words Hiatus as it was taking over his life. I'm sure I'll see him in the basement with all of us trying to desparately break free of the Words bug.<br />
<br />
Jen and I are pretty evenly matched. She makes some stellar plays that I even scratch my head at. “Wow Jen….that was a doozy! Take it easy on me!” In our games, the median play is between 30 and 40 points. We’ve had some pretty high scoring games.<br />
<br />
That’s all a far cry from when I used to play on that old board with my dad. <br />
<br />
And although I love my electronic version of scrabble that I play…the memory of my playing with my folks I will always hold dear.<br />
<br />
Oh…and the last time we played as a family?...my daughter joined us.<br />
<br />
Guess who won.<br />
<br />
Yup.<br />
She did. With a little help from dear ol’ mom when grandpa was in the bathroom. THAT score I wrote on the box.<br />
<br />
My mother would have been so proud.<br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Happy Thanksgiving!<br />
And if you want to pick up a game, you know what my screen name is: f8hasit. With a little f. Someone out there has taken it with a capital F...but that ain't me. :-)f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-50939014917380601432011-11-07T13:55:00.002-05:002011-11-07T14:15:04.983-05:00costume miss hap...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijwbFRFWnH-zzkcDAtz7EwK9LMNedfLLcuLdnEDfc7wV8jdcZ-PoytGphdFckhQy5I6r8ju5JzMHwuU7xQwRLmHjRXxj314aCJvqfPS82jpnPnzffUhY100ryZDfBncIbw1Wi5lwF8nWgB/s1600/spooky+eye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijwbFRFWnH-zzkcDAtz7EwK9LMNedfLLcuLdnEDfc7wV8jdcZ-PoytGphdFckhQy5I6r8ju5JzMHwuU7xQwRLmHjRXxj314aCJvqfPS82jpnPnzffUhY100ryZDfBncIbw1Wi5lwF8nWgB/s1600/spooky+eye.jpg" /></a></div>I love Halloween.<br />
<br />
I love the season it’s in, I love decorating the house, I love the costumes, I love the idea of playing dress up. We’re big dress up costume people <strong>year round</strong> <em>in this house</em>. If anyone ever needs a costume, for Halloween or otherwise, they usually call here first.<br />
<br />
<br />
And chances are I have it, I can make it, or I can find it.<br />
All I need is an idea…and I run with it.<br />
<br />
My daughter a few years ago was going with a group of friends for trick or treat. They gathered at Chloes house for a tete-a-tete to figure out what indeed they would be. They poured over the most recent costume catalogs. “We can pick out whatever you want.” Chloe exclaimed, “my mom will buy them for us!” <br />
<br />
My daughter, although enthralled with all the costumes, immediately replied, “My mother would <em>never allow</em> me to wear a store bought costume. <em><strong>Never</strong></em>.”<br />
<br />
Smart girl.<br />
And she's right.<br />
<br />
It’s true. My thought is you can buy ‘<em>things</em>’ to make or go with the costume, props and such…but going to Target or Sears and picking something up? That uses no imagination. Isn’t that what Halloween costumes are about? Using your imagination?<br />
<br />
There are several costumes that I’ve seen over the years that I thought were brilliant. Some are outstanding just because of the attention to detail in bringing a costume to life. Others are because of the wit behind the get up.<br />
<br />
I remember one year having a party and Pete came with a head band that read “<strong>Go Pete</strong>!”. He was wearing medals around his neck and a jacket made of sponges. He carried a book around that he showed to everyone titled “All about Pete”. What was he? Why, the self absorbed man.<br />
<br />
Brilliant.<br />
<br />
This past Halloween I went to a party and the host had the most elaborate costume with full duster coat, leather gloves, eel skin boots –<em>with </em>spurs mind you, <em>AND </em>a Stetson royal flush hat complete with playing cards tucked into the silver concho band. He had an intricate latex mask of a skull. What was he? Death.<br />
<br />
Very cool. Well done, my friend. Kudos to Death.<br />
<br />
Guys costumes are usually pretty straightforward. But I don’t understand the trend in the costumes that the girls are wearing. Not the little girls like my daughters age or her peers, but the adults. Going to an adult costume party <strong>does not mean</strong> that you need to buy your costume at Fredericks of Hollywood.<br />
<br />
I was astounded by the amount of fishnet hose, corsets/ bustiers, platform stilettos and ruffled panties. Each outfit seemed to have at least 3 of the 4 and some went even further in pushing the envelope. I didn’t realize that the queen of hearts from Alice in Wonderland had such a low cut top that when bending over her breasts would fall out. Not to mention that her uber short skirt and sheer panties, her outfit pretty much left nothing to the imagination. And she was not a runway model by any means. She was quite the ample girl. I just didn’t get it.<br />
<br />
And her friends? They all had that same slutty mindset. Alice in Wonderland - Same outfit…fishnets, stilettos, ruffled panties and major pushup bra throwing her boobs into our faces and drinks. A pirate'ess- again, more of the same but this time with boots that I didn’t even know came that high, or tops that low. Uh, matey...your nipple has fallen into my drink.<br />
<br />
There were in attendance all the cliché costumes. The French maid, the pussy cat, the playboy bunny, the belly dancer, the nurse, the naughty schoolgirl, the sexy nanny, the police woman....the prostitute. Yup, they were all there.<br />
<br />
Sure, there were a few of us that had on more traditional garb. In that I mean I donned a turtleneck to go with my black angel of death outfit. Or Brookes kitshky white sheet ghost costume. Even the Bride of Frankenstien, which was fabulous, didn't have to expose tons of flesh to look wonderful...and sexy.<br />
<br />
As I stood there assessing the costumes that the women were wearing, I started to wonder. Why is it that Halloween, for women, has become a time to get your slut on? I don’t get it? It didn't always be this way. Just because it’s an ‘adult’ party does not mean that you need to dress like an ‘adult entertainer’. This was not the playboy mansion. Our host was not Hugh Hefner. And we were not at a club. <br />
<br />
Hell, earlier in the day I was down at Edgewater Yacht Club for their annual kids ‘<em><strong>trunk or treat’</strong></em>. Some of the members get really into it and decorate their cars for the event. There are those that even get dressed up. But the lady parked next to us was dressed with long blond wig, fish net hose, short French maid outfit and heels…at 1:00 in the afternoon for a CHILDRENS costume party. Really? And honey…look at your drivers’ license. Your 62. AND perhaps 40 pounds too heavy for that outfit to begin with. Uhmmm. Can you say ‘Inappropriate’? <br />
<br />
There was a documentary shown at the Sundance Film Festival this year that won awards. And for good reason. It was recently aired on the Oprah Network and has a Facebook page. I believe the director, Jennifer Siebel Newsom, has her finger on the pulse of what’s happening. This isn’t about Halloween and the lack of inspiration for appropriate costuming. It’s about the media and how young girls and men perceive themselves and what they feel is the norm, or expected.<br />
<br />
When we are constantly barraged with sex, from every standpoint, it’s no wonder that the Queen of Hearts thought her outfit was fitting. Darlin', it was TOO fitting. Trust me. <br />
<br />
The documentary is called Miss Representation. (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gkIiV6konY">see the trailer here</a>) It’s fantastic.<br />
<br />
<em>“In a society where media is the most persuasive force shaping cultural norms, the collective message that our young women and men overwhelmingly receive is that a woman’s value and power lie in her youth, beauty, and sexuality, not in her capacity as a leader.”</em><br />
<br />
Watching this film really got me to thinking about these girls dressed in their hooker outfits and what they really must think about themselves. I do believe that we, as women, are extremely influenced by media. The magazines, the catalogs, the movies. Who doesn’t want to look like a Victorias Secret model? But what is the cost?<br />
<br />
When I was a manager at VS I found it amazing how men coming in the store would talk to us. Making sexual based comments when we would ask what they were in shopping for. <br />
<br />
“You know, something to make my girl sexy…<em>like you</em>.” he said as he obviously checked me out from top to bottom.<br />
<br />
Brushing the comment aside and trying to be polite and proffesional I asked, “is there a specific color or item you have interest in?”<br />
<br />
“Red. <em>Red is sexy</em>. And slippery. I like slippery...Like silk or something.”<br />
<br />
Alright, got it. <br />
I steered him over towards the satin chemise’s. They are always a big seller at that price and I could add on other things to go with it depending on his input. <br />
<br />
“What size do you think she is?” I asked. Always a loaded question but one that you need to know to go forward. I’d almost cringe immediately after asking because you know that that's when they would look stare at you, stare at your breasts, hold out their hands like about to grab melons and say “About this big.” Or “Her tits are bigger/smaller/same as yours.”<br />
<br />
Yeah. Amazing, huh? And a completely true story.<br />
<br />
Many times after work the girls would go out for a drink before heading home. I loved the gals I worked with…<strong>still do!</strong> Our uniform was to wear a black suit. Didn’t matter if it was a skirt, or pants or what you wore or didn’t underneath it…just as long as it was a black suit. When we’d walk in an establishment it was pretty much known that we were the VS girls. It was like the girls in the Robert Palmer video “Addicted to Love”, heads would turn and the men would flock around us like WE were the supermodels. It was really weird. <br />
<br />
I work for VS. <br />
I am not in the catalog. <br />
I am not your fantasy dream girl. <br />
<br />
I do, however, own a lot of their lingerie…perk of the business. I am STILL after all these years pulling out of my drawers bras and panties that I bought that still have the tags on them. Thank goodness too since I like the old construction and material to the new one!<br />
<br />
I’m a not a big womens libber or anything, but I was raised with the notion that there is nothing that I can not do…just because I’m a woman. I’ve lived by that statement my dad made to me at a very young age my whole life. I’m strong. I’m capable. I’m fierce. <br />
<br />
I like to look good. I like to feel sexy.<br />
But I am a very capable and smart woman too. I can’t, nor do I wish to, live any other way. I’m not going to be the one saying “Honey, I can’t get this…can you do it for me?” while batting my eyelashes and twirling my hair. Chances are that I’ll have figured out a way to accomplish my goal before I would even think about asking for help.<br />
<br />
That being said, you can place a safe bet that it will not be me you find at a Halloween party displaying my goods. You want to see them? You’ve got to earn that right. Now granted, I’m not about to don an unattractive outfit, but I think one can look fabulous without all the low cut, up to there gear! <br />
<br />
<em><strong>“The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.” – Alice Walker.</strong></em><br />
<br />
So what is really up with the kinky, racy, naughty outfits? <br />
<br />
Personally, I don’t think that wearing itsy bitsy costumes brings out anything fierce in a woman. It leaves precious little to the imagination and feminine mystic. I understand that Halloween costumes are a chance to don another persona for a short time, but is that to say that every womans other self is a whore? Say it isn’t so.<br />
<br />
Halloween in America has become a 5 billion dollar industry. And the media drives it, so all those little outfits bought? It just feeds the machine that continues to demean. And women have bought into it. The costumes used to be bought for private role play and bedroom use…now it seems everyone has deemed them appropriate for public wear. <br />
<br />
I took another glance around at those at the party. I shook my head and I vowed that if one more girl walked in the door with one of these get-ups on, I would have to spew my drink....<br />
THAT would have been a horrible trick. <br />
<br />
What are your thoughts?<br />
As women? And as guys?<br />
…enlighten me. <br />
<br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-33008827553287889782011-10-13T19:10:00.007-04:002011-10-23T05:52:11.575-04:00just another day on Facebook...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqmypKhvi5TqPTZb0O3eWd-qKHdyiH2Zp3XYQBr0vqL9PwKww1_UhhD0A_Nh_FC78Zpj0BOTKA_ZyvAvt_Czdrm217ZmPFekby5y2oHWX5K5e_td8RuoezhEbJGOHFL-oyMbmuHAt2uVlk/s1600/bad+amelia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqmypKhvi5TqPTZb0O3eWd-qKHdyiH2Zp3XYQBr0vqL9PwKww1_UhhD0A_Nh_FC78Zpj0BOTKA_ZyvAvt_Czdrm217ZmPFekby5y2oHWX5K5e_td8RuoezhEbJGOHFL-oyMbmuHAt2uVlk/s320/bad+amelia.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>I’ve been <strong>bad</strong>. I've been <strong><em>very bad</em>.</strong><br />
<br />
Well, not in the <em>normal </em>sense of the word. I’ve been <strong><u>good</u></strong> really. Very, <em>very </em>good. But I’ve still been bad. <br />
<br />
I’ve neglected my blog. I’ve neglected my blog reading. I’ve neglected my bloggy friends. <em><strong>And I am sorry</strong>.</em> <br />
<br />
I have been writing. I just haven’t been posting.<br />
<br />
The other day I was on Facebook. <em>Yes, I know…the ultimate usurper of time.</em> It doesn’t help that I have the app on my phone. Thank goodness I had the sense to turn off notifications pr I might not get anything accomplished. However I <em>would </em>know when Chrissy was stalking the Home Depot paint counter…again. Lots of people have been complaining about the new interface that Facebook has. I kindof like it so haven’t entered into that arena of conversation. I personally like that little ticker on the right for updates and the section that gives you the<em> ‘people you may know’.</em> Most times they <em>aren't </em>people I know, or perhaps people I <em>have known</em> and don't care to know<em> now</em> and then surprise, surpirse! today that little box showed a name and face of someone that I hadn't thought about it awhile. There it was! A bloggy friend from across the pond.<br />
<br />
My mind jumped and I smiled at the computer screen. “No! Can it be? Matthew!”<br />
<br />
I found Matthew by accident a little over two years ago. One day early on with Blogger I was clicking the ‘next blog’ tab. I was new to the whole blogging experience, didn’t have any followers and wasn’t following anyone myself except for Chrissy who got me into the whole damn thing. I was entertained by what would come across my computer screen. Some blogs were in languages I didn’t even know existed, some were on topics that I had no interest in, some were just online photo albums so Auntie Gam and Uncle Ed could see how big the twins were getting. But one more click brought me to AbodeOneThree. <br />
<br />
He stopped blogging a little while back, took some time for himself. I used to go and check...sneak in to see if indeed he truly had. He DID announce that he was shutting it down, but I didn't want to believe that he would, so I would check. He was a man of his word and nothing new would appear. And one day I just stopped checking. So imagine my surprise to see his name. And then to find that he IS writing again! (However...he didn't renew the domain name AbodeOneThree and someone snatched it up. He is current;y under the moniker of ReloadAbode-which you can click on and find <em><a href="http://reloadabode.blogspot.com/">here</a></em>...)<br />
<br />
Sometimes I ponder on how amazing the effect of “coincidence”. Is there truly a thing of coincidence? Is it really fate in some other form? Is it destiny? What IS it, exactly.<br />
<br />
I’m a believer in free will. I always have been. I like to have a certain amount of control over my life. Oh sure, there are times that I’ve not had any control and hand my fate and happiness over to others. <em><strong>THIS</strong></em> <em>practice</em> has not turned out well for me in the few times I’ve done it. Note to self: I am my own captain. This is MY ship. I’m at the helm. And double note: <strong>DO NOT EVER FORGET THAT</strong>.<br />
<br />
I never thought of myself as a control freak, but the other day during a small dissagreement my ex-husband told me that I was. Personally, I think that he was just trying to push my buttons and wind me up, which it did, but his comment got me to thinking about control, free will and coincidence. How much of my life do I really control? I find that in my life ‘things’ happen that I have no control over, some things I force into being and others…well, who knows. I’m still on the fence whether those things actually happened or if it’s was just some huge conspiracy to make me believe that they did. <br />
<br />
Was it coincidence or fate that brought me to AbodeOneThree? Was it fate that landed his blog on my computer screen? Was it fate or coincidence that by reading HIS blog I strove to be a better writer myself which in turn gave me many followers? And was it coincidence that made me write this post today after seeing his name 6 hours ago? The many followers then became friends of sorts. Many of whom I’ve never met, but feel a connection to just the same. Is it fate, coincidence or destiny that two of my followers, Jules and Carlos, who live in different countries altogether are now a couple because they were both followers of my blog? Is it coincidence that when I am in need someone or something just pops in and takes care of it? Or is it fate that I met this man whom I really enjoy on the anniversary of my breaking it off with my old boyfriend? He whom I met the day that my ex-husband was getting married? Is that me that is controlling these things, or is it a destiny of sorts…<br />
<br />
After his comment, I had to look the actual definition of <strong>‘control freak”</strong> up in Random House. It’s answer: “to exercise restraint or direction over; dominate; command…To hold in check; curb.: it’s origin is the Latin “contra” meaning “against” and “rotula” (wheel), indicating movement. So essentially – control means to move against. The exact origin of freak is not known, but possibly can be traced back to the old English “frician” which means “to dance”. To put this all together then, we could say the control freaks are those who “command the dance” or those who “move against the dance”.<br />
<br />
Maybe I am in a way a control freak. I DO like things the way I like them. I would rather drive than be a passenger. I feel more comfortable when I know where it is I’m going…so I plan ahead and map things out. I like being on time. And like it even better if I’m early. One way to stress me out is to be late meeting me for a tee time…I’ll be the one jumping about from foot to foot looking like I have to use the toilet simultaneously looking at her watch every 5 seconds! And I AM one hell of dancer that commands the dance. So do those things make me control frenzied?<br />
<br />
I also did a Google search just to see if there were lists of signs and symptoms control freaks. Then I thought…”Wow. Is this being too controlled researching control?” Yikes. All this thinking about control is making my head spin. And the list? Yowzer…look at the list!<br />
<br />
You might be a control freak if you are:<br />
Preoccupied with negligible details?<br />
Want to present the “right” appearance?<br />
Fail to let go of unfortunate details from the past?<br />
In ‘work mode’ while not at work?<br />
Huff, rage and/or pout when you don’t get your own way?<br />
Critical of others or yourself?<br />
Concerned that others may do things “wrong”?<br />
Attempt to get another person to change?<br />
Feel paralysed to act because you might not get it “just right”?<br />
Tell others how they should live?<br />
Feel uncomfortable if you don’t’ get the last word?<br />
<br />
As I was reading through, I was nodding my head in agreement “Yup”, or nodding in dis-agreement “N.O. with a capital on both!” or tilting my head from one shoulder to the other “Well- it’s all in the interpretation….see.”<br />
<br />
I mean, I DO like details. And schedules. But I can roll with it, I just like a plan. It keeps me in my comfort zone. I prefer to be knowledgable or have knowledge of stuff so I’m not caught by surprise. MacGyver would be proud. Present the right appearance? Sure. I’m not about to show up to a black tie affair in a pair of cut-offs, or a wake in a low cut red dress. You probably know me well enough by now to know that I probably wouldn’t WEAR a low cut red dress anyway, but you get the idea.<br />
<br />
How about details from the past? Sure sometimes. It’s hard not to! If you were me you’d still hold a little grudge against someone who daily judged you and withheld physical and emotional love all the while taking everything you had and gave with nothing given in return. But I don’t consider it dwelling… I consider thinking of it as a warning to myself so I will never, ever be in that predicament again. It’s a good thing.<br />
<br />
Work mode? Bah. That’s my parents fault. THEY taught me work ethics. And again, it’s good. My home is always ready if guests arrive. Huff and rage? No way. Critical of others? Guilty. But YOU would have criticized that gal at the Bier Market too if you’d seen what she was wearing! And of myself? Not too much. There’s always room for improvement. One more lunge set couldn’t hurt. But no…I’m now on the top of my game: emotionally, physically and mentally. <br />
<br />
Yes, yes, no, no and well yeah, maybe.<br />
<br />
As I finished with my nodding and taking notes I realized that I didn’t WANT to be considered a control freak. There is such negative connotations with that phrase and yet as I’m bobbing my head to the beat of the sentences, I guess maybe I am. A little. But that would mean my ex-husband was right?! That I am? Oh boy. THAT in and of itself could land me into more therapy sessions if I actually subscribed to the practice.<br />
<br />
Recently I hung a board on the wall in my daughters room next to her bed. It looks like a big shiny opaque glass sheet but it’s a dry erase board <em>and</em> it’s magnectic. I like to sneak a peak at it from tine to time to see what she’s put on it. Photos are posted, like the one of her above; quotes and sayings floating around her group of friends at school; names of some of her 'besties'...you know, little pre-teen girl stuff. <br />
<br />
The other day she added in bold letters: “I wasn’t born perfect. I was born my SELF.” Pretty cool statement from a pretty cool kid. I love that. Maybe I'll turn her statement into a self mantra or tattoo it on my arm so I won’t forget. 'Cuz I like it. She's got a great attitude and view.<br />
<br />
No. I don’t think I’m a control freak. I just like a reasonable amount of control. It’s more of a responsibility thing, something that I've aquired over the years. That and knowing I’m just in a position now that I know what it is I want and know how I should be treated by those around me. My friend Harlan left me amessage the other day on the one year anniversary of my kicking shithead out of my home...he said "Yea is right nancy and BRAVO! You found the self respect to demand the same in return adn you deserve to settle for not ONE IOTA short of that!" If I’m not agreeable it’s probably because I’m now learning that I don’t have to bend to others demands or wishes. I <strong><em>AM</em></strong> Helen Ready singing “<em>I am woman”.</em><br />
<br />
And this woman, whether a control freak or not, has had one hell of a summer.<em> (and early fall...)</em><br />
<br />
I apologize for not sharing that with you earlier. I bought a picture at an art fair this summer that reads “Life is a Daring Adventure or Nothing.” Something about it spoke to me. Was it coincidence that I found it? Or divine placement of something that I needed to see. Whatever you want to call it, I like it. <br />
<br />
Yes. Guilty. I’ve been bad. I’ve been gone. I’ve been away.<br />
<br />
But I’ve been living an adventure. <strong><em>MY</em></strong> adventure. <br />
It's been pretty awesome.<br />
<br />
And look-y here! I’ve lived to write about it! You can thank Facebook for that too. Because I wrote this after I saw Matthews name on that little sidebar of <em>'people you may know'</em>. See how this works?<br />
<br />
Coincidence? <br />
Bah. It’s <em><strong>kismet.</strong></em><br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
Footnote: Thanks you Matthew for your silent inspiration! It feels good to be back amongst my friends...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-56129201786114217972011-05-30T22:31:00.001-04:002011-05-31T09:03:33.568-04:00'dem jes stoo-pid...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWsmWM31aK1hC5T4AvPW_pKYOySWeDBSZqOJA7UvvTHQzz6NvUxFYdaZ8Pc6Dg-HYlxXx6RqNjisxmVLe_E6EvcpoRvyv7cQ19jjNYGAghJRuvBoZTqx7r0hmvWa7OmxfXCGkTuA4OCEY0/s1600/converse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWsmWM31aK1hC5T4AvPW_pKYOySWeDBSZqOJA7UvvTHQzz6NvUxFYdaZ8Pc6Dg-HYlxXx6RqNjisxmVLe_E6EvcpoRvyv7cQ19jjNYGAghJRuvBoZTqx7r0hmvWa7OmxfXCGkTuA4OCEY0/s1600/converse.JPG" t8="true" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My daughters most loved shoes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">As you may know, I like to people watch. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I’m a people watcher from way back. Some of the things I see amuse me. Others stun me. Some have even disgusted me. But I enjoy every bit of it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">It’s my nature to see details. I work in an industry that requires me to see details that maybe someone else does not. Some details I find in said sport of people watching is almost painful to behold. But I hold my tongue and hope that someone, somewhere might share with these poor souls that they appear the fool.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I’ve always found fashion to be a quirky thing. My own personal style leans to the far right classic, with a twist of dishevelment. My casual wardrobe consists of distressed jeans and exposed seams. I like buying new clothes that look as though they have been in my closet for my lifetime. It’s comfortable for me. Like a favorite pair of worn in blue jeans.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I had a pair of splotted cargo pants. Uber comfy to the nth degree, I loved these things.<u> </u>Each time I wore them someone would say, “Have you been painting?” I’d look down at my pants and think ‘Ummm, no. I bought them like this.’ Actually, had I been painting they wouldn’t look like that. I’m a very neat painter and have never gotten paint on myself…<em>ever</em>. Really.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">If I’m dressing up? I usually don a blazer. I’ve got many.22 black ones to be exact with a few white, tans and grays thrown in. But I’ve been breaking the norm lately and buying some things that are a bit outside my comfort zone. And I have to admit, it’s been a bit fun to experiment.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I wore spring green silk basketweave blazer the other day. I felt a little uncomfortable at first wearing so much color…for me. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“<place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Nancy</city></place>?” one of my co-workers asked, “Is that you? Isn’t that….<em>color</em>?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Why yes. Yes, it is.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“It looks…GREAT!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">And I felt pretty good in it too. Of course, I paired it with a basic white T and my distressed jeans, but hey…baby steps people. <em>Baby steps</em>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">But some fashion is just that. <strong>Fashion. </strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">It’s meant for runways, and shows, and theatrics. Not for people to put into their everyday wardrobe. And yet, I see it. Everywhere. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The worst of the offenses are usually with shoes. I have a few rules about fashion and function when it comes to shoes. My first rule of thumb:<em><strong> If you can’t walk in them or look stupid walking in them…don’t buy them.</strong></em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">How many times I’ve seen someone who is clomping about in shoes that obviously hurt, or worse, she just can’t walk in them. Why? 5” heels (or more) should really be left to Lady Gaga. She’s got handlers (sic: The View when she wore 14” platform shoes with two guys helping her to the couch.) that will get her from point A to point B. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Secondly: <em><strong>Wear appropriate shoes.</strong></em> Nothing is more painful (or humorous) than seeing someone at Cedar Point for the day with high heel thong sandals. Hello? Miles and miles of concrete? Yeah, those are shoes that should be reserved for summer weddings and back yard barbeques. Or the gal I saw this winter trying to navigate an icy sidewalk in a pair of open toe high heel booties. And they were just going IN the Pub. If she failed rule #1, she was obviously going to miserably fail #3 (see below). Her boyfriend was trying to help her, but as I watched I silently was willing her to fall. That might teach her a lesson. It’s <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Cleveland</place></city>! It’s winter! Why do you have on those open toed high heel shoes? Can’t you see there is a foot of snow on the ground? Silly, silly, silly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">And my last rule and maybe the most important one: <em><strong>If you can’t walk in them sober, what’s going to happen when you’ve had two martinis?</strong></em><br />
<br />
Nuff said with that. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Today it was an absolutely beautiful day. After soooooo much rain, everyone was out to enjoy the reprieve of precipitation and see what that glowing ball of light in the sky was. I rode my bike down to the park to sit and well…people watch. I was amazed at how many girls there were out trying to walk around in these horrendous shoes. Just because they are in the <state w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Victoria</place></state>’s Secret catalog does not make them sexy. Many are…well, just fugly. Ummm…park? Perhaps some flip-flops or sandals or tennies? NOT uber high platforms.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I saw one girl actually take a spill in the soft turf due to balance issues. Even better, her boyfriend reprimanded her for her shoe choice. “Why you got ‘dose tangs on?” he said as he was trying to help her up.” I hate ‘dose damn tangs. You can’t walk in ‘em and dey look stoo-ped.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Well said, my friend. Well said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I DO own a few pair of wedges myself. Not the sky high ones, but I actually prefer them to regular heels because normally they are more manageable to maneuver in and still wear heels. I like them. They make me feel kindof…sexy. But of course, they have to pass all three of my rules before ever wearing them out in public.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Years ago I remember I talked my mother into buying me a pair of wedge heels. Straight from Sears Robuck catalog, these were the hottest thing going. My best friend Kic had her mom buy her a pair too. We both thought we were very, very cool. We were in 7<sup>th</sup> grade with these 5” cork heel wedge platforms. We towered over everyone at school. We were amazons. Supermodels. Unstopable. <em><strong>Until Kic fell. </strong></em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">She broke her ankle and ended up in a cast for the remainder of the summer. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I put my shoes away and never wore them again. As I peruse the aisles at DSW I chuckle to myself as I see many variations of the same shoes that I had way back then. I wish I still had those, I could sell them on ebay as vintage. But anytime I am tempted to buy anyting similar, I think back to that full leg cast of Kic’s and I steer in another direction.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">There was a blurp I read on Yahoo the other day where a staffer had her boyfriend dress her, head to toe, accessories and all for an entire week. She then posted the photos and gave her input to the choices he made. This was a dare after she stood in front of her closet and deemed that there was nothing to wear. He didn’t do too badly, but overall it was apparent that he didn’t care about accessories. Particularly the shoes. He even commented that he didn’t understand all the nuances between the shoes. She asked him, “But don’t you like these better? Don’t they make me look more attractive?” His answer? No.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Oh sure, there are some men that do appreciate fashion. But most of the over-the-top stuff does not impress the guys. If it looks too unnatural, it’s not a turn on. I have a friend who shared with me a story about a girl he picked up one night while out. He thought she was quite a knock-out. More fashionable than his usual tastes, but he liked her appearance. He asked for her number. She gave it to him. They spent the rest of the night canoodlaling. She invited him in when he drove her home. He went in. And found out that she had on fake nails, fake eyelashes, gel inserts for her bra <em><strong>and</strong></em> she was wearing a wig. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">He didn’t call her again. He said he was too confused. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Just the other day I had a discussion about fashion with a guy I've been seeing. I confessed to him how undecided I was when choosing what to wear for our first meeting. I thought, should I wear a dress? No, too formal. A skirt? It’s a warm day, shorts? No, too much leg. Don't want to give off the wrong impression in case I don't like him. Ugh. Decisions! Decisions! Everyone (magazines) says that for a first date you should wear a dress. But I’m not that comfortable in dresses. I have a few, but I’m more the trouser type. I changed clothes 8 times before making my final decision. And after all that, I wore the first outfit I had chosen.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I ended up with my favorite jeans, white linen shirt and flats. Simple sterling cuff and earrings and I was ready. I figured…this is who I am. If he likes dresses with ruffles and frills, well…<em>that just ain’t me.</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I’ve always had my own sense of style. I know what I like, what works for me and what I’m comfortable in. Being comfortable = confidence. And people are drawn to those with confidence. And no, that doesn’t give you the go ahead to show up to a first date in your sweat pants. Unless, of course, your first date is conprised of yard work. And that doesn't sound like a date at all.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">He told me about some of his past 'firsts' that never made it to a 'second' because he just couldn’t get beyond that they had on too much perfume, wore too much make-up, had too much jewelry on or just looked downright uncomfortable in their chosen ensemble. Do you know what the number one turn-off for him? Women who played with their hair.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Which is funny, because the very same magazine that says you should wear a colorful dress for a first date is the same one that says playing with your hair silently tells a man that you are interested in him. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">So we’ll add another rule to my list of do’s and don’ts.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Don’t pay attention to the magazines.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><strong>Pay attention to yourself.</strong></em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">So, did I pass <em>his</em> test?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Let’s just say it went well. <em>Very well.</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">He likes the way I dress.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">He likes my sense of style.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">He likes that I’m open.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">He likes…me. <em>Just the way I am</em>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Cool. Which is just the way it <strong><em>should </em></strong>be. It's nice to feel appreciated for just being me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Oh. And as a bonus, he hates all those shoes too.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">:-)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-47768390246196059962011-05-15T18:48:00.001-04:002011-05-15T19:20:59.180-04:00crumbled and transparent...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pmz-yISCMTEf_xqtcmG_-3LgMgSWIFMIgEo87i1eVRT1t9MTtRB-oqkzckowxZGLO0LPoxq3hvzF_q-5HITDm8RXm_L4-t13h8jCF09xwj32pZKJ07vL_oBuOdwDGQRagF0nOZdhuGyQ/s1600/amelia+island+pier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pmz-yISCMTEf_xqtcmG_-3LgMgSWIFMIgEo87i1eVRT1t9MTtRB-oqkzckowxZGLO0LPoxq3hvzF_q-5HITDm8RXm_L4-t13h8jCF09xwj32pZKJ07vL_oBuOdwDGQRagF0nOZdhuGyQ/s1600/amelia+island+pier.jpg" /></a></div>I stood at the very end of the pier. <br />
<br />
It was early, way before sunrise and I was alone.<br />
<br />
Grasping the handrails, my fingers felt the grooves of the many hands that had stood there before me over the years. This was a fishing pier, one that protruded well out into the ocean to get to where the fish were no matter what the tide schedule. I gazed at the dark water. There was nothing as far as I could see. No fishing boats, no lights from large ships…nothing. Just the hint of the sun on the horizon.<br />
<br />
I turned to my right and looked down the beach. Far off in the distance was a lone figure was walking with a dog in the haze of pre-dawn light. To my left just an open stretch of beach wet from the tide retreating leaving little lumps of jelly fish to dry when the sun rose.<br />
<br />
This island is my happy place. It’s a zen place for me. It is my daughters namesake. It’s a place that I feel entirely at home, comfortable and peaceful. I <strong><em>know</em></strong> nothing in the world can really trouble me while I’m here. Nothing. No world news; no word from home; nothing can penetrate the positive vibe that surges through my soul while I’m here in this place.<br />
<br />
When I last saw D to wrap up some business issues, I had just returned from a skiing trip. I was rested, happy and my skin had a golden glow from being high in the mountains. I felt good and I looked pretty good too. Shadow came over his face and instead of saying anything positive he said, <em>“You mean, you were skiing while all those people were dying in Japan?”</em><br />
<br />
Yep. I was. How thoughtless of me.<br />
I resented his comment. I tried to shake it off, but instead of a “<em>I’m glad you are happy and enjoying life.”</em> I got more criticism and negativity. It got under my skin and bugged me.<br />
<br />
But when I'm here, it can't get to me. Nothing can.<br />
When I’m here, I'm safe.<br />
I like to walk. And I enjoy to walk the beach. I prefer the mornings before others come down. In the morning, this is <strong><em>my</em></strong> beach. This is <strong><em>my</em></strong> pier. <br />
<br />
My time walking is spent in silent reflection. When I get back to the cottage I usually jot down my thoughts. If I put it down on paper, it allows it to get out of my head and I can sort it out later. If left to bounce around in there, it can create havoc and mayhem. There is a large pile collecting of these random thoughts, written down on scraps of paper all wadded up in a bowl, right next to the oranges.<br />
<br />
My pocket is full of all these scraps of paper.<br />
<br />
I dig down deep into my faded jeans and grab a handful. I held them out over the edge of the railing. I struggled inwardly. I’m fearful. There’s a part of me wants to hold on and keep them. I quickly decided that yes, I <em><strong>needed</strong></em> to do this. I must. I extended my arm as far out away from the railing as I could, and then….<strong><em>I let them go.</em></strong><br />
<br />
The crumbled bits of paper flit this way and that as they made their way down to the roiling water below, immediately becoming transparent and disappearing into the surf. One piece blows back onto the boardwalk and rustles there in the breeze hanging on to the weathered wood. I strain my eyes in the low light to read the writing. “Resentments” is printed in bold letters across the top with several lines in script below it. Including the last comment from D. I eyed it carefully, leaned back to get a good angle and then nudged it with my bare foot and pushed it over the edge. It clung to an upright post just below the decking, fluttered for a moment…and is then was gone. Out of my eyesight and into the blackness below.<br />
<br />
These small pieces of paper hold all that has troubled me. All things bottled up that need to dissappear. There is stuff from as far back as I can remember. Small things and big things, there is no differentiation. They range from the continued grief of my moms passing, to my decision to not pursue medical school, to failed relationships. From bad decisions made to stupid drama. All the things that I wish I could do over but can’t, all the things I wish I'd said but didn't. All of my pains, my fears, the that crap that has managed to dig into my psyche with its negativity.<br />
<br />
I wrote it all down.<br />
On little pieces of paper. <br />
Which I shoved into my jeans pocket this morning before leaving for my walk.<br />
<br />
I literally…let it all go. And it felt good. I felt relieved. I felt lighter. There were no burdens still clinging to my shoulders bearing their weight down on my soul. Nothing but the gratitude that I was standing here. In my spot. On my pier. On my island.<br />
<br />
When going through my divorce my estranged husband would say to me, “<em>Stop being a victim.”</em> I hated it. I think that he knew it as well, which is why he said it so often. I hadn’t chosen that path. I had no hand in what was being dealt out to me. I was just trying to keep my head up and breathe.<br />
<br />
I realize now that I had unknowingly become a victim. And have somewhat remained there for all these years. I have allowed my capricious happiness to lie in the hands of others. I have pondered what I may have done differently if given the opportunity for a re-do. But I believe that the burdens of heartbreak has made me who I am today. And I like that person. She's wise. So yeah….if I had be there again, I’d say,”<em>Bring it.”</em><br />
<br />
My father used to tell me, “A mistake is worth making if you learn from it. If you repeat it, then the fault lies within you.”<br />
<br />
All those mistakes?<br />
All those faults?<br />
All those resentments, fears, and emotional baggage is lying with the fishys in the ocean.<br />
<br />
And as I watch my woes disappear into the waves, I know that I have finally entirely reclaimed myself. I want to bottle this euphoria and stay here forever. But I know I can’t, I’ve got things to return to. My home, my dogs, my job…there are responsibilities at home that I cannot shirk. I walk the five miles back to the cottage to find my daughter still asleep. I stand over her and look down into her face. It is beautiful, peaceful, and serene. Her innocence is apparent on her perfect, rosy complexion. <br />
<br />
I want to wake her; to hug her; to hold her. I want to tell her how wonderful I feel. But I let her sleep. She’ll wake soon enough, and then we'll talk.<br />
<br />
It’s a beautiful morning. It’s a beautiful world.<br />
And as for me…?<br />
<br />
I have a beautiful new life. With memories, yes...but no baggage to hold them to draw me down. They be all gone.<br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54489/169/37635789CFC0DF458F1897A6F6EE057B.png" style="border: 0 !important; background: transparent;"/></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-17606094390597657162011-03-27T21:13:00.002-04:002011-03-28T17:42:23.411-04:00problem solved...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVVXZZrAB8GnOOS1kLSgVR4qLpCqDxtyJT7lAEdPrFeTnlWeRaC4UKRUptIJ7gwjVeb9-bDXXF1t5r38-o7Di98B4UnebmocntjjpkLxvmNFGxVFazr_SBAiSW1mD9YuogENDrssA6mek7/s1600/creative.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVVXZZrAB8GnOOS1kLSgVR4qLpCqDxtyJT7lAEdPrFeTnlWeRaC4UKRUptIJ7gwjVeb9-bDXXF1t5r38-o7Di98B4UnebmocntjjpkLxvmNFGxVFazr_SBAiSW1mD9YuogENDrssA6mek7/s200/creative.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>“You can read it, Mom, but don’t change<em> anything</em>.”<br />
<br />
The other day my daughter and I were in my office at home. She on the desktop computer, I on the couch with the laptop cradled in my lap squished in between two dogs vying for my attention. As I tried, unsuccessfully, to elbow a place for myself, I glanced over from time to time to see what Boo-est was up to. She had her math simple solutions book open, some loose leaf papers spread out, the other laptop had some game on it and on the large flat screen was an open word document. Earlier, her little fingers had been typing away fast on the keyboard and I was dying to see what she had been writing.<br />
<br />
“What are you typing Boo?” I asked her. Trying to sound not-all-that-interested. If you express TOO much interest, you won’t be able to see it. Either shyness or protectiveness sets in and you won’t get any closer.<br />
<br />
“A creative writing project for school.” she answered, “But it didn’t turn out anything like I thought it would. What I wrote on my papers as notes didn’t make it into the story. I don’t know why….but it just <em>changed.”</em><br />
<br />
She turned to look at me in the big office chair which used to engulf her and now she fits in rather nicely. “Does that ever happen to you? Do you start something thinking it will turn out one way and then it just goes off in a completely different direction?”<br />
<br />
Boy. <strong><em>Does it ever.</em></strong><br />
<br />
“Sometimes, doll. Actually, most times.” Immediately, her words started a little script in my head…I have to write that down…”More times than not, for me at least. Can I read it?”<br />
<br />
"In a minute. I’m not quite done. But don’t change <strong><em>anything</em></strong>…okay?”<br />
<br />
I agreed. I wouldn’t change anything. But I was now<em> really</em> dying to see what she was working on. She got up from the chair allowing me to take her place in front of the screen and removed herself to her room, plopped down in her large pappason chair and turned on her TV. If I’m looking at something she’s created (which is a lot…she’s always creating something) she has to leave the room. She, like most people or at least like me, fears judgement. She’d rather wait to see what your response is rather than see it firsthand.<br />
<br />
I looked at the screen and this is what I read.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><u><span style="font-size: large;">Creative Writing: </span></u>Solving Problems</span></div><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">This is when the problems started to happen. With my best friend hating me, Judy Youth, and just about everything was going amok. My name is Rachel Charlotte First, and this is the whole reason that I am telling you this story.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">In the beginning, me and my best friend John were playing basketball in the back parking lot of our apartment building. John lives two floors down from me and Mama. Daddy passed away when I was little. Our apartment building is on 32nd street, NYC. Well, anyway, I don’t want to get off track…so where was I? Oh yes! John and I were playing some basketball when, my arch nemesis, Judy Youth showed up. I’ve hated Judy since Kindergarten, when she poured her wild berry scented bubbles in my hair-ON picture day. NOW my kindergarten school picture forevermore has me soaking wet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Judy is the kind of person who would do absolutely anything in order to make sure that her enemies are absolutely miserable. That is exactly when she took John away from me. It was lunch time. Judy asked John if he wanted a sandwich. Automatically, he said “Yes“, because we were all hungry. Then Judy says “John, you do know that I work at the deli, right? Because if you do, then you do know that I get a discount there, right? Jhonny (the owner) told me so.” That’s when John said “If I go, does that mean that Rachel can come with me then?” “I’m only allowed to invite one person John, so sorry.” replied Judy, in quite a bitter tone. That’s when I expected John to say “Sorry Judy, I can’t leave Rachel behind.” But, of course, he didn’t. He went with her to the deli. Leaving me here with a nearly deflated basketball, only hearing him shout “Bye Rachel!” with an echo-y ring to it. I really do hate hearing that, ‘Bye Rachel‘, that is. It really doesn’t seem right to me. It sounds like someone is just letting you go a-drift, and that is what fears me the most…someone letting you go. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">When she took John, it started to rain. So I sat down in my gym shorts and tee shirt, right smack-dab in the middle of the parking lot. That’s when I thought about what I should do. I can’t just sit there and do nothing while she takes nearly everything away from me, piece by piece. I have to ask her why she does this. But how? She goes to a different school, lives pretty far away from me, and never talks to me. How can I tell her?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Once I got home, I started thinking about those words again. “Bye Rachel!” They just about kill me. I was angry, furious. I yelled at the top of my lungs as loud as loud could go, and started to cry. I thought things like: “Why do these things happen to me?” and “Who does he think he is, leaving me out there?” and some other things like “Why didn’t Judy choose me?” But I didn’t say these things, I only thought them. After that I went to bed and tried to forget about the whole thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">The next day, I tried to call him, no answer. Over and over again, I called. He never picked up. Judy must have been my replacement. Or so I thought. He was out back again, I could hear him with his basketball, He was with Pat, from school. Yet he still doesn’t talk to me. I don’t understand how people think. One day they’re your best friend, then the next, they’ve forgotten all about you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I went outside to see if I could hang-out with them. Once John saw me he said “Coming ma’!” in a nervous, embarrassed kind of voice. He called me afterward. He said “Rachel, I know that you want to be friends, but you kind of embarrass me…” I replied “What? But we’ve been best friends since 1st grade? What do you mean that we can’t be friends anymore?” He told me “We just can’t be friends. Bye Rachel.” And there it is again, that fatal sounding Bye Rachel. That’s when I knew that I had to stand up to Judy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I rode the bus straight to the top of Judy’s street. She answered the door asking me what I wanted. I told her that I wanted my friend back. That’s when she told me “He chose me over you Rachel, I don’t understand why you don’t just let your friends go when they turn on you.” “That is why I don’t want to let him go, because you don’t really care about John, do you? You don’t care about life, now do you Judy? And most of all, you don’t really know what friendship is about. Tell me if you do Judy, because from the looks of things, it doesn’t really seem like it.” Judy didn’t respond. She left her mouth open real wide and stood there until I left.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Obliviously, she must have called John. He told me how proud he was to be my best friend, and Judy had given back what she took, without really giving back anything. I found friendship without really trying as hard as you might think. And that, is where all of my problems were solved.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Now, remember, my daughter just turned 12. <br />
There are a couple of things in this little story that jumped out at me, the nearly deflated basketball, the echo-y ring to it, the bitter tone in her voice, even the fact that daddy passed away leaving just her and her mom. But it was the “Bye Rachel”, the <em>fatal sounding “Bye Rachel”</em> that kind of blew me away. The one day they are your best friend and the next <em>they’ve forgotten all about you</em>.<br />
<br />
Things have been really, really good for me as of late. My daughter and I just came back from a vacation leaving us both refreshed and rejuvenated. She’s always rejuvenated, but this vacation did my heart and soul a world of good. The time for reflection has allowed me to really stand back and look at what a mess I have left behind when setting my old boyfriend loose. I didn’t realize (because when in the trenches you just can’t see the view) how depressed and suppressed I had become.<br />
<br />
I didn’t ski much in the many years with my boyfriend, because he didn’t like the cold. I had heard that he used to ski, but I’ve never known him to or express an interest in the sport. So I stopped skiing. Except for that one week a year when Bear and I would join our old friends in New York.<br />
<br />
I didn’t dance any longer as my boyfriend didn’t like to dance. He could dance, I’d seen him do it from time to time, but would he go with me? No. So I stopped dancing. Fact is, he didn’t really appreciate music that much, so when in the car, we would have talk radio (which I dislike) or comedy on instead of music.<br />
<br />
I didn’t go to art openings, restaurant openings, fine dining restaurants or music venues any longer. He didn’t want to do those things. Even the choice of films changed into only going to see the things he liked or had an interest in. Fact is, even my style of dress had been subdued. I have always worn black, gray or white but he’d comment if my shirt was cut too low or my heels too high. “Looks like you’re trying too hard.“ Too hard for what? To feel good? Hmmm. My jewelry is never flashy, I don’t overdo, I’m not a trendy but a classic dresser…so how could I look as if I were ‘trying to hard’. Somehow I morphed me into what he liked. How in the hell did that happen? I suppose women do these kind of things, but really…give up skiing? Give up dancing and music? Give up things that I enjoy in order to just do the things that he enjoys? Did he ever do anything for me that he didn’t want to because I wanted to do it and he felt compelled to do it in order to make me happy? No. I don’t think so. I’m racking my brain trying to come up with at least one instance…and I’m failing.<br />
<br />
The other day when Bear and I were on our way home, listening and singing at the top of our lungs to some song on the radio, I realized how full my heart was. In the car I find myself not on the verge of tears, but on the verge of laughter. My eyes are smiling, my lips are smiling, my heart is smiling.<br />
<br />
It was a warmer afternoon when we got home and she and I went out back to the trampoline in the backyard. We cleared away the remnants of the fall leaves and bounced. We bounced and bounced and bounced and spun and spun and spun and laughed and laughed and laughed! I felt like Mary Tyler Moore throwing her hat up in the air on her sitcom. Big grin on my face and just enjoying life!<br />
<br />
I felt something, an emotion, that I hadn’t felt in a long while. It took me a moment to put my finger on what it was.<br />
<br />
JOY.<br />
<br />
I felt <strong><em>joy.</em></strong><br />
<br />
But the ‘Bye Rachel” in Boos story kept resonating in my mind. When we split, he did send Boo a text at Thanksgiving, but had skipped wishing her a Happy Halloween. He didn’t give her anything for Christmas. He didn’t even send even a lousy Christmas card. He tried to make up for his gaff for her birthday, but it wasn't the same. She sort of just set it aside with not much comment.<br />
<br />
“Is he mad at me?“ Boo asked through big crocodile tears. “Has he forgotton about me?“<br />
<br />
“No, honey. He probably is confused as to what to do. He hasn’t forgotten about you.“<br />
<br />
I tried to console her. Whatever is/was between us, he shouldn’t take out on Bear. He walked out of our lives and left 7 years of his association with my daughter behind. He’s known her since she was 5. Her father left us when she was 3. Her dad lives in town and is a good dad and very involved with her over the years, but I think that it has left residual scar tissue. <br />
<br />
It was because of her relationship with my boyfriend that I stayed in that situation for as long as I did. Even with my level of unhappiness, I dismissed it because Boo would be sitting on the couch holding D’s hand, looking at him with loving eyes. But I can’t help but think that, at least subconsciously, the part of her story where ‘<em>one day they are your best friend and the next the have completely forgotten about you’</em> is in reference to D. <br />
<br />
I’ve talked extensively to Boo about this. She’s rather sophisticated; an old soul and understands complex issues. We decided, together, that its best for both of us to have him <em>not</em> be part of our lives, <em>at all</em>. There is really no need. He did send her a text the other day, telling her that he misses her-thinks of her often-and that he loves her. She answered back, because she’s polite in that regard but came and told me later of the exchange. <br />
<br />
“I understand, Mom, why you needed to let him go. I also understand why you let him stay. Thank you. And thank you for telling me. I loved him, but I'm going to let him go too. I love you, Mom.” And with that she gave me one of the biggest Bearhugs of all time.<br />
<br />
JOY. Ultimate joy. <br />
<br />
“You seem <strong>so much</strong> happier now, you <em><strong>glow</strong></em>.” she told me. So you see, it doesn’t get much better than that. I’ve got to go stock up on those <em>Life is Good</em> t-shirts.<br />
<br />
Low cut ones that I’ll wear with heels. <em>Problem solved...</em><br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85755/f8hasit/2b2dd7dbbcf9f71810542901f12f567b.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Footnote: My friend, Intense Guy, made me think a little with his comment. Yes, I was hurt. Yes, I was angry. Yes, I felt betrayed in some weird way even though it was I that had broken it off with D. If I didn't have those feelings I would be devoid of having any feelings at all! AND I had reached out to him in December to see if in fact we were doing the right thing and wanted to try to work things out between us.<br />
<br />
I am so glad that we didn't go down that path. Can you imagine the mess we would be in if in fact we WERE trying to work on our relationship only to find out that the rebound girl was expecting? Now THAT would have been an even worse thing to go through than what I did...<br />
<br />
They say there are no such things as coindidences. This may just fall into that category. Timing, I guess, IS everything!<br />
<br />
And Iintense Guy...? I hope to NOT have any fodder of such a negative nature that I must write about! I hope all things will stay on the positive as well!!!<br />
:-)f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-17742256218626931402011-03-06T10:11:00.007-05:002011-03-11T17:19:38.022-05:00gone baby gone...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaC3ANFF4WtIweM0xL1KRTtRzZWPDNPmy6lx9GZew8kB4yrVUsim-RB8nIIuAzrm2r_MQfP3JdutZeQ8kRvKVaMx9u7CcCWwEvMochIw9Pwj7Xfleg7MSk4MJbvbbHlJ8KkxL7wo3pM2Yw/s1600/scan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="126" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaC3ANFF4WtIweM0xL1KRTtRzZWPDNPmy6lx9GZew8kB4yrVUsim-RB8nIIuAzrm2r_MQfP3JdutZeQ8kRvKVaMx9u7CcCWwEvMochIw9Pwj7Xfleg7MSk4MJbvbbHlJ8KkxL7wo3pM2Yw/s200/scan.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Wow.<br />
It’s textbook, really. So somewhat expected in a warped way.<br />
But it’s still a <em>big <strong>Wow</strong></em>.<br />
<br />
I can’t stop laughing. I find myself shaking my head and chuckling, muttering, “Holy Christ. He’s fucked.”<br />
<br />
It’s a bittersweet feeling, this euphoria knowing that indeed karma is alive and well. There have been moments of tears mixed in, moments of self doubt. But even if my heart is heavy at times, my brain knows that this indeed is what I needed to put it all behind me. Finally, and for good.<br />
<br />
I learned this week that my ex-boyfriend, with whom I devoted the last six years of my life to, is expecting a child with his new girlfriend. <br />
<br />
Let’s see now shall we?<br />
<br />
I split with him in October.<br />
He joined eHarmony.<br />
He met this girl in November.<br />
The baby is due early August.<br />
<br />
Yes. He’s having a child with a woman that he has known for just a few months. They hardly know each other. They are marching forward together ‘very much committed’ to ‘do this’. <br />
<br />
He’s getting his masters degree. He’s 36.<br />
She has her masters. She’s 30.<br />
<br />
Aren’t there things people do, adult people, intelligent people do to prevent such surprises? For two supposedly educated people, getting knocked up by a veritable stranger and raising a child for the rest of your life isn’t exactly what they teach you in Sunday school.<br />
<br />
To each their own I suppose. I can continue to shake my head at their situation all I want and the only thing I can come up with is, “<em>It ain’t my life….thank you God.”</em><br />
<br />
And <em>“It’s not my worries either. Thank you again God, my dear Lord and Saviour.”</em><br />
<br />
But it still has me shaking my head in disbelief and shock. <br />
Wow.<br />
BIG Wow.<br />
<br />
When I found out I was expecting my own daughter, I was totally freaked out. I had been married for five years at that time and although on one hand I was very excited for the future…I was petrified. Petrified! I had never babysat. I didn’t ogle at babies in the grocery store. I really didn’t want a child…I had nothing against children but my life was perfect. I hadn’t really considered it. Fact is, I’m not sure if my husband and I had even had that conversation.<br />
<br />
I knew my life would change. Drastically.<br />
<br />
No more jaunting off to ski in Aspen on a few days notice. No more joining on business trips with hubby until the baby got bigger. Hell, even my golf game was off. To play a round of 18 while the other ladies were getting drinks and peanut butter I was in the locker room using a breast pump so I wouldn’t explode on the 16th hole.<br />
<br />
Not fun.<br />
<br />
I<strong><em> love</em></strong> being mom. It’s one of the most fulfilling things that I’ve ever done. And I can't imagine my life without my Boo, but, that being said, I can’t imagine doing it with someone that I hardly know. No fucking way. Not that the two of them can change what’s happened, but me thinks that they might have been a little smarter in planning than they obviously were.<br />
<br />
Part of me would like them to be happy. That this is a match made in heaven for them both. That they will grow to love each other and in turn the baby will be raised in a nurturing loving environment. It’s been known to happen. Friends of a friend got pregnant on their second date. They now have 3 children together and seem to be content with their lives. However statistics would show that there is a better chance for me winning the lottery than that happy ending scenario. Ultimately, it’s the child who is going to suffer these fools, whether they stay together or not.<br />
<br />
“Do you love her?” His mom asked him. “What <em>is</em> love…” was his reply. <br />
<br />
And then there is the part of me that wants his little trip into the sunset to turn into a nightmare. The percentage is not evenly distributed between the two. It’s currently hovering at a 5 to 95 ratio with the 95 winning on his life being fucked up for the remainder. I’m not proud of that, but it is the truth.<br />
<br />
I’m a people pleaser. My first knee jerk reaction was to call him and ask him, “are you okay?” stemming from my own knowledge of what I would think or do in that situation. I’m sure he’s stunned. “I’m here if you need me.” I told him.<br />
<br />
He sent a message, “I’ve got a lot to contemplate and think about right now. There are no plans for marriage, but we are both very much committed to do this and that’s as far as we see it right now. No big decisions made on top of this huge one as of yet.” <br />
<br />
“Thanks for being there.” He added at the bottom.<br />
<br />
We made plans to get together to talk. <br />
<br />
One of my best friends Morgan sent me a note in which she points out some pretty glaring details which I have a tendency to overlook. “I feel <em>so little</em>, Morgan. He replaced me so <strong>quickly</strong>.” <br />
<br />
“The one thing you need to know, and please don’t forget it…you are IRREPLACEABLE. It does not mean he has replaced you. D can’t replace you. He can find a different relationship to move onto. D has a wealth of issues to work through and he is incapable of being alone. This woman is a temporary distraction to his long term problems. You were someone special to him. He is, unfortunately, too screwed up to be the kind of man you need him to be on a consistent basis.”<br />
<br />
I sense some sort of underlying hidden agenda lurking in the background. However much I dislike the idea that I <em>was</em> so easily replaced, I still don’t think that he intentionally was thinking about starting a family. What I DO believe is that as a trained serious athlete that competes in triathlons, that went to college on a swimming scholarship, that graduated from high school with a 4.0 AND attained her masters degree….I think that she might have had some sort of knowledge of what happens when you spread your legs. As should he. Unprotected sex is just so….<strong><em>ghetto</em></strong>.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it’s something locked away in her psyche unacknowledged, but an unconscious wish she wanted to fulfill. Having gone through her own painful breakup from a long-term relationship earlier in the year followed by participation in a friends wedding, at 30, maybe she wants to show everyone that she too can be married and have a family. She is pushing for marriage in this after all, not just getting the sperm donation so she can have a baby. I wonder if he knew (and yes, he should have asked, it's his responsiblility too) that she wasn’t on birth control that he would have been so willing to inseminate. They were both probably drunk and it wasn’t even discussed.<br />
<br />
His mother told me of the pregnancy. He didn’t even bother to do so.<br />
<br />
We were talking on the phone and she said, “I’ve know something that everyone tells me I shouldn’t tell you.” You can’t say that to me and NOT tell me. So she did. She’s like a second mom in a way. We talk quite often.<br />
<br />
“Oh my God. Are you kidding? Oh. <strong>My</strong>.<strong><em> God</em></strong>.” Is all I could muster. It sounded like a mantra. “Oh my God. Oh MY God!” OH MY.” The inflection on the different syllables getting louder as the reality of what she just told me sunk in.<br />
<br />
“How long have they known? Were they planning this? Is he okay? Have you met her? Is he okay? Oh my God, I can’t believe it.” A stream of questions spewing forth.<br />
<br />
“They are in the first trimester he thinks. No, I don’t think he was planning it, but he sounds like he’s excited about having a child. They have baby name books. He wants a boy, she wants a girl. No, we haven’t met her and aren’t anxious to.” She answered while laughing at my mantra of “Oh my….”<br />
<br />
I’m shocked, but I’m really not mad.<br />
And I’m really not angry.<br />
<br />
My ego is bruised….but oh hell no. I’m so much more alive now than I was when I was with him. I no longer suffer from insomnia. I no longer suffer from headaches. I no longer suffer from sleep apnea. That alone speaks volumes. Add to that the weight loss from healthy living? I’d say I’m in a much better place right now than taking any more passive aggressive judgmental demeaning bullshit from him <strong><em>that almost sucked my life dry</em></strong>. I’m physically and emotionally in a much better place than I EVER…and I mean <strong><em>EVER</em></strong> was with him. <br />
<br />
No, I’ve not felt this alive in years.<br />
<strong><em><u>Years.</u></em></strong><br />
<br />
It was one thing to offer him my support “I’m here if you need me” when I thought it had just happened, accidentally after months of dating. But the timeline, it’s when <em>I realized the true timeline</em> that killed that notion of helping him emotionally, dead. That he conceived this child just weeks after our split…well, that hurts. I just can’t overlook the fact that it was just so fucking soon. That he was ‘fucking’ so soon. No time to himself. No time spent on grieving the end of a long term relationship. <br />
<br />
So I withdrew my offer of friendship. <br />
<br />
I don’t want to see him.<br />
I don’t want to hear from him.<br />
I don’t want to know what’s going on in his life or what his fucking baby will look like.<br />
I don’t want to know. ANYTHING.<br />
<br />
It’s healthier for me to create distance. I cannot offer him my support. I cannot be there for him. I cannot pretend to be happy for him, I don’t have it in me. I don’t need or want the role of friend to talk to about his woes with the new girl or the baby. I don’t need him to be part of my life and it’s obvious that he doesn’t need me in his. I even asked him to take my name off the publishing company we had started last year. There is no need for me to continue with any connections to him, business or otherwise. <br />
<br />
I literally watched as the screen of <em>About Us</em> changed on the business's website. The name of the company was a mix of his name and mine with my mothers maiden name added. ‘…with his Deputy Managing Director, Nancy McD, now you know how the name originated.' It even followed with the use of ‘a dear friends deceased mothers maiden name’ (which is my mom). The copy now reads, ‘Where the ‘Mc’ comes from in the name will be forever a secret.’ It does continue to acknowledge my mom’s maiden name but the ‘<em>dear</em>’, from ‘<em>dear friend’</em> has been removed to just say ‘<em>friend’</em>. Technically, he should remove the title friend altogether as that is no longer the case. I won't complain about it. At least he followed through with the direction to remove my name ASAP with this. <br />
<br />
I reached out to him in December with a “Congrats D, I heard you’ve got a steady girlfriend. I hope that she’s good to you and you are happy.” Just one more example of me trying to keep open the lines of communication and be nice.<br />
<br />
“We’ll see.” He replied. “She’s pretty controlling and it may get out of hand.”<br />
<br />
Does my turning my back on him at a time when he truly may need the support of a loving friend stem from jealousy? Something subconsciously wishing it had been me? No. I’m sure as hell glad it’s not me.<br />
<br />
No fucking way.<br />
<br />
But I’ve got to shake my head.<br />
And thank the dear Lord for protecting my ovaries and eggs.<br />
<br />
My friends have all rallied. Brooke said, “What a load of shit. My friends 8 year old has more maturity. Fuck him. You really ARE better off without him.”<br />
<br />
Thank you, Brooke. I concur.<br />
<br />
Melissa said, “Wow. I don’t even know her, but geez…That poor child. Two selfish people bringing another baby into this world in all the wrong ways.”<br />
<br />
Yuppers, I’m in full agreement there.<br />
<br />
“He’s a needy guy. He can’t be alone. I like him, he’s my friend…he amuses me. But I’m a dude.” Tom said, “As a chick? A girlfriend? No…<em>the guys a dick</em>. He treated you poorly. And you look great! Having him out of your life has done you good.” "Why didn't you tell me Tom...years ago." I asked. "Dude code. I couldn't."<br />
<br />
Carlos added, “I know it sucks but I’m sure you know that you’ll soon realize how better off you are without someone like that in your life. You’re better than that guy, Nancy.”<br />
<br />
Thanks guys. I love you.<br />
<br />
Even Chrissy chimed in with "Did he tell you himself? Don't let him fool you. He's saying these things to convince himself. He didn't meet his long lost great love. He fucked someone, she got knocked up and he's trying to not sound like a dick. I'm sure he wants to run like hell. August is looooonng way away, you know. Don't let it get to you. You're smarter than that."<br />
<br />
Amen, sister.<br />
<br />
Indigo said, “Smile Nancy. He’s gone.”<br />
<br />
You're right Indigo, Oh, how he’s gone. Just like the Ben Afleck film, <em>Gone baby, Gone.</em><br />
<br />
And that, my friends, is the last of that. I don’t care if he needs my friendship. I don’t care if he finds out he’s been trapped. I don’t care if the rest of his life is fucked. Or not, for that matter. It could turn out all rainbows and unicorns and it won’t make a difference to me. It’s not part of my world. But it does make me feel as if I broke up with him all over again. This time for real, this time completely. My positioning to stay friends was unrealistic, and unhealthy. <br />
<br />
Chapter over, Book closed. I do hope he finally mourns. I hope that he cries sometimes for the loss of his best friend. I hope that someday he realizes what he did give up with his selfish behaviour. Do I really wish him ill-will? No. I had such love for him, and still do. I worry. I worry for him, but that's no longer my concern. Good-bye D. <em>Good luck with all that</em>. <br />
<br />
Maybe someday we can communicate again. But it’s not going to be today. And I doubt it will be tomorrow. Or the next day, or the next month, or maybe even the next year. But never is a long time. My mind wanders and I wonder if the two of them be picked for the next advertising campaign for eHarmony?<br />
<br />
Matched November ’10. <br />
Knocked up November ’10.<br />
<br />
I’m sure that will sell loads of memberships. He’s currently standing his ground on the marriage issue. “I’m not getting married because of the baby.” He always held disdain for the bond of marriage. I wonder how long that will last with a controlling girlfriend about to give birth.<br />
<br />
Just what the world needs…<em>another bastard child reared by a bastard.</em><br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85755/f8hasit/2b2dd7dbbcf9f71810542901f12f567b.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-11846057207449496412011-02-23T07:22:00.003-05:002011-02-25T08:31:42.689-05:00Holy Kaka, Batman...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp6OSbIf3aGepVrv1NmSWu0C6HaH90WWKiOdR53WUXRMZOhWdImk2qtyIYyuKVhwIC-nVK2uqliyBE_eNFl3kNSuRtlShtcqt11SpTFMuo4iCEd_bRib9uKRzlUyo6GsfmOSCHuu3HyNP4/s1600/3102076223_689387425f_t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp6OSbIf3aGepVrv1NmSWu0C6HaH90WWKiOdR53WUXRMZOhWdImk2qtyIYyuKVhwIC-nVK2uqliyBE_eNFl3kNSuRtlShtcqt11SpTFMuo4iCEd_bRib9uKRzlUyo6GsfmOSCHuu3HyNP4/s1600/3102076223_689387425f_t.jpg" /></a></div><em>"</em><em>How did I get here? How possibly did I manage to get myself into this predicament?"</em> <br />
Why didn't I listen? Or not really <em>listen</em>, I listened, I just didn't pay attention. Actually, I paid attention...I just had not heeded the advice. <em>Go figure.</em><br />
<br />
Only moments ago I was strolling on the beach, enjoying the sound of the waves, the wind in my face and the warmth of the rising sun on my shoulders. I was distracted by the merchants setting up their wares. I had taken my wallet with me on my morning trek along the beach and was now currently engaged in bargaining with a local over the cost of a cow hoof flask. <br />
<br />
After aquiring said flask, I moved to the next booth that had a gorgeous hand painted sarong dispalyed. The next had adorable clay buses, laden with bananas, animals and ukeleles. The buses even had little drivers in the front seat in national garb. This was a must have to bring home for my daughter. An artist stopped me and held out a few of his paintings. The good composition and colors made them irresistable. I added those to my growing collection of souvenirs.<br />
<br />
The next thing I knew I was several blocks from the beach, the sound of the surf had been replaced by the honking of horns. The sweet smell of salt air now hung heavy with exhaust fumes. The protection of the beach and its armed guards were far in the distance, barely glimpsed from where I stood.<br />
<br />
I had ventured into an area that at check in, the desk clerks warned the clientele about.<br />
<br />
“Don’t go beyond the borders of the beach. You can shop at the beachside stands, but don’t go inland farther than that. We can’t guarantee your safety if you disregard these guidelines.” The desk clerk told us as he handed over our keys to our room. “Unfortunately, there has been some violence that has broken out between some gangs….we want our guests to have a nice trip and be safe on their visit here.”<br />
<br />
Morgan and I nodded in agreement, clinked our margarita glasses together and wished ourselves a happy and safe trip as well. That was two days ago and a venerable memory now that I found that I had wandered into the wasteland of the waring locals without having paid attention. Far in the distance held the security of my lounge chair and the tiki hut that gave me my free mojitas, with fresh mint.<br />
<br />
It was at that very moment of revelation of “Holy Crap, where am I!” that I heard the sound. Distinct. And close. Too close.<br />
<br />
I used to shoot skeet when I was in high school. I dated a boy whose father was the chief of police AND also the owner of a gun club on the outskirts of town. I’d go out there with Nick and shoot from time to time. I found that I was pretty good at it. On my 16th birthday when other kids were getting cars from their parents and friendship rings from their beaus, I got a shotgun. It was beautiful.<br />
<br />
Shotgun fire has a distinctive sound. Like a mini canon. Handguns have their own heavy ping and machine gun fire…well, I’ve never heard an actual, real, live machine gun. But I can distinguish the sound as having heard it many times in movies on HBO. THAT was the sound I was hearing now. Machine gun fire. <em>Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat</em>. <br />
<br />
And it was nearby.<br />
<br />
I ducked inside the makeshift booth made of plywood and canvas tarps, squatting down behind a table of clay pottery hoping that by staying low whatever was coming this way might miss me. I quickly looked around assessing my position and realized how out of place I looked. Obviously an American. Obviously from one of the posh resorts. Why the hell do I have my Raymond Weil watch on? And my gold and diamond stacker rings? I thought, “Sure as shit, I’m dead. I’m a walking fucking target.” I silently prayed and wished I had never left the beach. This may be the last place that I ever see….this dirt floor of this shabby shop on this dirty street. I felt like the characters in ‘An American Werewolf in London’ right before they were attacked.<em> “Beware the Moors, stick to the road</em>.” <br />
<br />
They were on the moors when they heard the howl. They hadn’t stuck to the road. I was now in that same place. “What the fuck, Nancy. You are in serious deep kaka.”<br />
<br />
I said a silent prayer asking God to protect me and if he couldn’t, for my daughter to forgive me if I didn’t make it back stateside alive. I promised that if I would live that I would always listen and take the advice given while on vacation. Or when <strong><em>anywhere </em></strong>for that matter. I promised myself that I would not buy another unneeded trinket <em>ever</em>, if I made it out of this roadside stand alive.<br />
<br />
It was then that I felt the blast before I heard it. Literally <em>felt</em> it. I knew I was dead. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t scream. I was frozen.<br />
<br />
<em>Frozen?</em><br />
You hear how when placed in certain situations how some people can react, others are unable to do so...frozen in place. Unable to run. Unable to move. Unable to scream. I always thought I would be the other kind. Ther person able to make a snap decision to save the day.<br />
<br />
I was frozen stiff. Cold artic air pushed my hair back from my face and cold droplets fell onto my cheeks as I tried to protect my head in the…<em>pillows</em>?<br />
<br />
<strong>"What the hell?"</strong><br />
<br />
I awoke from my slumber with a start! There had been an amazing ice storm the night before. The sound that my mind had associated with machine gun fire was actually the sound of the ice breaking off the branches and pelting the skylights in my bedroom with such force I feared they might break. The cottage windows over the window seat had blown open letting the raging storm into my bedroom. Sleet was dusting my face and arms unprotected by my comforter.<br />
<br />
What had once been a wonderful recall dream of a warm tropical vacation had amazingly turned into a violent movie by the sound of the ice. I was safe. I was in my bed. I was not in the Dominican Republic. I was not being stalked by those with machine guns. I <strong>had</strong>, however, bought that cow hoof turned into a flask as a gift for my old boyfriend. <br />
<br />
As I jumped out of bed to quickly close the window in my still sleepy state, I wondered if he <em>still had</em> that crazy vacation gift or had he tossed it out after our split. It was pretty cool. I wish I’d have kept that for myself as a reminder of my trip. I looked outside and was amazed at the absolute beauty the storm had left behind. Ice covered everything. The trees glistened like diamonds. Entire branches thickly encased in the freeze. It was early, but I <em><strong>had to</strong></em> capture this on film.<br />
<br />
I grabbed my camera and coat and headed outside to photograph what I saw. Not only the beauty of it all, but the <em>sound</em> of the trees blew me away. As if they were talking with one another complaining of the extra weight their branches now had to hold because of their diamond burden. I stood there, mouth agape, taking it all in.<br />
<br />
Stunning.<br />
Absolutely <em>stunning.</em><br />
<br />
And at this moment I again heard the sound of machine gun fire, which made me jump, just a little, in my skin. "I'm awake. There is no machine guns here!", I thought to myself as I stood in my driveway at dawn still in my pj's and boots. Or at least I hope not.<br />
<br />
The sound was coming from my Nikon. The lens clicking away like machine gun fire, <em>Rat-a-tat-tat-tat</em>, as I tried to capture, unsuccessfully, the absolute beauty that Mother Nature had left for me to behold.<br />
<br />
:-)<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigAUO9o4OMXM0Mbi16XWkTNog7bXqReJNg-0B7I5A9D9tRGG_ZPuA0BfOXNMU93NgxbesWX7APE_hfzGs3IG1_7-4B5Ksfe3YzlBm3m3SBn1436ZcAM00L2kd_IlQoGZ9xm39qeZJL8yfr/s1600/5469910836_12028a6e11_t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigAUO9o4OMXM0Mbi16XWkTNog7bXqReJNg-0B7I5A9D9tRGG_ZPuA0BfOXNMU93NgxbesWX7APE_hfzGs3IG1_7-4B5Ksfe3YzlBm3m3SBn1436ZcAM00L2kd_IlQoGZ9xm39qeZJL8yfr/s1600/5469910836_12028a6e11_t.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSFK1xW7cQMSGm_sjjPt1Ji4VJ4S2nTPzaImFIH48vmEun4alrTKDcHcrk1hss8KY7ITHb03lD2IaXYsPzNOIFXfQd-4Ew1S3cmdsIGLpSA5t13phmd2YBSMV8sDP8tL5DYkh4MSXig79/s1600/2106650956_077ef60702_t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSFK1xW7cQMSGm_sjjPt1Ji4VJ4S2nTPzaImFIH48vmEun4alrTKDcHcrk1hss8KY7ITHb03lD2IaXYsPzNOIFXfQd-4Ew1S3cmdsIGLpSA5t13phmd2YBSMV8sDP8tL5DYkh4MSXig79/s1600/2106650956_077ef60702_t.jpg" /></a></div></div>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-42573726040283762022011-02-13T20:46:00.003-05:002011-02-17T21:02:34.109-05:00if only it could be that simple...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSeQW2I5VwoiaSdXS9QNTy47O0NQRbWdwtt2Uw2PidrkpkuKJ5Y62x2yWEVvuEmMrhONdRrryF5BIeV4hLHu3h1sMS1NuXleHHDSdqE2u9zf7_vG_MntHVZR_DePLTiRTl6IWq-5_iLj3/s1600/chair+lift.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSeQW2I5VwoiaSdXS9QNTy47O0NQRbWdwtt2Uw2PidrkpkuKJ5Y62x2yWEVvuEmMrhONdRrryF5BIeV4hLHu3h1sMS1NuXleHHDSdqE2u9zf7_vG_MntHVZR_DePLTiRTl6IWq-5_iLj3/s320/chair+lift.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>“Let her down easy!” he shouted over the clang of distant church bells. “That’s it….easy.”<br />
<br />
I watched closely as the crate came down. Not as easy as the foreman was directing, but no sides blew off the container so I suppose it was considered a good landing. My crate, or actually my car’s crate, who was snugly packed inside, had made its way stateside. It was finally making it’s way home.<br />
<br />
Three months prior I had been touring Europe with a friend. When I flew into Amsterdam to begin my adventure, I had no intention of buying a car. I had a large framed backpack and a Europass for the train. I was going to hitch, ride and walk my way across the countries of Europe. One misread train ride and I was ended up at a dealership buying a car as renting one was pretty damn expensive.<br />
<br />
My car at home had blown its engine days prior to my departure and I figured I would just ‘deal with that’ when I got back. My ticket was open ended and I wasn’t sure when it might be. It could be a week. It could be two. It might be a month, but ended up as four. Four and a half to be exact. I would’ve stayed longer but I ran out of money and my parents refused to wire more. So home I was now, anxiously watching as my large souvenir from my European vacation arrived on the Dock C.<br />
<br />
I remember the sound of the foremans voice as he directed the lift operator to take care with my car. Deep, resonate and slightly hoarse like he’s been smoking a pack or two of cigarettes a day since he was old enough to hold one. It was sexy in that rough worker dude way. I watched him as he moved under the crate, helping guide it to it’s final resting spot on the concrete. I remember the look of his well worn work boots. I remember the tag hanging askew on the pocket of his Levi’s. All strange detailed things to recall for a brief five minute meeting.<br />
<br />
But it’s the words he spoke.<br />
<br />
<em>“Let her down easy”. </em><br />
<br />
I was thinking about that the other day. Outside of the crate that held my car which made a safe landing, I’ve never been let down easy. It’s always been a big crate crashing ordeal with my heart ending up broken and in pieces.<br />
<br />
Even when I’m the one ending a relationship it’s MY heart that is shattered. Why is this? Do I feel too much? Expect too much? Internalize too much? Why is it that others can go through the same process and never, ever look back and yet I do? <br />
<br />
One of my co-workers recently ended her engagement. She made the decision and never looked back. She even started dating another seriously immediately while the firsts guy calls and asks her to give him another chance. “<strong>Hell. no</strong>”, she said. I asked her how she’s able to do this, not have any residual emotions bubbling to the surface especially since she had been so close to going to the alter. I mean, she has a child by this person and yet, she doesn’t look back. “He messed up. I hold grudges.<em> For a long, long time….”</em><br />
<br />
I told her she should hold seminars. There are many of us out there that could learn by her example. Especially me. There have been moments when listening to music that can reduce me to tears. This one gets me thinking about that guy in college. That one for my ex. The next making me think that maybe I was wrong to send my last boyfriend packing.<br />
<br />
I used to have a favorite song years ago. The lyrics of this particular XTC song read, <em>Everyone seems to wipe their feet with anything with <strong>Welcome</strong> written on it</em>. I believe that somehow I have become that pervierbial <strong><em>welcome</em></strong> map.<br />
<br />
“Come on by”, it calls to passersby. “There’s still a spot left unmarred on this baby. Spots still clean…<em>wipe away!”</em><br />
<br />
There was the boyfriend in High School that started dating the cheerleader while I was on vacation with my family. And the boyfriend in college that started doing my roommate while I was on spring break. The boyfriend who dated my best friend, the boyfriend who just dated, and the boyfriend that went to a party, brought home another girl and ended up marrying her. It seems that my history with men has not been good. Everyone I have relationships with stay with me for a long time and then leave to marry the next girl that comes along. All this after I’ve helped them with their careers, their school, their wardrobe and their vehicles. Once they’ve gotten everything from me that makes them a complete package…then they move onto the next. The next girl in line has a much better person as their companion than the one that I started with. <br />
<br />
Yes girls…you all are very, very welcome.<br />
<strong>Not.</strong><br />
<br />
I resent having done this over and over again. You’d think that I should see the signs. You’d think that I would know better. But no. I can’t seem to see it when in it. I just let it happen and happen and happen and then end up looking through stacks of correspondence that makes it all crystal clear. That if I could have staid the line I drew in 2004, or 2007, or 2010, then I wouldn’t be where I am now. Feeling betrayed and used yet once again.<br />
<br />
But I’m done with that portion of my life. The next person that comes in will have to <strong>BE</strong> someone on their own merit. Not be-<em>coming</em> one with my help.<br />
<br />
I have since 'the breakup' joined some dating sites. Match. eHarmony. OKCupid. It’s been an adventure to say the least, but none I've met has me feeling any emotional connection. <em>Yet.</em> At first I monitored them quite religiously and set up meetings and dates, but lately haven’t been all that keen to even follow up. So far I’ve met a potential companioion that ended up being good looking but not having much of a backbone. <br />
<br />
I don’t mind having a bit of control in relationships….but I have decided that in this foray into dating I do not, repeat, do not want to make all the decisions. In choosing a restaurant <em>“I don’t care, wherever you want”,</em> or a day <em>“Anytime is good, you just let me know”, </em>or take the initiative <em>“I was just going to call/text/e-mail you but you beat me to it”. </em>C’mon. Really? Bye-bye Jimbo. Good luck to you.<br />
<br />
Or the ego fragile Bradley. <em>Good luck on your search</em> I get in a text at 6am. What? I coyly answer him back <em>How did you know I couldn’t find my matching earring?</em> I get it. I didn’t answer him back in the middle of the night when he texted me. Uh, dude…it’s called ‘<strong>sleeping</strong>’. I like to do it from time to time. Especially between the hours of 11pm and 5 am. I understand that you are a construction worker and currently on leave so all you have to do is sit around all day and then can stay up all night…but that. Is. Not. My. Life.<br />
<br />
Oh, and no. My hair is not long enough to put into pigtails. And no, I do not take random photos of myself doing random things to send via MMS to people that I don’t really know. “ALL girls like taking photos of themselves!” Well Bradley, maybe girls do…but I don’t. I suppose that makes me a woman. Who does not wear pigtails. Good luck in your search too.<br />
<br />
Sure the attention has been grand. I love the compliments. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been showered with this much attention. Not that I really have the time to deal, but still…it’s great. It really is.<br />
<br />
That and the side effect of not cooking three meals a day for a spouse that’s not really a spouse and the beer drinking and eating deep fried chicken wings that was his ‘fav’…well, I’ve lost a total of nineteen pounds to date. Without doing anything.<br />
<br />
Yes.<br />
You read that right. Without doing anything.<br />
<br />
I should write a diet book. It’ll be the new hot trend. Just get rid of the number one stress inducer in your life and watch the pounds drop off like magic! Remember the sleep apnea that I was diagnosed with? Gone. Completely. I sleep soundly every night without waking. I wake up refreshed and ready to start the day.<br />
<br />
With a good attitude.<br />
Feeling great.<br />
<br />
Go figure!<br />
<br />
AND I’ve got this whole single thing worked out. I don’t really need the internet. I don’t need networking with my married friends with single friends. I don’t need to join a book club or health club. What I need is to <strong><em>go skiing every week</em></strong>.<br />
<br />
Yes. That’s the secret. <br />
My friends daughter told me so.<br />
<br />
See…Katlyn’s thirteen. <br />
A tween’er.<br />
And smart, with a the solution to all my woes. <br />
<br />
Last week when in Western New York skiing she let me in on the karma of single life on the ski lift. I was actually talking to Kim, but Katlyn chimed in.<br />
<br />
I was filling Kim in on what was going on in my life currently. We are great friends, but we don’t see each other as often as we’d like ever since our kids switched to different schools. But one week a year we get together and ski. It’s a blast.<br />
<br />
I told her that I had about given up on the eHarmony thing <em>(really? THESE are the people that are my matches by 29 dimensions? I think not)</em> but that I was still engaging in conversation with some people on Match.com. <br />
<br />
“Match?”, Katlyn said with exasperation. “Match dot com? <em>Are you kidding me</em>?”<br />
<br />
“Yes. Match dot com.”, I responded, “but, why the tone Katlyn?”<br />
<br />
I mean sure. Tone is expected from a tween’er, especially a snowboard tween’er that refuses to zip her coat because it lowers the cool factor. But this was the tone of all tones.<br />
<br />
“Oh….please, Ms. Mac. Match is for losers. <strong>YOU...</strong>aren’t <em>a loser.”</em><br />
<br />
First thought was, “Geez! Katlyn thinks I’m cool!” And the second thought was that I wished I were a tween’er again. Her solution to my dating woes were to ‘just ride the singles line’ at the ski resort.<br />
<br />
As if it could be so simple.<br />
<br />
Single? Need a date? Want a companion for life?<br />
<br />
No prob. Just get in the single rider line at the Mardri Gras high speed quad. Three runs and you’re sure to find your soul mate.<br />
<br />
Me and my helmeted head are sure to attract all the eligible single dudes. I’m sure of it. Being that you can’t see anything on my body save the tip of my nose from time to time beneath the goggles, the turtle fur, the helmet, the jacket, the pants, the gloves, boots and skiis….yeah, I’m sure that it’d be easy.<br />
<br />
I thought, well hey, maybe I should give it a shot. I used to be a member of the Fagowees when I first moved to Cleveland. It was a west side ski club that my boss drug me to once. She was single and didn’t want to go alone. The Fagowees became the weekend home for the lost weekends. <br />
<br />
We’re the Fa-go-wees = Where the fuck are we<br />
<br />
Yes. <br />
There was alcohol involved.<br />
<br />
And skiing. Lots and lots of skiing. Or was it lots and lots of alcohol with a little skiing. I get confused. <br />
<br />
Whatever the configuration, it was damn fun in my twenties. Now in my forties, I’m not so sure it’d have the same amount of shine that it did back then. But you never know.<br />
<br />
I promised Katlyn that I’d give it a try. I’ll try riding the singles lane a few times to see what conversation pops up. And I have.<br />
<br />
So far a young snowboarder from Costa Rica. That was fun. He was hot. Really, really hot. So hot he undid his pants, I kid you not. Not all the way, but to ‘vent himself”. I tried not to fall off the chair lift. <br />
<br />
And a retired man skiing on equipment that might be found in the Smithsonian. <br />
<br />
A gay gal that wanted to have drinks and then there’s Michael. Who turns out to be a member on Match dot com himself. Actually I recognized him before he recognized me. He wasn’t wearing a helmet. He’s the ‘talldude’ from OKCupid that I’ve seen.<br />
<br />
And he’s from Cleveland no less.<br />
<br />
Tall, dark, handsome, funny and nice. He’s even a good skier. And got the voice (sans smoking) of the guy directing my crate from years and years ago.<br />
<br />
<em>Very nice…..</em><br />
<br />
Hmmm, I wonder if he can golf? <br />
<br />
But let’s get through the first few dates to see if this guy has backbone. And likes women that don’t wear pigtails.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow I’ve got to go shopping. For some new shades. <br />
All of a sudden my future looks mighty, mighty bright.<br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85755/f8hasit/2b2dd7dbbcf9f71810542901f12f567b.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-88779839013521199572011-01-02T16:59:00.000-05:002011-01-02T16:59:56.869-05:00go west...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicD_4hlVX7DEE704qGLtONrBzqc_iDIDagJyIP73BvpSUvpu_ANB4jktAa36WzP4wNhifJwgoUHi7xV29IfXaLdT030eR9jQGkJBN89YnfIT71BQnQVVetDOtu36m4lGNVXAiwdH07awoX/s1600/zap-sign.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicD_4hlVX7DEE704qGLtONrBzqc_iDIDagJyIP73BvpSUvpu_ANB4jktAa36WzP4wNhifJwgoUHi7xV29IfXaLdT030eR9jQGkJBN89YnfIT71BQnQVVetDOtu36m4lGNVXAiwdH07awoX/s320/zap-sign.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Lately, I’ve been conducting an experiment. <br />
<br />
<br />
No. I’m not a scientist. I’ve not been following any rules or guidelines and I’ve not been writing down the results.<br />
<br />
But I DO have them stored away in my mental data base. And today? Today, I’m going to share them with you….<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>You</em></span> are so very lucky.<br />
<br />
I've found that when driving, there are basically two kinds of people. Those that will not, <em>for any reason</em> allow another to pass them or let another car in if merging. And those that will. <br />
<br />
The first group, for the sake of argument, we’ll just call them <em>rude</em>. Or imbeciles. Or rude imbeciles. Take your pick. I’ve got a couple of other monikers that come to mind, but those I won’t share with you. At least here, for now.<br />
<br />
These people intentionally pass on the right in order to get one lousy car ahead. They are menaces on the road. They should all be ticketed and forced to take their driving tests again, which I would assume they would fail. Miserably.<br />
<br />
Then there are the second group. They are courteous drivers that allow others to merge. They follow the rules of the road and aren’t menaces. They don’t create accidents. They aren’t involved in road rage. They make their driving school instructors proud.<br />
<br />
We’ll call these people kind.<br />
<br />
These kind people will wave in another car trying to get on the road from the gas station. <em>“Go ahead…c’mon in.”</em> As you might imagine, I fall into this category. I wave and smile and they usually wave back in return.<br />
<br />
Mankind helping other mankind. Being polite. Helping out. Pay it forward. Whatever you want to call it….<em>It’s a good thing.</em><br />
<br />
But mankind seems to be really, really bad of late. Is it the holiday stress? Or are people just being less polite? Are people just focused more on themselves and not about the big picture?<br />
<br />
I’ve encountered more and more of those from the first rude imbecile category. My commute is longer with this new position and I’ve been traveling over to the ‘East Side’ a lot. In Cleveland they have a joke about crossing the river. Eastsiders don’t come west and westsiders don’t go east. No one crosses the mighty Cuyahoga River and mingles. It just isn’t done.<br />
<br />
Now, I’m not a native Clevelander, although I’ve lived here most of my adult life, so these rules don’t necessarily apply to me. <br />
<br />
I go where I want to, damnit.<br />
<br />
I’ve friends that live on the Eastside. But they <em>used to</em> live west. Then they lost their minds and moved back across the river. Funny thing is that once they’ve moved, I don’t see them as much as I used to. And it’s only 12 miles away…<br />
<br />
Fact is, when I interviewed for this job that is taking me into the forbidden land, Patti said with a wry look on her face, “The position is on the East side.<em> Is that okay?”</em> Patti’s a westsider as well. She understands that this might have been a deal breaker.<br />
<br />
But it wasn’t. Isn’t. At least so far. However, if this bad manner road rage rude imbecile behavior continues….I might need to reassess.<br />
<br />
On the west side, things seem to be a bit more relaxed. A little less frantic. There are seemingly less cars! Maybe because things aren’t as congested on the west side….a little more sprawling, that it just appears to be…<em>less</em>. There are <em>so many</em> damn cars on the east side, traffic is always a mess. Add to it the holiday shopping and you've got yourself one huge cluster f...well, you know. Just trying to leave the stores complex it takes ten minutes to get through the light. Another ten minutes to make it to the next light. And then fifteen more minutes to go the two miles to the highway. God help you if you are trying to leave a gas station. Your headlamps could be shining directly into the passenger window of someone on the road and they won’t even turn to look at you.<br />
<br />
Like what happened a few days ago.<br />
<br />
I was running low on gas and after that several hour commute when the winter storm hit the northwest a few weeks ago, I don’t like to let my car go less than a quarter tank. During that 3 hour trek home I saw several cars just ditched where they were because in the gridlock of traffic they just had no more juice.<br />
<br />
So I decided to stop onmy way home. Not a big deal. There WAS a lot of traffic. But the gas station was on the right hand side of the street, it shouldn’t be a hard thing to slip off, fill up and slip back into the line of traffic.<br />
<br />
Right?<br />
Wrong.<br />
<br />
I had to wait for the pump to open. <br />
<br />
No problem. I’ve got patience. I didn't have any particular deadline to be home at a certain time. I watched as he filled up his car. Then he went inside to get some wiper fluid. Okay, no problem. Good idea really, but it was sleeting and not today. Note to self…maybe tomorrow, or when you get home check the wiper fluid levels. Then he went back into the station to get a beverage, checked his pockets on the way back to the car and went back into the store again. This time he was carrying a candy bar as well.<br />
<br />
C’mon already. MOVE YOUR CAR and THEN go and buy supplies. Can’t you see there are people waiting for the pump? Geez.<br />
<br />
So finally, he moves his car. I start to pull forward and bam! Another car zips around from the left and into my space! The one I've been waiting for! Are you kidding me? She won’t look at me. I'm practically glaring at her. I pull as far forward as I can so there is no way that she CAN’T see me. I want her to know and feel badly about taking my place in the queue for the pump. When she finishes she waves me off as if I will back up to let her out. No way chicky. Back her back there, Virgil. Let’s see if you even can. Hahahaha. Who's inconvienced now!<br />
<br />
Even this little incident isn’t going to get to me. I’m humming as I fill up my car. I’ve the next 3 days off. Life is good. I finish up and approach the road. Traffic is rather heavy and it is snowing pretty hard now, but as I sit there waiting for a chance or break in traffic to reenter on the roadway….no one will let me out. <br />
<br />
No one will stop and leave enough room for me to merge.<br />
<br />
I drive a Jeep Commander. It’s rather big. There is no way that I can’t be seen.<br />
<br />
It’s big, but it’s not menacing like a Hummer. It garners respect without the heavy Moxi of “Hey! Look at me!!” <br />
<br />
I sat, again patiently, and watched forty five cars in three different light sequences and not a single person would let pause or stop to me out onto the road.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">45.</span><br />
<br />
These cars would stop and my headlights would illuminate the interior of their car. Would they turn and look? No. They wouldn’t even acknowledge that I was there! Amazing! “<em>I won’t look, because if I do, then even I will know that I’m a selfish jerk…so no, don’t look at the car waiting. Don’t look. Don’t look….”</em><br />
<br />
So finally I was forced into doing what any eastsider would do. I just pulled out anyway and MADE them make room for me. My Jeep is the biggest one they make and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let your little Nissan or Mazda block my way any longer. I’m bigger and so you better damn well stop or move!<br />
<br />
Of course, as expected, there were many hand gestures. Some that I didn't even recognize. There was much movement on mouths of those rude eastsiders. Their lips forming choice words that young children shouldn’t hear and most sailors know. There is nothing incriminating on my car that would let anyone know that I was indeed from the Westside.<br />
<br />
Nothing, that is, except for my nice driving etiquette.<br />
<br />
I stopped several times to let others out. Much to the chagrin of those driving behind me. By this time, their horns sounded like Christmas bells. Which brought an even bigger smile to my face as I knew I had gotten their Christmas goat.<br />
<br />
As I was on my way to work the other day, accompanying me the entire commute was a woman in a white Cadillac Escalade. She looked more the part of a Texas Oil mans wife than someone living up in Cleveland….big blond tresses that she kept flipping. She had enormous black Chanel sunglasses taking up the majority of her face. At several intervals she would check the rear view mirror, not for traffic, but to make sure her lipstick and makeup was ‘<em>just so’</em>.<br />
<br />
I got a kick out of watching Ms. Texas driving the shoreway. Zipping from the far left lane to the far right in order to pass two cars and get back over into the far left lane again. <br />
<br />
I’m a pretty 'steady as she goes' good driver. Ask anyone. When I learned how to drive I was taught to always look ahead, plan your route, know your perimeters…like playing chess. I see where cars are moving and what lane to be in or not to be in. Several times Ms Texas would get stuck behind slow movers and I’d be then in front of her again only to see her zip by once she finagled herself out of the jam.<br />
<br />
I looked at her license plate. It read HYM8NX.<br />
<br />
I pondered this for a time. What did that mean? I wasn’t surprised by the vanity plate in and of itself…but what did it say? Surely it wasn’t cryptic enough or clever enough that I couldn’t figure it out.<br />
<br />
High Maintenance.<br />
<br />
The plate read High Maintenance.<br />
<br />
I laughed and laughed and thought ‘How fucking perfect is that!”<br />
<br />
I see Ms High Maintenance every so often on my drive over to the east side. She obviously has been doing it longer than I have and has taken on the driving style of the east. I’m starting to learn myself…but it’s not easy.<br />
<br />
I still let people in and those behind me honk their horns and wave their arms. It’s not a happy wave. Even those that I let out over on the east side don’t acknowledge the courtesy. They just expect it. They don’t wave or smile. <br />
<br />
It has started a whole ‘nuther study for me. <br />
<br />
I now <em>smile</em> at people in other cars to see what their reaction will be. So far I get nothing back. Pretty soon they might just have me committed.<br />
<br />
Not to an asylum…<br />
<br />
But committed to staying on the Westside where the people are kinder. More forgiving and they smile and let people in.<br />
<br />
Yeah. <br />
<em>I’m definitely a westsider...</em><br />
<br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85755/f8hasit/2b2dd7dbbcf9f71810542901f12f567b.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-72892891964721400372010-12-09T07:20:00.000-05:002010-12-09T07:20:07.701-05:00it's soooooo me...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMOo4sXBIpWqtoM6Kdkd-G_3QhGmbSp4bQRDP3vA7VYX4Ae3okadnH8xPo1yCSk4aRFZdgpB7LSM1-51Y_HNQfcDXUo-ptzze3oZGaFq-RJJmjs4vrYp6ouFVIOrM41n9KwEwcTTR2PgOT/s1600/woman_in_red.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMOo4sXBIpWqtoM6Kdkd-G_3QhGmbSp4bQRDP3vA7VYX4Ae3okadnH8xPo1yCSk4aRFZdgpB7LSM1-51Y_HNQfcDXUo-ptzze3oZGaFq-RJJmjs4vrYp6ouFVIOrM41n9KwEwcTTR2PgOT/s200/woman_in_red.jpg" width="129" /></a></div>“Oh My God! Look at this! You MUST buy it!” my friend exclaimed, “It’s<em> soooooooooo</em> you!”<br />
<br />
<br />
I was out doing some good ol’ multi tasking. Social interaction with friends <em><strong>and</strong></em> Christmas shopping. Popping in and out of stores not really task oriented, just getting ideas. And picking up some things, mostly for myself, along the way.<br />
<br />
The sweater that my friend held up was cute. But not for me. There were several things standing in the way of it ‘<em>being for me’</em>. One was it was pink. I don’t <em>do</em> pink. Secondly, cascading down the front was a plethora of sparkly sequins. I don’t <em>do</em> sequins. And third, it was cropped. I don’t <em>do</em> cropped.<br />
<br />
As she stood three exclaiming how <em>purrrrfect</em> this would be to wear to a holiday party “with grey straight leg jeans tucked into over the knee boots” I wondered how well my friend really knew me. I mean, I’ve known her for years, but did she really know me?<br />
<br />
Grey jeans? Me?<br />
Tucked into boots? Over the knee high boots at that.<br />
<br />
I don’t think so. The only thing that was me about that sweater was that it was a cardigan. I do <em>do</em> cardigans. But they must be rather classic in style and usually in shades of gray or black. Pink? Um, no.<br />
<br />
Over the years I’ve met many a person that has claimed “Oh Nancy,<em><strong> I know you</strong></em>.” Some really do and some might<em> think</em> they do, but they really don’t. Perhaps my friend saw in that sweater a Nancy that she <em>thinks</em> that I should be. Pink sequins? In her eyes am I really a pink sequin donning girl?<br />
<br />
I have a friend who wears color well. Everything that I’ve ever seen her in is brightly colored or printed. And it looks great on her. The more embellishment the better. She can pull it off. I on the other hand would feel as if that embellishment was wearing me. My style is low key, laid back, no color and classic. Delving into the dating world I question the good sense given by magazines for ‘date night dressing.’ Is this where I’m going wrong? Do I need to take their advice and wear a red dress when out on a first date as opposed to my black turtleneck or white non-iron French cuff shirt?<br />
<br />
Is that what is expected of me? Is that what men want?<br />
<br />
I find reading such things as I wait for my manicure to dry ridiculous. Maybe it might be good advice for some young girl who hasn’t quite found her own sense of style yet, but I find dressing in a manner unlike you to be somewhat absurd. What if I did show up for a first date in a red dress. Perhaps my date would like that kind of low cut style and color. But that’s not who I really am. So who have I fooled? Myself? Him? Would I now need to change my entire wardrobe and outlook on clothing in order to dress to impress? Do I really wish to attract a man with said red dress as opposed to the real me?<br />
<br />
I like red dresses, don't get me wrong. Just in magazines or on other people. It’s not who I am. Or at least the me who I have always thought I was.<br />
<br />
I’ve been trying in these past few months to do things outside of my norm. I went out to eat the other night just by myself. I used to travel to Cincinnati quite often for work. I would stay in a hotel downtown. Once the store closed I would go to one of the nice restaurants in the square and enjoy a good meal before retiring for the night. There were groups of men after work, groups of females finished with their shopping and romantic couples at most of the tables. At the bar would be men on business sitting alone having a bite to eat. I would always ask for a table. It made me uncomfortable to saddle up to the bar by myself. Like I was there to pick someone up or something. Blame it on the movies I’ve seen, but my sitting at the bar alone all Sharon Stone-esque just isn’t quite my bag. <br />
<br />
As I sat, alone, waiting for my meal I would hear others coming in. “A table for two, please” a man said with a girl hanging on his arm. <em>Bah.</em> She was wearing a red dress. Go figure. <br />
<br />
I signed up for an internet dating site. They send daily ‘matches’. I read some of the profiles and then archive them. Some of the guys I don’t even read their profiles. One look at the picture they’ve uploaded to ‘attract their mate’ turns me off to the extent that I almost feel compelled to message them to let them know it’s not working. Really? That’s the best picture you can find or get your hands on of yourself? Tell me it isn’t so.<br />
<br />
These poor souls. These saps. These losers…and I hate to say that, but it’s true. The main profile picture of one guy standing in his garden (ok, he works for a greenhouse…so I get the garden thing) in an ill-fitting t-shirt that shows off nothing except his beer gut. Or the guy that obviously set up his camera on his dresser in his bedroom to self timer, ran in front and put his leg up on the bed, elbow on his knee. Did he realize that his shoes were on the bed and he was in his socks? Did he take into consideration that the old floral bedspread that his wife or past girlfriend bought for him might not give off the ‘strong masculine’ ideal that his pose is trying so hard to present? Did he take into consideration that there was a cheap oval mirror in the corner of the room that reflected both his flat ass and the camera on the dresser that still held his wedding photo? <br />
<br />
I don’t think so.<br />
These aren't the men for me. How would I got 'matched' with them in the first place amazes me.<br />
<br />
I didn’t message him. Although I should. Just to let him know. I figure that many people might not see all the detail in his photo, but I did. Can you say ‘archive’? Yup. As fast as my fingers could manage it.<br />
<br />
I have met a couple of people through the site. A nice New Zealand man who plays professional squash. In Cleveland? Who knew such a creature existed? He’s got a nice smile and a tremendous accent. Is it a match made in heaven? No. I don’t see myself smiling in the photos of the log-in page with a <em>‘Nancy and Ray ~ matched November 2, 2010’</em> anytime soon. But to share a pint or two…sure thing. Larry was a nice man. <em>Really</em> nice man. But I just wasn’t attracted to him. And his familiarity in conversation wanting to make me dinner and rub my feet just kindof weirded me out. I mean if we were IN a relationship, sure. But I met you once for pizza. I don’t want to come to your home for a second date. His stories of others he’s met online were interesting, but they all made references to sex in some form or another. There was one where the woman posted photos of herself that turned out to be at least 20 years ago. When he told her he felt duped, that he didn’t want to date her because he thought he was meeting the woman with the red hair, not gray…she said, “so do you just want to have sex then?”<br />
<br />
Funny? Yeah…no, <em>weird</em>. Why do all your stories have sexual inneuendos to them. Sorry Larry, I don’t want to have sex with you. You’re a really, really nice guy and all, but <em>no nookie from Nancy</em>. Sorry.<br />
<br />
I’ll keep looking. At least until my subscription runs out. I highly doubt I will renew. Although the photos and profiles thus presented have been highly entertaining. One guy in Strongsville <em>seemed</em> promising. We went through the question process. He was complimentary. He seemed to have his shit together and then when it came time for ‘open communication’ he just <em>phoofed</em>. Nothing. Gone. I could see that he would check my profile every few days or so…but I couldn’t mail him. I had to wait for his response and none was forthcoming. Every three days he would look at my profile, but he wouldn’t send a message. I found that odd. And slightly troubling. It made me feel sort of angry in a way as well. What kind of game was he playing? And if fact he was playing games…then would I want to meet him anyway? Perhaps he was in communication with someone else and waiting to see if that match panned out. That’s fine. That’s even cool for you Steven of Strongsville…but you know what, let me know! Just send a message stating that and guess what, I’d probably wait to see fi it worked out between you and if not, then lets have a glass of wine. Or coffee. But nope. Just lurking my profile page. So I closed him. <em><strong>Take that.</strong></em> Good luck to you, buddy.<br />
<br />
<em>Maybe</em> I <strong>will</strong> buy that sweater after all. <br />
But in black. <br />
<br />
<em>Maybe</em> it’s time to break out some sequins and sparkle on my next pint with Ray. Who knows, <em>maybe</em> that hidden me that my friend seems to know should come out and play.<br />
<br />
But I am <em>not</em> buying gray jeans.<br />
Or tucking them into boots. Especially over the knee high ones. <br />
<br />
I’ll save those for <em>when I wear red</em>.<br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85755/f8hasit/2b2dd7dbbcf9f71810542901f12f567b.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-65172082325506505762010-11-21T21:28:00.000-05:002010-11-21T21:28:23.322-05:00wrong place, wrong time...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0xnaeMrgmsuXM4Vos42kckoEEgrgc06jn-ae80MsIih2ZqCSX96vf0RnZ9dvKP2X0oe8kqmHLcjq6fDVD20gQx6jFBXA3lY4xfib1oYu5pBerO1q8fyh2OwY-EHqGqa44ORj4mKlni-Ro/s1600/IMG_0651.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0xnaeMrgmsuXM4Vos42kckoEEgrgc06jn-ae80MsIih2ZqCSX96vf0RnZ9dvKP2X0oe8kqmHLcjq6fDVD20gQx6jFBXA3lY4xfib1oYu5pBerO1q8fyh2OwY-EHqGqa44ORj4mKlni-Ro/s320/IMG_0651.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I see it everyday. Every single day as I drive to work I see it. Sitting there in the middle of the Shoreway, just inches from the center lane white lines it lays. Each day getting a little smaller. A little flatter. A little less noticeable as to what it might have been originally. But it’s there. I see it. I wonder if anyone else sees it? Does anyone else know what it is? <br />
<br />
And it makes me sad.<br />
<br />
My drive to work takes me through a really pretty area of Cleveland. Being a port city for Lake Erie, our forefathers were thinking accessibility. Not profitability. The coastline near downtown isn’t full of high-rises like Chicago. Nor hotels like California. Or casinos like Atlantic City. It’s a port town. And there’s a port. <br />
<br />
The city itself is on the lake, but separated from it with a freeway. The Shoreway runs from the Westside, where I live, all the way down the lakefront. Curving with the lakes shore it winds past the large beach and park, multiple yacht clubs, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the Browns football stadium and the Great Lakes Science Center. <br />
<br />
It’s a beautiful drive actually. It’s uplifting to watch the waves and how the light plays on them as I drive. Except for my seeing this item that lies in the road. Two weeks now its been there and probably will remain there until a snow plow this winter sweeps it away.<br />
<br />
My ‘To-Do’ list was staring me in the face. Having woken up in the middle of the night I grabbed a pen and pad of paper and wrote down all the things that I’d like to get accomplished once I woke up. For real. I had lists of things running in my head. I was slightly anxious about starting my new job and wanted to make sure all the household ducks were lined up before dropping Bear off at school. I suppose my anxiety is what was keeping me up. I figured if I at least wrote it down it might empty my head for a bit. At least an hour or two, that’s all I was asking for…another two hours of sleep.<br />
<br />
Which worked. But the first thing my eyes focused on upon opening was “the list“.<br />
<br />
I sat up and looked it over. Miss Queen of Procrastination residing on my left shoulder was already mentally marking things off. “<em>That can wait. That can wait, too. Even that. Don’t even start that task</em><strong>…please.”</strong><br />
<br />
I usually try to tune the Queen out. I rest better when my list gets attended to. But looking out the window at the sun streaming in, I thought she might be right. At least for today.<br />
<br />
“Boo Bear…time to get up doll.” I said quietly upon creeping into my daughters room. Boo sleeps like a log. She tumbles in her sleep and ties herself up in her blankets. Four Ugly Dolls were looking at me from under the blankets and another was tucked under her arm. “Bear?”<br />
<br />
The blankets were pulled up high and I could see her feet and the top of her head…but nothing else. “Boo?”<br />
<br />
“Huuuhhhhhhhhhhh?” came a soft reply. “Do I have to go to school today?”<br />
<br />
“Um. No darlin’…it’s Sunday. Do you want to rake leaves or<em> do something fun</em>?”<br />
<br />
“Sunday!” she bounced straight up in bed. “Cool! Let’s go to the science center and see the Imax.”<br />
<br />
The Great Lakes Science Center is just a few miles from our home. We’re members and go quite regularly, but hadn’t been in awhile. The usually have three different Imax movies running and I love the feeling of being <em>IN</em> the screen. <br />
<br />
“Great idea! Let me see what movies are playing.”<br />
<br />
But when pulling up the web sight it notified me although the center is fully open, the Browns were playing today. They let fans use the parking garage on home games. The stadium is located right next door. Parking would be a hassle, the center probably packed…yeah, that idea was no looking so stellar right now.<br />
<br />
“How about the art museum? I haven’t been since they reopened.”<br />
<br />
So the art museum it was. She invited a friend and we commenced on our adventure.<br />
<br />
The best way to get there is taking the Shoreway. It’s quite curvy at points following the inlet of the Cuyahoga River. Today as we made our second turn just past the beach, there was a police cruiser parked on the right side of the road, flashers going. The officer was standing in front of his car. I looked in my rear view mirror and there was another police car coming up fast. I pulled over to the far left and checked my speed.<br />
<br />
I hate rubberneck<em>ers</em>. You know the type. They slow down when they see emergency vehicles or an accident to crane their neck to see what’s up. It’s human nature I suppose, to look at accidents. It’s sometimes gruesome. Sometimes not. But always it messes up the traffic pattern for no real reason.<br />
<br />
Today I was that rubberneck<em>er</em>. I looked over as I passed by and there in the road was a young buck. He was down with his legs tucked under him, head upright and proud but obviously hurt and in shock. The officer stood with his arms down by his sides just looking at the buck about three feet from it. It seemed surreal.<br />
<br />
I wondered how did it get here? Where did it come from? There isn’t a park or woods any where close by. How did he get in the highway? What if he tries to get up? Someone must have hit him coming around that turn. Someone rushing down to tailgait for the Browns game. They obviously didn't even stop. I wonder if they knew they hit it at all? They were probably already tailgaiting and couldn't risk stopping for fear of a DUI slapped on them. All these thoughts running in my head as I drove by watching the scene as if in slow motion.<br />
<br />
I even saw the bucks eyes.<br />
<br />
Shock. Definitely in shock. There was blood all down his left side. The legs were at an unnatural angle. <br />
<br />
“Mom, why are you going so slow?” The girls were singing along at top volume watching some music video on my phone in the backseat oblivious to what was going on beside the road.<br />
<br />
“There’s a buck. In the road.” I was now twenty or thirty feet beyond the accident sight. I could see them in my mirror but I had picked up speed. It was then that I saw it. A large chuck of flesh in the center lane of the highway. Whatever car or truck that had hit the buck the flesh dropped off their bumper as they drove on.<br />
<br />
Right there. In the road. <em>I started to weep</em>.<br />
<br />
Everything inside of me that needed to cry itself out came out right then. That piece of flesh in the road was the trigger. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop. I just...cried.<br />
<br />
I cried for the buck.<br />
I cried for me.<br />
<br />
I thought they’ll have to send someone to put him down. That proud beast. Poor thing. My mind rushed back to when I was 16 and hit a rabbit scurrying across the road. I had looked in the rear view mirror then and saw it spinning in the road. I remember going home and the sinking feeling that I had killed this little bunny. My mom made me some hot chocolate and sang to me to calm me down.<br />
<br />
I felt the same way looking at this buck in my rear view mirror now. But there wasn’t anything that I could do about it…so I drove on.<br />
<br />
We had a great time at the art museum. There were some special exhibits going on with people dressed in medieval costumes and teaching us to dance. We got to try on armor and helmets from that period. We made our own helmets of craft paper and feathers and engaged in sword play. It was a fine day.<br />
<br />
I forgot about the buck. <br />
I didn’t even look for him when driving back home. <br />
<br />
But I remember him now each and every morning. <br />
As I drive to work and that chunk of fur and flesh is still in the road. <br />
<br />
I’d like to stop and get it out of the road so I won’t have to look at it each time. But running across a busy highway to remove this part left behind of the buck wounded on the Shoreway would probably end up with my own flesh being torn off and deposited another twenty or thirty feet beyond. <br />
<br />
But there it is. Right on the line in the second lane. <br />
<br />
Living in Cleveland where we get hit with lots of snow fall, I never thought I would pray for an early snow. But I am now. Chances are it will remain there until that dreaded fluffy stuff does fall. Then and only then will my drive be weep free.<br />
<br />
Because with the snow brings the plows. And then the plows will get it.<br />
That poor piece of buck left in the roadway.<br />
<br />
How many people drive over it each and every day and don’t even know what it is. Oblivious to that poor bucks peril two Sundays ago.<br />
<br />
But I do. I saw it.<br />
I saw him. <br />
<br />
Poor thing.<br />
He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And now all that's left is the sad reminder left on the Shoreway....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85755/f8hasit/2b2dd7dbbcf9f71810542901f12f567b.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-79632290176848574832010-11-06T15:39:00.001-04:002010-11-06T15:57:32.532-04:00on a roll...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Tp1ADyJe3_e7ycsHuSlzH-85iU9XZCnYYz8vG1Decpa1DYAMpmw3fiCVguldfTW_GKEk9xgbmiIKu_7hWEyP8BnKSmeVWVE2qpAh1IZNF2VJdB1qevZa2ADUDiJbaoR4Hmo3eCTCDO-k/s1600/toolchest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Tp1ADyJe3_e7ycsHuSlzH-85iU9XZCnYYz8vG1Decpa1DYAMpmw3fiCVguldfTW_GKEk9xgbmiIKu_7hWEyP8BnKSmeVWVE2qpAh1IZNF2VJdB1qevZa2ADUDiJbaoR4Hmo3eCTCDO-k/s320/toolchest.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I’ve been busy. <br />
I am on the proverbial roll.<br />
<br />
I’ve been cleaning the house of the big items…i.e.-<em>boyfriend</em>. And cleaning the small items as well… i.e.-<em>lazy suzanne and pantry</em>. <br />
<br />
The recent change of relationship status in my life has spurred on a cleaning frenzy unlike any I’ve ever experienced in the past. Oh sure, I’ve seen in movies where women are scrubbing toilets with their ex’s t-shirts or toothbrushes and laughed at the thought. I’ve not gone down that road, but boy, the house<em> is</em> looking quite orderly and clean in the aftermath!<br />
<br />
It started with my scouring the house looking for remnants of life with the boyfriend. All of it <em><strong>had to go</strong></em>. I didn’t care where, as long as it was not within the confines of my personal space. Boxes upon boxes of his fathers books had been brought to my house for future perusal when his parents recently moved. Lots of treasures from their attic that they didn’t want to mess with were brought here and stashed. And when I say boxes, I mean <em>boxes</em>. Plural to the 14th power. Maybe more. There were some in the garage, some in the spare room, some in the basement. His dad was a professor of history and books were his thing. Some interesting titles and some not so interesting titles. But I’m a book lover, so for me, all books are treated with care and respect.<br />
<br />
There were plastic bins of Naval uniforms, medals and photographs from the boyfriends time spent in the Navy. Some really cool items that I was tempted to keep just for future costuming (we’re big on dress up here at my house) but that didn’t seem quite right to keep. So out they went. Rubbermaids of high school trophies and little league photographs. School photos of girls with 80’s hair with loopy handwriting of <em>“Great to know you! Keep in touch!“</em> Bins of his past life that ended up in my basement. <br />
<br />
Pictures of his brother found buried in the attic of his parents house. High school portraits, wedding portraits, football portraits. He hasn't seen his brother in years. Both boyfriend and boyfriends parents are estranged from the brother. It was my idea was to bring them here to someday, hopefully give back to him. But obviously that's not going to happen. The boyfriend can figure out what to do with them now. <br />
<br />
There are the large items like the treadmill, the heavy bag, the snow blower and the miter saw. His big leather chair that somehow I managed remove from the house all by myself, leaves a vacant spot in the living room. All things belonging to him are now gone. All the clothes and shoes and stuff that took up space in the dressing room. Gone. No reminders. No photographs. No nostalgia. All gone.<br />
<br />
But surprisingly, it doesn't look empty. It looks...<em>good</em>.<br />
<br />
One of the most noticable changes for me, is the television gone from the bedroom. That was his as well. The wooden stand remained with the cords jutting out from the back of an unhooked up dvd player and cable box. A silent reminder of whats missing. It would be easy to purchase another in its place but I’ve made the decision to NOT replace the TV. I’ve been reading more of late without the box in there. So out the stand went. Although I couldn't do that one onmy own like the chair. Had I tried to negotiate that down from the third flloor master I be presently typing this from the confines of a hospital bed.<br />
<br />
I <em>used to</em> like to snuggle deep in the down comforters and pillows nursing a glass of wine or cup of green tea and watch movies. I had a membership online with Blockbuster that would automatically rotate 3 movies delivered to my door. I canceled the subscription the day after the split. Somehow it seemed sad to continue to open movies that I had obviously put in the queue with boyfriends interests in mind. We used to watch a lot of movies. That was our thing. Movies of action, movies of horror, movies with an oriental theme, movies of suspense. I never added chick flicks, he didn't like them. No Indie or foreign films, he didn't care for those either. I know I <em>could</em> keep the subscription and change the titles to those I’ve denied myself of watching over the years, but I’ll just keep that extra twenty bucks in my checking account each month instead. <br />
<br />
I’ve been curling up in my big chair in the living room with the fireplace blazing, dogs at my feet, reading. Finally getting to the ever growing stack of literature that I had not taken the time to read. I’ve been enjoying my time alone. <br />
<br />
Bear and I have been enjoying all this time as well. Not having a third person to add to the mix we don’t have to think about anyone else’s schedule. Before we had a routine, but no longer. I don’t have to worry about having meals ready at any certain time. Some evenings Boo and I will eat early. Some nights we go out. One night neither of us were really hungry so we went and got ice cream instead. It’s been fun approaching our evenings with a “ So....<em>what’dya want to do tonight?”</em> careless approach.<br />
<br />
This purging of <em>all things boyfriend</em> has spurred on more organization throughout the rest of the house. The bookshelf in my office, just to the right of my desk becomes a catch-all. It gets piled high with papers that I need to attend to, to file or to mail at a later date. Even the cleaning people have been bypassing this disorganized mess for fear of messing up my ‘filing’ system. The dust bunnies were turning into dust <em>creatures</em>. Well guess what…it’s now nice and clean and organized <em>and</em> dusted.<br />
<br />
My tool chest in the basement was getting extremely unorganized. It started by taking a tool and then not returning it to where it SHOULD go, but just lazily laying it on the top. In theory putting things away where they should go is fine, but didn't happen. But hey now… I’ve got that all organized, <em>and labeled</em> as well. And the garage? Let's talk about the garage. All the seeds, the fertilizers, the leaf bags…all put where they are supposed to go. All these little projects that I would think about, but never quite found the time to get around to do…amazingly enough, without boyfriend, I now can complete them all.<br />
<br />
I’ve more time.<br />
<br />
More time for myself. More time to do what I want and not what I felt I needed to do. Unhindered by someone else’s schedule<em> (which I did to myself…I know)</em> I’m now able to get more things accomplished.<br />
<br />
<strong>Bah!</strong> To putting another’s schedule before mine.<br />
<strong>Bah!</strong> To putting myself last on the to do list.<br />
<strong>Bah!</strong> To all of it.<br />
<br />
I’m reveling in the fact that it is ME that I now have to answer to. If I want to get up in the middle of the night and read….<em>I’ll do it.</em> Or if I want to go for a walk late in the evening, <em>I’ll do that too.</em> If I don't want to make dinner, of coffee, or do laundry...<em>I won't do it.</em><br />
<br />
My time is <em><strong>my</strong></em> time.<br />
And damn, if it doesn’t feel good.<br />
<br />
But in retrospect, after all the things on the back deck were picked up and long gone, I have but <strong><em><u>one </u></em></strong>remorse. I should’ve kept the white navy uniform with the Dixie cup hat. <br />
<br />
I would’ve looked hot in that for next years Halloween party.<br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85755/f8hasit/2b2dd7dbbcf9f71810542901f12f567b.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-26157481967546264912010-10-28T08:37:00.005-04:002010-10-29T17:48:25.958-04:00Kumbaya...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnXNBXJFMjvADqErpI8G41pneldnySFSZymKKZfF1yoFtFnryBw2T_U5imuQQfV6pXO-a-RE-4SwJgjr13Nw4U991Hy_eRm38T6bMnqquoQAt55_bPJke4aoCz1a_9n22lHtbyKf_tL1k/s1600/fortune+cookie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="162" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnXNBXJFMjvADqErpI8G41pneldnySFSZymKKZfF1yoFtFnryBw2T_U5imuQQfV6pXO-a-RE-4SwJgjr13Nw4U991Hy_eRm38T6bMnqquoQAt55_bPJke4aoCz1a_9n22lHtbyKf_tL1k/s320/fortune+cookie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>A few years ago I got a frantic call from Nana. “Nancy, you MUST turn on Oprah. There’s this amazing book that will transform your life!!!” <br />
I was glad she couldn’t see me through the phone line because I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, “Uh-huh. How?”<br />
<br />
“Really! You just put what you want down on a piece of paper, place it under your pillow and it’ll happen.” she continued, “It’s called the Secret and it’ll open up the power of the universe to you….”<br />
<br />
Yup. I’m sure it will. Just a mere $24.95 investment and you’ll have the all the wealth, the happiness, the power for ever and ever…<strong>Amen</strong>.<br />
<br />
<em>I don’t think so.</em><br />
<br />
I <em>DO</em> believe in Karma.<br />
I <em>DO</em> believe in paying it forward. <br />
I <em>DO</em> believe in the golden rule. <br />
<br />
I do <em>NOT</em> believe that a book on Oprahs book list is going to change my life.<br />
I do <em>NOT</em> believe that putting something under my pillow is going to get me everything that I want in life.<br />
<br />
I <em>DO </em>believe that is basically up to me. <em>AND</em> I can keep the $25 bucks in my pocket while it’s happening.<br />
<br />
I listened politely. And then hung up the phone. It’s not the first time that Nana has been swayed by what she’s seen on TV, or heard from friends, or picked up in an infomercial. People like Nana are suckers for such advertisements. She buys things that people call and tell her about on the phone. She orders amazing hangers that will enlarge your closet space <em><strong>4 times!</strong></em> only to have it end up in the trash a short time later. She’ll vote for the candidate with the sleekest campaign.<br />
<br />
There has been jogging in a jar; vinegar and cider mixture that is supposed to make you thin. Special pills that will increase your mobility. Or pills that will increase your mental awareness. Or pills that will lengthen your life.<br />
<br />
Shoes that will improve your posture and exercise equipment that is nothing less than a miracle for only $299. Tony Little with his mullet wonder and spandex target women like Nana.<br />
<br />
I’m not immune to advertising campaigns, but I am highly skeptical of most. Which allows my bankroll to remain relatively unscathed when it comes to products too good to be true.<br />
<br />
I <em>DID</em> buy that uber expensive Perricone eye serum. At $195 for .5 oz I expected to look years younger after using it. Improvement? Maybe. But who can keep buying it with those prices? (especially since you need the entire system in order to work correctly. If I’m not mistaken that’s an investment to the tune of $600+ every 3 months. Not me. But damn did I use that to the very last drop.<br />
I <em>DID</em> buy a pair of Shape-ups walking sandals. Does my butt and legs look better than they did? Probably not. But they are super cute. <br />
I <em>DID</em> buy a diet pill that is supposed to not only curb your appetite, but give you more energy AND improve your sex life. It did curb my appetite. I might have had more energy. And did it improve my sex life? No. Read <a href="http://www.f8hasit.com/2010/10/enough-is-enough.html">previous blog post</a>….it just made me know that I wasn’t getting what I should even without the pills.<br />
<br />
It just goes to show that everyone wants to look better, feel better, be better than what they are. None of it is going to be found by buying it. Granted, MY skin looks better than my neighbors (who is the same age as me) because I use lotions and beauty products by the boatload. And she doesn’t. I figure they can’t hurt and you know what? They don’t. At last years garage sale someone asked me to ask my mom what the price was. <em>Ouch.</em><br />
<br />
But boil it all down and what you get is usually measured by the effort put into it.<br />
<br />
I <em>KNOW </em>I get results when I walk everyday.<br />
I <em>KNOW</em> that not eating that piece of cheesecake will definitely make my bathing suit look better. <br />
I <em>KNOW</em> that having that extra glass of wine and staying up late is not going to make the puffiness or fine lines around my eyes go away. (but it might be worth it depending on the company!)<br />
<br />
Even with what I <em>KNOW,</em> what I do<em> NOT,</em> what I <em>DO</em> and what I hear about that I should have, blahblahblah….sometimes things actually <em><strong>DO</strong></em> happen. Just because. Without effort. Without money. Without energy.<br />
<br />
<strong>Like yesterday.</strong><br />
<br />
I don’t know about your household, but I get maybe 10 calls a day from some political party or another, some veterans group selling flags or bags, someone wanting you to sign some petition or another and then give a donation to help fund the fight. It’s endless.<br />
<br />
I love caller ID. Yes, I’m guilty of screening calls. Yes, sometimes I should pick up when my dad calls even when I’m not mentally prepared for that guilt trip I’ll be embarking on. But is it’s ca call from some area code other than my own, or a cellular call from a number I don’t know, or a block call or Unknown Caller….yeah, I don’t usually pick up. That’s why I pay for voice mail.<br />
<br />
But yesterday, yesterday the phone rang and I looked at it and it said “<em>Unknown Caller”</em> and yet here I was moving my thumb over the answer button like it was possessed.<br />
<br />
“Hello?” I answered with a upward lilt to my voice knowing that this was indeed a mistake.<br />
<br />
“Hi!” an overly cheerful voice said, “Is this Nancy?”<br />
<br />
Here is goes…another minute of my life wasted on telemarketers until I wait for a break so I can hang up…”Yes, this is she.”<br />
<br />
“Nancy! I’ve asked many people there in the Cleveland area and your name keeps getting referred to me!”<br />
<br />
Oh geez….what could this be about. Another fund raiser at the school? Easter seals wanting me to send out envelopes to my neighbors? A magazine drive? A catering gig? Argh….my heart was dropping with each word she spoke.<br />
<br />
“I’m Patty, the district manager of Talbots and we are creating a new position and are looking for a full time visual person. I know you live on the Westside and this is a Legacy Village position….Do you think you might be interested?” she said all in one breath.<br />
<br />
Amazingly enough I was able to hear all she said. I was expecting some sales call and as such I wasn’t really paying attention and holding the phone a little distance from my ear. As soon as she said ’Talbots’ I had that contraption pretty much implanted into my head. Have you seen the new catalog? Have you seen some of their clothes? Talbots has come a long way baby and the holiday stuff is just gorgeous.<br />
<br />
“I’m not afraid to cross the river…(east siders and west siders joke about crossing the Cuyahoga River) and I was just circling all the newest fashions in your catalog! I’d love to hear more about it!” I could barely contain my enthusiasm.<br />
<br />
Just last week I realized I now have extra time on my hands. Not doting on and doing errands for the ungrateful boyfriend freed up the biggest block of time, but Boo is at school later this year than last because of choir, band, newspaper, Girl Scouts. Almost everyday she doesn’t leave school grounds until almost 5. Sometimes later. <br />
<br />
I had been thinking about going back to work, full time, but was unsure of whom to contact etc right now. With the economy as it is, many of my freelance jobs have dried up. So to have this manna from heaven just drop into my lap…? Needless to say, I’m flabbergasted.<br />
<br />
Full time. Benefits, including vacation, dental, medical and a discount! Can I hear a <em>WooHoo</em>!?<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">WooHoo!</span></em></strong><br />
<br />
The paperwork is Friday morning. They’ll have to get my salary approved (it’s a little higher than they allotted…but hey, to get the best you must pay for the best!) from corporate, but it’s looking pretty much like a Shoo-in. <em>A Shoo-in, Joey!</em><br />
<br />
Let’s all collectively hold hands, keep our fingers crossed and sing Kumbayah. That’ll make everything go smoothly on Friday.<br />
<br />
And the Secret? I never did buy it. But there’s a sequel called the Power. Maybe I’ll fork out the dosh for that one. Maybe there was something to Nana’s call after all…<br />
<br />
...perhaps <em>she</em> put this wish for <em><strong>ME</strong></em> under her pillow.<br />
<br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
Footnote: The photo above is the fortune I got this afternoon while having lunch with my dad. THAT just made me smile....<br />
<br />
Double Footnote: Well now! The interview went great! They want me and are now negotiating with corporate to get my rate. Full medical. Full dental. Full eye. AND they'll match my asking salary (or come pretty damn close). HOW FABULOUS! Drinks all around! I'm buying!!!<br />
<br />
Cheers!<br />
:-D<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85755/f8hasit/2b2dd7dbbcf9f71810542901f12f567b.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-56635507993686203432010-10-20T13:09:00.001-04:002010-10-20T13:50:30.336-04:00enough is enough...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCpXW12jP9fn5epXNX7GAEc1oW04sfTUoJrpTr7uMyd9XOa_HkASTrupC5XNjD4i9xhqCzCcnhyAzkDNpEbzIpYUUC6s_ie2IQs5KSNE0IrEqvj7eIvtwdcM5FCbWccg0mwP-2c4sGUvO/s1600/streetsign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCpXW12jP9fn5epXNX7GAEc1oW04sfTUoJrpTr7uMyd9XOa_HkASTrupC5XNjD4i9xhqCzCcnhyAzkDNpEbzIpYUUC6s_ie2IQs5KSNE0IrEqvj7eIvtwdcM5FCbWccg0mwP-2c4sGUvO/s320/streetsign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Enough is enough.<br />
<br />
How many times have you heard that phrase? Have you really understood what it meant? At least by the person that said it?<br />
<br />
We live in a time of control. Of time tables. Of deadlines. Of limits. If a person can’t get their work done, they are labeled as lazy, or a procrastinator. Always ten minutes late? Some researchers say it’s because of an inability to control impulses. Like eating the last few bites of anything on your plate even though you are full. Impulse. Lack of control.<br />
<br />
I get stressed out when my calendar gets too crazy. Rushing gives me anxiety. I hate not being on time. I don’t enjoy nagging my daughter to<em> "Hurry Up! We’re going to be late!”</em> as she tries to get the perfect twist of her bangs to clip back when getting ready for school. As I stand there watching I don’t see any difference between the first clip and the eighth. But apparently number eight was a winner because now she’s ready to go.<br />
<br />
I have lists that run in my head. Sometimes it keeps me up at night because I am thinking of all the things that I need to get accomplished the next day. It’s a catch 22. There are times during the day that I run out of steam to get everything done. Then I don’t sleep well. Then I am tired. <br />
<br />
It gets rather annoying.<br />
<br />
But enough is enough. I’ve started taking things off my schedule that aren't absolutely necessary. I’ve learned that you don’t have to eat that last slice of pizza. It’s okay to leave things on your plate. I've been okay with saying '<em>No</em>'. I’ve learned that when you feel that you’ve given something your best shot and it hasn’t worked out…you walk away and say, <em><strong>“Enough is enough.”</strong></em><br />
<br />
It’s a big sentence considering it’s only made up of three words and fourteen letters. <br />
<br />
<strong>Enough:</strong> adj. <em>occurring in such quantity, quality, or scope as to fully meet demands, needs, or expectations.</em> <br />
<br />
My big <em>enough is enough</em> happened ten days ago. After trying to communicate that I was unhappy and have continued to be unhappy with my relationship with the man I was dating for some time. I didn't mean for it to go the way it did. Normally, I would get to a point where I had to say something. We’d talk. Time would pass and nothing would really change and then many months later I would end up getting to a point where I had to say something. We’d talk. Time would pass and then many months later I would end up getting to a point where I had to say something. We’d talk…<br />
<br />
<em>Do you see a trend? </em><br />
<br />
Do that for six+ years! Oh yeah…I had a <em><strong>enough is enough</strong></em> moment last weekend. Like an Oprah <em>’Aha!</em>’ moment and I called it off. For real. No going backwards. No accepting of lame apologies or excuses. No listening to any of the banter that kept me caged in a codependent relationship for six fucking years. Everything that I've been unhappy with came rushing in and smashed through the wall that I've been building in my brain to keep all the bad out.<br />
<br />
<strong>How did I get here?</strong> <em>I am SO much smarter than this!</em><br />
<strong>How did I get to a point to let myself be manipulated and then demeaned?</strong> <em>I deserve more than this!</em><br />
<strong>How did I allow myself to be mentally abused?</strong> <em>I AM better than that!</em><br />
<br />
I didn’t grow up as one of those girls in high school that felt ruined if she didn’t have a current crush or boyfriend. I dated, but it didn’t define who I was. I had friends in college that always had to have a guy taking her out or she would cry. That wasn’t me either. I've had my share of broken hearts. It’s never easy. It’s never fun. But sometimes it’s takes as broken heart to find out more about yourself in order to make it heal.<br />
<br />
I’ve done quite of bit of soul searching in the last few months. During that time I discovered that I had become complacent about my level of unhappiness. I didn’t speak up for what it was I wanted. What I needed. I became disheartened by having to ask for approval, for acceptance, for love. I was in denial, no doubt about it. I shielded myself from the real truth and pretended that everything was okay. But it wasn’t. I did not have the mental strength or fortitude to put it to rest and move on.<br />
<br />
But I did.<br />
Yup. <em><strong>Finally.</strong></em> I finally got up the nerve to address it head on and say, <strong>“Enough is enough.”</strong><br />
<br />
Each day gets a little easier. I have moments of weakness when I want to call, to reach out…but why? And each time this urge comes about there's been a sign that has kept me from picking up the phone. A total stranger rings the doorbell. I answer with red rimmed eyes. She asks, “Is everything okay?” I apologize for my appearance and tell her that I’ve a recent breakup with a long time boyfriend. She nods in understanding. We talk for bit about why she’s on my doorstep. I sign the petition. We share a few laughs and as she’s walking down the sidewalk she turns and says, “Stay strong. If he didn’t try to win you back, he’s a fool and you’re better off without him.” <br />
<br />
Words from a stranger. Perfectly timed.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I sat down in my office to check my e-mail. I picked up the phone sitting beside me and dialed his number. There was no answer. Thank God. In the next few moments though I got a text ‘Hey. You okay?’ ‘OK’, I responded, ‘You?’ I don’t want to let on that I’m having a tough time this morning. I feel empty. Sad. I want to keep it brief, impersonal, but I have things that I‘d like to....no, <em><strong>need to</strong></em> say to him. ‘Can we talk? ‘Sure. When though?’ he answers.<br />
<br />
During this brief exchange the dogs start to bark frantically. The kind of bark that lets me know someone is in the driveway. I had forgotten that I asked my window cleaner guy to help me move some stuff that’s too big for me to move alone. He is standing on my deck. It interrupts the messaging. <br />
<br />
“Are you okay?” Chuck asks, concern on his face, "You don't look like yourself." I haven’t showered yet although it is mid morning. I’ve dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep. I know I've had better days. I briefly explain the recent turn of events. As I fill my mug, I offer him some coffee. We have a nice talk. I’ve known Chuck for 10 years, maybe more. He’s a sincere and honest guy. He’s had his problems and his demons but he wears them as a badge of honor. He’s a <em>This is where I’ve been-This is where I’m going</em> kind of guy. He shares with me a story of when he saw my boyfriend at a bar years ago. They were talking. They got wasted. They got into a debate that turned into an argument. My boyfriend does that. He likes to push buttons. He likes to get a reaction, especially wilst drinking. Chuck doesn’t stand for that shit. He wouldn’t stop pushing so Chuck knocked him off the barstool. "I just brushed him off and he fell." Chuck told me. The bartender came by and said she was going to call the police. Chuck said not to bother, he was leaving anyway. “No. Not because of you…<em>because of him.”</em> she gestured to none other than my boyfriend.<br />
<br />
I had never heard this story. Apparently Chuck had been asked not to share it. “She doesn’t need to know where I am…all the time.” Really? With the amount of freedom the guy has I had no idea what bar went to with friends was a secret. Perhaps there was more to the secrecy than I’ll ever know. Chuck told me, “I liked him, or tried to, Nance, <em>because you did</em>.”<br />
<br />
A sentiment that has reverberated through everyone that I’ve spoken of this to. “It’s <strong>you</strong> we like. It was never him. We liked him <em>because you did</em>.” Brooke told me, “You’re a Rock Star! Don’t ever be a groupie. Especially to him. YOU’RE the star.”<br />
<br />
Now this may be banter to make me feel better. And I admit that some of it does. But at the same time, if that had been the case, shouldn’t some of my friends said something to me about their worries of my mate before? It might have saved me some time that cannot ever be replaced. 2,390 days to be exact. 2,390 fucking days.<br />
<br />
Now granted, it wasn't <em>all </em>bad. We did have some fun. I enjoyed my time spent with him. Early on. So you can shave off a few of those days for that purpose...but geez, that's a lot. A LOT of wasted time. All things have their time and place. It’s like the saying, “you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink.” Perhaps I was that horse. Not yet willing to drink. Not quite sure if the water was just right. I wanted to wait. I had hopes. Hell, I'm an optimist.<br />
<br />
I once read something from my fellow blogger Mike who wrote, <em>'It brings me great joy to see the light in my fiancées eyes when she smiles…'</em> I never got that from my boyfriend. I would hvae never gotten that from him. I don’t know if he even noticed if I smiled or not. As it turns out I've been living the life of a battered woman. Always there to take a little bit more.<br />
<br />
He sent a note yesterday. One of apology. One of supposed remorse. <em>“I feel so bad to have caused you grief and sadness. I miss both you and Boo each day I’m not there. I love you both."</em> Bleck. Make me puke. <em>"I do wish the best for both you and Boo and <strong>hope that I can send you things, such as gifts and messages and funny jokes and maybe we could hang out sometimes…”</strong></em><br />
<br />
Did I read that right? Are you fucking kidding me?<br />
<strong><em>Hang out? Send us things?</em></strong><br />
<br />
Yeah…lets hang out over a pint of beer and discuss what a fucking joke I’ve become. Lets go and have a discussion at the pub while your married ex-girlfriend with two kids sends you text messages about how she <em>'listens to your voicemails and dreams of your hands on her and how you rip her clothes off at a party in a closet.'</em> Lets talk about the return reprimand of <em>“why do you do this! You know Nancy sometimes checks my Blackberry”</em> when she asked why she should use <strong>the other</strong> e-mail address. <br />
<br />
The other e-mail address? Well now. There’s a whole lot of nothing good going on with that, I’m sure. Granted, this is not breaking news. That e-mail? That came a year ago. The e-mail change request was in March. Nothing new, but the hurt is still there. <em>The hurt never goes away.</em> It just gets buried until…well, <strong>now</strong>.<br />
<br />
Sure. Lets go ‘hang out’ and be best friends. Sounds like a great night out. <em>Bah</em>.<br />
<br />
Get a grip buddy. <br />
You had plenty of time to ‘hang out’ with me. You just took it for granted. You messed up. <strong>Big time.</strong> You don’t treat people like that and then expect to be friends.<br />
<br />
<strong>No.</strong> <em>You cannot send us gifts.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>No.</strong> <em>You cannot send me messages or funny jokes.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>No.</strong> <em>I do not want to hang out with you ever again.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>No.</strong> <em>You gave up the right <strong>to be my friend.</strong></em><br />
<br />
I think my response shocked him. ‘<em>Wow’</em>, he texted. Apparently he thought he had subdued the real Nancy into a pile of mush without backbone that would say, “Ok honey. Sure that sounds great! Should I pick up your dry cleaning on the way?”<br />
<br />
<em>“I don’t believe that we will never speak again or that we won’t be friends (at least I hope not)….”</em> he writes in the letter. Friends? Talk? Seriously?<br />
<br />
I have half a mind to send Annas husband the transcripts of her messages. I wonder if he might enjoy her prose. I bet that would make for some wonderful holiday season fodder. Perhaps each of her kids could draw out pictures of their whoring mother on their Christmas stockings.<br />
<br />
But I won’t. <br />
<br />
I can think of that <strong>and it brings me pleasure to think of it,</strong> but I won't. You see, I'm human. I get hurt. I have thoughts of retaliation but I’m not cruel like my boyfriend or his texting girlfriend in Washington State. No, Karma is a bitch. I’d place bets that both will find out that you can’t dodge Karma.<br />
<br />
<strong><em><u>Enough is enough.</u></em></strong><br />
<br />
Fourteen beautiful little letters to live by.<br />
<br />
<em>“I hope you can forgive me.”</em> he writes. Forgiveness. Perhaps someday, but not today. Not tomorrow. Not anytime in the near future by my predictions. This isn’t the only texting experience that I’ve had to endure. There have been two…No, five altogether, not including the hookers called from the land line. Five. Yes, the man (if he could have that title) has had plenty of opportunity to straighten up. He’s had a chance to fly right. I've forgiven him many times. Already. But no…he chose to make me believe that this was indeed MY fault. Because I <em>‘couldn’t fulfill him sexually.</em>’<br />
<br />
Excuse me? Come again? <br />
Please tell me you didn’t say that. And to my face. <br />
<br />
Fulfill him sexually. <br />
<br />
Get a load of that.<em>That</em> is the excuse made for all of his indiscretions. <em>That</em> is the basis for all wrongs commited towards me. He has continued <em>to use me</em> for two thousand three hundred and ninety days because it was convenient and comfortable for him to do so. And I allowed him to do it because Bear loved him and would sit watching television holding his hand. <br />
<br />
I’m so glad I finally found my mind that I’d managed to misplace. I am sitting here wondering how I could have possibly been attracted to such a man? Why would I have put up with all of this for so long? Why would I believe anything that he ever said to me? "<em>I hope you can forgive me." </em><br />
I’m actually a bit happy to hold onto this anger for the time being. It allows me to stay focused. It keeps my head clear of <em>‘woe is me’</em> thoughts. It creates a mantra in my mind…<br />
<br />
<strong>Enough is enough.</strong><br />
<br />
I have had enough. Enough to last me my lifetime, thank you. I might have this sentiment tattooed on me so I will never. Ever. Forget it again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85755/f8hasit/2b2dd7dbbcf9f71810542901f12f567b.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Footnote:</span> Yes, to those of you might have already guessed. This is the same friend who told me that ‘My blog doesn‘t matter.” <br />
<br />
As my mother might have said...<strong>Good riddance to bad rubbish.</strong>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-40873795381322799632010-10-06T10:50:00.002-04:002010-10-08T14:23:30.774-04:00it's been how long...?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcjItULn7udaOjXwoKuyDwTH2i14y4GVN_t7A2DghqOphxIEWSvYyo_xSBbXDM5jkPaaG27WmbCEgMs6NjxZdqKLiIrJcVn6uHZKZ6wE0H_hVZ-9bllGrwqrK3ZW7XprH64xCRHIGCVqwW/s1600/elyria+12th+hole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcjItULn7udaOjXwoKuyDwTH2i14y4GVN_t7A2DghqOphxIEWSvYyo_xSBbXDM5jkPaaG27WmbCEgMs6NjxZdqKLiIrJcVn6uHZKZ6wE0H_hVZ-9bllGrwqrK3ZW7XprH64xCRHIGCVqwW/s320/elyria+12th+hole.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Break Away</span></strong> (<em>intransitive verb</em>)<br />
<br />
1 : to detach oneself especially from a group : get away <br />
2 : to depart from former or accustomed ways <br />
3 : to pull away with a burst of speed<br />
<br />
The word<em> break</em> always has intrigued me. It means so many things. For instance, I love <em>break</em>fast. I would <em>break</em> away from the pack in past track years. Taking a <em>break</em> and going on vacation. Getting a <em>break</em> on the price. I had to <em>break</em> into my car when I locked the keys inside. I <em>broke</em> ground on the new deck addition. I <em>broke</em> my knee skiing. My divorce <em>broke</em> my heart. My daughters loveliness <em>breaks</em> my heart. <em>Break</em>ing the silence. <em>Break</em>ing the news. <em>Break</em>ing 80 golfing. <em>Break</em>ing a sweat. <em>Give me a break</em>.<br />
<br />
It goes on and on.<br />
Variations of the word <em>break</em>, in so many forms, meaning so many things, pop up daily.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago I was dismayed to find that several of my fellow bloggers, ones that I adored and read religiously, decided to take a break. To stop blogging. There are several others that have stopped blogging because they are now focused on writing in other forums. Such as working on books. <br />
<br />
I dig that. I get it. I understand.<br />
I was also disappointed.<br />
<br />
Add to that a slight downtown in my usual positive attitude and I decided to take a break myself. It wasn’t anything that I actually did intentionally. It just kind of happened. I didn’t sit down and say, <em>“Nance…take some time. Don’t write on your blog. Don’t read any blogs. Just. Don’t.”</em><br />
<br />
<strong>No.</strong><br />
I didn’t have that conversation in my head. It just happened.<br />
<br />
One day turned into two. Two days turned into five. One week turned into two and now here it is, almost four weeks since my last posting and I felt I had something to say.<br />
<br />
My down turn happened basically due to a close friend giving me some ‘<em>friendly advice’</em>. I took it. I don’t know why, but I did. He said, “focus your energy and attention on something <em>that matters</em><strong>. Your blog doesn’t matter.</strong> You’re not going to <em>make any money</em> on your blog.”<br />
<br />
<em><strong>Money?</strong></em><br />
Who said anything about money? Did I start this to make money? <br />
<br />
No.<br />
I mean yes, you read about those bloggers that now that it's their work. That they now employ several people to maintain their blog. But c'mon. Me? I don't see me being the next <em>Dooce</em>. (although, wouldn't <strong>that</strong> be nice! One can only dream...)<br />
<br />
I should’ve dismissed his criticism right there. Not listened to another word. I mean, sure, making money is a great thing…it allows us to afford things, or do things that perhaps we wouldn’t have thought of doing before because we didn’t want to spend the money on it. Last year I received a payout from a life insurance policy my mother had. It was bonus money in my eyes. So I did something out of the ordinary with it. <br />
<br />
I should’ve replaced the furnace. <br />
Maybe bought a few new green windows, or solar panels. <br />
But instead we went to DisneyWorld…<em>the happiest place on earth</em>. <br />
<br />
<strong>And we had fun.</strong><br />
<em>Lots of it.</em><br />
<br />
We ate out. We stayed out late. We woke up early. We got room service. We stayed at a luxury Disney hotel. We lived like Kings. Or <em>queens and princesses’</em> actually, but you get the idea.<br />
<br />
My mother was smiling down on our festivities. We smiled right back up.<br />
<br />
But my friend has a way of turning everything into a way of making money. Or the thought of <em>HOW</em> it could make money. I have a sewing machine that does embroidery. He feels I should do something with that to make money. Sell my embroidered items on eBay or etsy. I have a knack for display. He feels that I should send resumes to Cedar Point, Disney and all the department stores. I’m a good cook. He thinks I should package my sauces or spices for sale in stores. (I’ve already done the catering thing and that, my friends, is just too much work and stress…for me.) It goes on and on…<br />
<br />
I get a little tired sometimes of listening to this banter. I like to do things because I enjoy them, not because it might have the possibility of making me money. Of making me rich.<br />
<br />
It may be naïve, but I think that a person is rich because of their experiences. The love, the friendship, the joy of doing things and being with people that make you smile. That make you enjoy life. I think that if you do what you enjoy then you are truly both blessed and rich.<br />
<br />
Not everything comes down to money. To dollars. To cents.<br />
<br />
It annoys me. <br />
<br />
I listened. I thought about it. I did lots of things this past month. I’ve worked hard, and I’ve played hard. I went golfing several times. That was<strong> lots</strong> of fun. I love this time of year on the golf course. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it. I used to belong to a golf club. I lost that membership with my divorce. Sure there are many public courses around to play at, but I don’t know anyone to play with. When at the club, Tuesday mornings were a given. It was the day the ladies played. 9am tee off. Simple as that.<br />
<br />
I played with the A-group. Chris Grace, Ellie Colton and Nita Doyle. They were the old timers, the club regulars. When I joined the Country Club, they for some reason, took me under their wing. Between the three, all of them were always in the running for Club Champion. Ellie took her golf pretty seriously. She was a great golfer. Steady. Sure. She could always score. Chris also was a good golfer. She was just a little wild at times, but could pull off shots that would make Tiger Woods take off his hat in respect. Nita was a par player. Tee shot. Chip shot. Two putt. Tee shot. Chip shot. Two putt. Steady as she goes. No wild card there.<br />
<br />
I was the newbie. The rebel. I had a strong tee shot and a good short game. I was either <strong><em>On</em></strong>. Or I was <strong><em>Off.</em></strong> Not much in between. I had, at the time, a higher handicap, but could play. I helped their game. I was the wild card that could make our team win the tourneys. Or not. It all depended. But there was always the steadies to make the score. I was just the gravy. With all the regular play I had (at least twice a week with the ladies and once or twice on the weekends) I mangaed to lower my handicap to a 7. <br />
Not bad. <br />
<em>Not bad at all</em>.<br />
<br />
I played a course last weekend that I hadn’t played in twelve years. Elyria Country Club is a gorgeous course. Designed by William S. Flynn who designed other beauties like Shinnecock on Long Island, Homestead Cascades in Virgina and Cherry Hills in Colorado. There are two other courses in Cleveland that he designed and they are both great challenges as well. I remember playing it with the A-team a decade ago on a club swap day. The 12th hole is a par three 165 yard beauty with an elevated tee box down to the green. I mean elevated. Like 50 feet elevated. It’s a gorgeous view and just a tad intimidating. If you miss left, you’re all right. Miss short and your in the water. Miss right, you’re in the sand. Miss long and it’s in the trees, baby. <br />
<br />
As I stood on the tee box looking down I wondered which club to pull. I could hear the ghosts of the A-team deciding what to use. Ellie taking out her 4 iron. Chris with her 5 wood. And Nita with her 3 wood. I normally would hit an iron here, but today there was a headwind making the hole play more like 180 or 190. I nodded to my ghosts of the past and played a 3 wood. The wind took it a little right and I was pin high, but in the sand. No worries. I could see my ball.<br />
<br />
It was interesting hearing those voices of long ago, from a seemingly different life, spring up in my head. It was a glorious afternoon. I was basking in the beauty of the course, the time spent playing. It took me back to a time when I didn’t think about money or how to make it. I hate to admit this, but I was busy living my privileged life and was thinking about whether or not I should buy that new driver in the club pro shop. <em>Bah to me.</em> Taking that all for granted. Then my divorce.<br />
<br />
I no longer had the club membership. So I no longer played. <br />
<br />
For some reason it took me <em><strong>two years</strong></em> to take out my golf clubs again. Somewehere in my brain golf was the one thing that I could control since the rest of my life seemed to be in shambles. I was on the course when my marrige came spinning to a close. On the back nine. Hole niumber 16. I just walked off the course. I heard people talking about it in the clubhouse. I heard whispers among the waitstaff. I saw the looks in peoples eyes. I started getting flowers from other club members delivered to my house. Flowers? Really?<br />
<br />
I was humiliated. And I never went back.<br />
<br />
I left everything in my beautiful wood locker with the brass tag with my name on it. I left my extra shoes that were being cleaned by the locker attendant. I left my trophy winning the tournament out at Springbrook in the trophy case. I only took my clubs, put them in the back of my car and drove away never to see the caddies, the valets, the waitstaff ever again. I no longer could, even if I wanted to, play with the A-team again.<br />
<br />
But, it's okay. <br />
That was eleven years ago. A lifetime. <br />
<br />
Almost the same as it feels when I hit this publish button. Three weeks gone in the blogosphere? THAT’S a lifetime. Fact is, no one may even read this posting? I may have lost all the contacts that I had out here. The internet has replaced my space with someone else and now I’ve got to fight the curtain back to make room for myself again.<br />
<br />
And then again, maybe not.<br />
<br />
Maybe I’ll see comments from those that I’ve come to regard almost like family. Like Heather and Carlos and Chrissy and Katherine and Ron and Indigo. There might be a word from Julie and Lora and Lisa and Christine and Becky and Angelina and Kim. There are so many of you that I can’t even name you all, but you know who you are. <strong><em>And I know who you are.</em></strong><br />
<br />
I feel badly about not being around. About not being here.<br />
<br />
It was a break.<br />
A break away. Away from my friends.<br />
<br />
Geez. And here I thought I didn’t have anything to say. Well, lookie there pal...I guess I did. I’m not making any money on this little blog of mine. But Bah to the naysayer’s. Who really cares!<br />
<br />
I don’t.<br />
<br />
Oh...<em>Thanks for agreeing with me.</em><br />
:-)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85755/f8hasit/2b2dd7dbbcf9f71810542901f12f567b.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>f8hasithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09195691823384775191noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4569955034831489569.post-80218373268285418262010-09-13T10:12:00.000-04:002010-09-13T10:12:07.036-04:00years passed by...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWuWtiaSUJH31MS1GZRpThOijZTbxqY2KB3iqEmRI38BLUwGPPJuksi_vT4icRZNiBg1fDfr-o9uA3zIFOl-hxCCXPSvFiJ8TEXeRUoDlbfuXVNm0_ccstZKd43oD6_1IpYa6q3A6oXUX0/s1600/Grandma+and+Grandpa+Hack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWuWtiaSUJH31MS1GZRpThOijZTbxqY2KB3iqEmRI38BLUwGPPJuksi_vT4icRZNiBg1fDfr-o9uA3zIFOl-hxCCXPSvFiJ8TEXeRUoDlbfuXVNm0_ccstZKd43oD6_1IpYa6q3A6oXUX0/s320/Grandma+and+Grandpa+Hack.jpg" /></a></div>I stood at the gate entering into the orchard. But the gate was gone, just the weathered corner concrete corner posts were standing, rebar showing in several places. The finial decoration worn off to just a nub. The orchard was gone as well. Once a delightful mass of fruit trees lining the path to the front porch. I fondly remember gathering the fruits and helping my grandmother can them for the cold months ahead. My mouth started to water thinking of her fresh baked bread with a healthy dollop of plum spread.<br />
<br />
<br />
“<em>Nannncccyyyy!?”</em> she would call out. All names were drawn out and got louder nad higher toward the last syllable. “Run to the cellar and be a dear and get a jar of something sweet for toast”, she’d say.<br />
<br />
I disliked the cellar. Steep stairs into darkness, cool and enveloping, the cellar was perfect for it’s purposed of storing the canned goods, but not a cheery place that a eight year old likes to hang out. At least this eight year old. That being prior to scary movies too. I just didn’t like it. The single bulb hanging from a chain the only illumination. AND you had to get to the bulb before you could turn it on. By step four you were already groping the walls to guide yourself.<br />
<br />
Pinching my finger as I unconsciously feeling the crevasses of the corner post I turned to my right and looked out towards the pasture. The cow barn still stood, but barely. It was leaning at an angle I’m sure my daughters early algebra class could use as an example. I wondered how long it could sustain it’s own weight pitched to the side as it was.<br />
<br />
It was never a pretty barn. One only of function. The glass window still there in the hay loft that I remember peering out of as a child. Again memories of milking the cows and gathering fresh water from the pump behind the barn came swirling at me at a fast rate.<br />
<br />
The <em>Keep on Trucking</em> sign was still there blocking that hole ol’Bessie kicked that one year. I remember when Grandpa put it there. I thought it was hysterical. My brother had a t-shirt with the same logo. I think there might even be a photo of him standing next to it that I took once. I made mental note to go through the albums to see if I could find it.<br />
<br />
The house, originally built in 1901, had tell-tale signs of recent insulation. Little holes poked into the sides of the clapboard then covered with disks. It had also been painted a nice creamy color. My initial thought is ‘<em>Mom would have liked that’</em>. The roof seemed in good condition, but the windows I think should be replaced. The front porch has been rebuilt, but not as big as it once was and the front door doesn’t look like that entrance is really used much. I’m amazed to see that the screen door is by God the same one that has been there since I can remember. As John and his wife exit the house, the same reassuring slap of the wood on wood as it closes brings back memories.<br />
<br />
I had returned to the farm. My Grandpas farm. My moms farm. Now my farm. My Grandpa bought 64 acres in 1914. He then married my grandmother in 1915 having enough land to woo Great-Grandpa Sipes for his eldest daughters hand. Great-Grandpa Sipes owning a large chunk of land himself of the north side of town had had three daughters, May being the eldest of the three. The Sipe farm had found oil on their property. The back acres were farmed, but the front of the house had rolling pastures. <br />
<br />
My Grandmother, May was the most practical of the three sisters. Warm, sturdy and friendly, but tough as nails. She was the epitome of a farmers wife. Erma was the feisty middle child. She actually went to finishing school. She liked flowery dresses and jeweled tortoise combs for her hair. She didn’t have the opportunity to marry. She died young in a car accident way before I was born when her vehicle went into a ditch and subsequently rolled over her. Aunt Florence was the youngest and was in the car when this happened. She was thrown clear, but it scarred her for life. She was always cautious, skittish. She stayed at home caring for her parents until their deaths. She never married. After grandma died she then took care of my own Grandfather by stopping and bringing fresh bakery and enough food to last the week on his own.<br />
<br />
I hadn’t been down here to the farm in many, many years. Standing here now as the memories come flodding in, I wonder '<em>Why?'.</em> My brother and dad were are going to the Ohio State game on Saturday and I thought, we should all go to the farm. “Charles, can you leave on Friday instead? I’ll meet you there. You’ll be SO close, it’d be a shame to not take the time.” My dad has been talking about going to the farm for awhile. But he no longer drives long distances, so either my brother or I would have to chauffer him down. The farm is about 120 miles from my house, 112 from my dads and add on the extra coming from Michigan it’s about 200 for my brother. North of Columbus, the farm is smack dab between Marion and Mt. Gilead in the small rural town of Cardington.<br />
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Cardington made national news only once. When a tornado plowed through the downtown square in the 70’s and wiped out all the buildings. It’s still a one stop light town. I drove through showing my daughter the sights, as it were, that I remembered spending summers here. The grocery, the hardware, the bank…they all have the same square box look. They are all made out of the same brick. It’s odd to have rebuilt the buildings taken away by the tornado with all the same materials. Same architect. Same height. It’s weird. Just like Cardington…building for necessity, not for aesthetic interest.<br />
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There are a few homes just down the main street that even to this day take my breath away. Large brick Victorians with porticos and wrap around porches. These were the movers and shakers in this town when it was established back in the 1800’s. I always imagined living in one of those grandiose homes when we would drive by. My daughter had the same impression that I did as I looked at them when I was young. “I’d like to live there if we ever came down here….” she said as she peered out the window at them. “Yeah…I know that feeling. I had the same thoughts many times darlin’.”<br />
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Charles was running late in getting to Cardington. My daughter and I had some time before they would arrive so I headed up to route 529. I wanted to see if I could go by memory and find the ol’ Sipes place. I explained to Boo that the breakdown armoire in our dining room is from the Sipes house. As is the oak folding table downstairs that I now use for laundry folding. I make a right onto a unmarked road that feels like the right one. It’s gravel. That’s the same, but stuff looks different. ‘This might not be the right one Bear, I’m not sure…”<br />
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Quarter mile down the road and there it is on the left. The house is still there. The barn seems to be gone and they’ve changed the porch area a bit, but it’s the same house fer’ sure. “let’s go see if we can find the cemetery…” I know the resting place of my relatives on this side of the family is not far from here. I remember a one lane bridge, but not much else. We drive up the gravel road leaving a trail of dust behind us. I wouldn’t know if someone was on my tail or not with this huge cloud, but these country roads don’t’ get lots of traffic. I’ll bet as I slow down places looking about, the folks within are wondering who these out of towners are.<br />
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I make a right turn and it just doesn’t seem right. Another right and there is the one lane bridge. On the other side of the stream is the cemetery on the right. I'm amazed that I've been able to find it. It's been at least 15 years since I've been here. The last time I also had my mom telling me where to turn. Bear and I park and let ourselves through the gate to go visit our relatives laid to rest. The cemetery has been recently mowed. Everything is in good order. It’s small and I don’t think used anymore. There aren't any new headstones that I can see. Some of the older stones date back to the early 1800’s. Many, I explain to Boo, are small stones for infants. There were many childbirth and infant deaths back in those times out here in farm country. There are three off to the side around the main headstone of my Great-Grandparents. They lost 3 sons before the age of 1. <br />
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Bear’s eyes glisten as I tell her about the stones. She’s such a caring, sensitive child. I move closer to clear a weed from Grandpa Hacks stone. ‘Don’t step there!” she calls out to me. “You’ll be stepping on his head!” I smile. Again as I look at her I consider how blessed I am.<br />
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We wander about a bit looking at the different dates. The sandstone ones have taken a beating over the years, but all the marble is still beautiful. There are some with dates in the 20’s that have such intricate modern detailing that I pull out my camera. “<em>Amazing….”</em> I say quietly. To myself actually. “Would you like one like that?” my daughter says as she comes up behind me. “I’m not sure…but look at that. Isn’t it beautiful?” They don’t’ make stones like this anymore. The carving of doves and angels on some of these markers is quite incredible. The artistry. And this just a country cemetery…<br />
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“It’s time to go Boo. Uncle Chuck and Grandpa should be getting close by now.” We climb back into the car and head back to town. The one light downtown. We stop at <em>Suz-E-Q’s</em> and get a soft serve ice cream for the remainder of the short trip. I stop to take a photo of Center United Methodist Church where I would go when visiting my Grandparents. I can hear the old hymns being sung. I can hear the creaking of the wooden pews. I can hear the pump of air of the organ being played.<br />
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My Grandpa owned two suits. One tan one for summer, one gray one for winter. He owned two pairs of dress shoes; black for winter and brown for summer. He had two dress hats. The rest of the time he had on blue jean overalls and cotton button down shirts. He always smelled of grain. Sundays were days of rest on the farm. Everything could wait. It was the day that the family went to church and then returned home to feast.<br />
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We’d extend the table in the large working kitchen and just feast. Never ending plates and bowls of potatoes, vegetables and meat piled high. Fresh baked bread and honey from the beehive and pies made of whatever fruit was available presently. All of this prepared on a wood burning stove.<br />
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Friends would visit on Sundays. Grandma would usher them into the rarely used parlor. The parlor was set aside for guests only. After a time with tea and cookies, I’d be asked to play on the piano. A large upright in the corner with two ivories missing. There was a low D that didn’t strike anymore. After enough niceties, the kids were allowed to change from their church clothes and then we would start running about the farm.<br />
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There was no TV. No Ninetendos. No Wii’s. My grandparents had a telephone, but it was a party line. You weren’t sure if you could use it if Gladys from next door was on. She was a talker, Gladys. Her remaining family had long since moved away, to the city. So her Sundays she didn’t get many visitors. So she talked on the phone, eating her cookies and sipping tea long distance.<br />
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Being set free from the confines of nice society, we kids chased after the chickens. We terrorized the sheep. We played in the barn, counting the feildmice as they scurry away from our footsteps. We made up games and continued to play until Grandma calls us in for the evening meal.<br />
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Everyone grudgingly would go back inside to have hands, feet and faces scrubbed with cold well water before settling to the table and saying Grace. With no TV to entertain as it gets dark, the family gathers on the porch. Those of us with still enough energy try to catch the fireflies as the sound of rocking chairs and squeaky porch swings echo.<br />
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Sleep comes easy. It always had when down on the farm. I’d wake partway when hearing Grandma tuck me in and bless me as I slept. I could hear the train rumbling closer on the tracks a couple miles off. The sound was soothing. Grandpa would gently wake me just before dawn to help him with the morning chores. I learned from him how to make a mean chicken feed. Sometimes I wonder if I still could if I stood in front of those bags of grain. <em>Hmmmm...</em>1 tin of whole oats; 2 tins of cracked corn; 1 ½ tins of flax; ¼ tin of ground millet, 1/4 tin of layer mash. Mix some water with it into a dry paste. <em><strong>BAM!</strong></em> Feed for the chickies….<em>Yup.</em> I still could.<br />
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I loved the farm.<br />
I <em>love</em> the farm.<br />
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Standing here now I know that I can’t sell it. Gary, who lives next door and farms it, has wanted to buy it since Grandpa died in ‘81. Mom wouldn’t let it go. John and Deidre who have lived here since then have a questioning look on their faces, hidden, but there. Ican tell they think they might soon have to look for a new home. They wonder if this visit was to assess the property and decide whether to keep it or sell it off.<br />
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"We loved your Mom." John says to me as he comes out to greet us. "We really miss her." The sincerity of his words makes my eyes tear up. "Thank you. That means alot...." I respond. And it does.<br />
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If I have my way, I’m not going to sell it. My dad doesn't have any real connection to the property. He's of the mind set to rid himself of any extra burden. The farm is a burden. A paper burden. Something to have to file taxes on, deal with farmers about, figure the time to sell the harvest. Everything that takes time. My brother has a little more connection. He used to spend time here too. He has memories of the farm of his own. He also knows how much this place meant to mom.<br />
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But I have visions of replanting the orchard and rebuilding the fence line. I’d like to maybe build a little place back in the woods to escape to when I want to get out of the city for a bit. Back near the spot that Grandpa and I would feed the cows and then nap until the sound of Grandma’s voice calling us back would wake us.<br />
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That’d be cool.<br />
I’d like that.<br />
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I think I may just do it.<em> That would make Mom happy...</em><br />
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:-)<br />
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