f8hasit

easy laughter...

2012-02-06T11:40:00.000-05:00

I was just minding my own business.

Yes, I was laughing.
Yes, I was having fun.
Yes, 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.

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, experienced, over the years that when someone is walking towards me and looks as though they are about to speak? They usually do.

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…all from strangers. 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.

I’m not sure what it IS 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…again.”

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.

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.

“Are ye havin’ fun?” he asked me in a deep Irish brogue.

“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 that noticeable?”

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.”

“I’m so sorry. Was I being too loud?” I asked.

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; ‘don’t laugh so loud’ to myself.

“No my darlin’…I LOVE the sound of yer laughter! I just wanted to you to know yer welcome here anytime.” 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.”

This little compliment almost made me cry.
In a split second I thought about the fact that laughter hadn’t come so easy in the several years past.

Many of my past memories that I think “well, there was that one time...that was fun” wasn't really. It was forced fun. Not real fun. Doing things, planning things, creating things in only to make him happy. I felt that if I made him laugh, him happy, then I too, would be happy in return.

Yeah. It doesn't work like that. Go figure...

I asked my companions “do I laugh too loud?”

“NO!!!” they all replied. “it’s so good to hear! You didn’t laugh for a long time, Nancy. We thought you had forgotten how to.”

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. Who I am.

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.

Until a year ago October.
It broke my heart. He broke my heart. But it's fully mended now.

My laughter comes easy.
My confidence in place.

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.

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.”

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.

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 Cheers!

Slainte!
:-)

poor little thing...

2012-01-04T13:11:00.000-05:00

I love me some eBay.

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 Viola! , I’ve now got me a North Face for $100 less than I could buy it at Dick’s Sporting goods.

Oh yeah.
I’m that savvy.

I also sell quite a bit of stuff on eBay as well.

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.

“Will you take $10 for that basket?” one of the people browsing my wares asked.
“No, thanks so much. But no.” I responded. (I’m WAY to polite, trust me.)
“15 dollar. That’s a good price! I’ll take it for 15 dollar.”
“No, really, thank you…but I’ll just keep it then.”
“You’re crazy! Why you not take $15! That’s a good price! Last offer!”, she persisted.
“ Again, thank you for your offer but the answer is no. 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.

The next day I listed it on eBay.

Guess how much I got for it?
C'mon, guess!

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.

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.

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.

There was the lady that insisted 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.

I love delivery confirmation.
It’s saved me a few times. I would never, ever, send anything without it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But what happened to that box?

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…?

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?

As I stood there and looked at this box, willing it speak to me…by God, it did.

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.

It was a sad story.
It was an enlightening story.
It was a heartwarming story.

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.

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.

“Good little box.” I said to it as I patted its sides. “You are a very, very good little box.”

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.

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."

It was then that I realized I hadn't quite let go....
:-)

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, “Geez…that poor little box must have been through a lot! I kind of felt sad for it.”

12 step scrabble...

2011-11-21T10:31:00.000-05:00

I love playing scrabble.

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.

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.

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.

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 “Lifetime Achievement Award for Outstanding Scrabble Play”. 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.

Ironically it was that very night we played a quick game. And I beat him.
For the first time in my life.

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.

But this time it was I who won. And he couldn’t believe it.

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 RE adding all the scores just to make sure.

The game HAD been close.
I won by a mere 6 points.
But I won.

It was the first time that I really felt as if I had become a young adult.

Here we are so many years later; Enter Words with Friends.

Help me.
There must be a twelve step program for me somewhere.

I am addicted.

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.

“Hi, I’m Nancy. I haven’t played a word in 46 seconds….”
"Hi Nancy..." all the other people with smart phones will answer.

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.”

And I did turn it off.
For a moment.

I grabbed my phone and snuck into the bathroom for a quick bladder release and a double word score.
I know. It’s sad.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Silly girl.
Leaving open a triple.

I’m currently beating her by 160 points. We have 48 more letters to play.
Her screen name is aptly named WeepingGirl.

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.

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.

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.

That’s all a far cry from when I used to play on that old board with my dad.

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.

Oh…and the last time we played as a family?...my daughter joined us.

Guess who won.

Yup.
She did. With a little help from dear ol’ mom when grandpa was in the bathroom. THAT score I wrote on the box.

My mother would have been so proud.
:-)

Happy Thanksgiving!
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. :-)

costume miss hap...

2011-11-07T13:55:00.002-05:00

I love Halloween.

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 year round in this house. If anyone ever needs a costume, for Halloween or otherwise, they usually call here first.

And chances are I have it, I can make it, or I can find it.
All I need is an idea…and I run with it.

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!”

My daughter, although enthralled with all the costumes, immediately replied, “My mother would never allow me to wear a store bought costume. Never.”

Smart girl.
And she's right.

It’s true. My thought is you can buy ‘things’ 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?

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.

I remember one year having a party and Pete came with a head band that read “Go Pete!”. 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.

Brilliant.

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 –with spurs mind you, AND 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.

Very cool. Well done, my friend. Kudos to Death.

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 does not mean that you need to buy your costume at Fredericks of Hollywood.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Hell, earlier in the day I was down at Edgewater Yacht Club for their annual kids ‘trunk or treat’. 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’?

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.

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.

The documentary is called Miss Representation. (see the trailer here) It’s fantastic.

“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.”

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?

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.

“You know, something to make my girl sexy…like you.” he said as he obviously checked me out from top to bottom.

Brushing the comment aside and trying to be polite and proffesional I asked, “is there a specific color or item you have interest in?”

“Red. Red is sexy. And slippery. I like slippery...Like silk or something.”

Alright, got it.
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.

“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.”

Yeah. Amazing, huh? And a completely true story.

Many times after work the girls would go out for a drink before heading home. I loved the gals I worked with…still do! 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.

I work for VS.
I am not in the catalog.
I am not your fantasy dream girl.

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!

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.

I like to look good. I like to feel sexy.
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.

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!

“The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.” – Alice Walker.

So what is really up with the kinky, racy, naughty outfits?

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.

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.

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....
THAT would have been a horrible trick.

What are your thoughts?
As women? And as guys?
…enlighten me.

:-)

just another day on Facebook...

2011-10-13T19:10:00.007-04:00

I’ve been bad. I've been very bad.

Well, not in the normal sense of the word. I’ve been good really. Very, very good. But I’ve still been bad.

I’ve neglected my blog. I’ve neglected my blog reading. I’ve neglected my bloggy friends. And I am sorry.

I have been writing. I just haven’t been posting.

The other day I was on Facebook. Yes, I know…the ultimate usurper of time. 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 would 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 ‘people you may know’. Most times they aren't people I know, or perhaps people I have known and don't care to know now 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.

My mind jumped and I smiled at the computer screen. “No! Can it be? Matthew!”

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.

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 here...)

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.

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. THIS practice 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: DO NOT EVER FORGET THAT.

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.

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…

After his comment, I had to look the actual definition of ‘control freak” 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”.

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?

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!

You might be a control freak if you are:
Preoccupied with negligible details?
Want to present the “right” appearance?
Fail to let go of unfortunate details from the past?
In ‘work mode’ while not at work?
Huff, rage and/or pout when you don’t get your own way?
Critical of others or yourself?
Concerned that others may do things “wrong”?
Attempt to get another person to change?
Feel paralysed to act because you might not get it “just right”?
Tell others how they should live?
Feel uncomfortable if you don’t’ get the last word?

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.”

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.

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.

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.

Yes, yes, no, no and well yeah, maybe.

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.

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 and 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.

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.

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 AM Helen Ready singing “I am woman”.

And this woman, whether a control freak or not, has had one hell of a summer. (and early fall...)

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.

Yes. Guilty. I’ve been bad. I’ve been gone. I’ve been away.

But I’ve been living an adventure. MY adventure.
It's been pretty awesome.

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 'people you may know'. See how this works?

Coincidence?
Bah. It’s kismet.
:-)

Footnote: Thanks you Matthew for your silent inspiration! It feels good to be back amongst my friends...

'dem jes stoo-pid...

2011-05-30T22:31:00.001-04:00

My daughters most loved shoes.

As you may know, I like to people watch.

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.

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.

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.

I had a pair of splotted cargo pants. Uber comfy to the nth degree, I loved these things. 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…ever. Really.

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.

I wore spring green silk basketweave blazer the other day. I felt a little uncomfortable at first wearing so much color…for me.

“Nancy?” one of my co-workers asked, “Is that you? Isn’t that….color?”

“Why yes. Yes, it is.”

“It looks…GREAT!”

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. Baby steps.

But some fashion is just that. Fashion.

It’s meant for runways, and shows, and theatrics. Not for people to put into their everyday wardrobe. And yet, I see it. Everywhere.

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: If you can’t walk in them or look stupid walking in them…don’t buy them.

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.

Secondly: Wear appropriate shoes. 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 Cleveland! 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.

And my last rule and maybe the most important one: If you can’t walk in them sober, what’s going to happen when you’ve had two martinis?

Nuff said with that.

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 Victoria’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.

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.”

Well said, my friend. Well said.

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.

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^th grade with these 5” cork heel wedge platforms. We towered over everyone at school. We were amazons. Supermodels. Unstopable. Until Kic fell.

She broke her ankle and ended up in a cast for the remainder of the summer.

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.

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.

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 and she was wearing a wig.

He didn’t call her again. He said he was too confused.

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.

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…that just ain’t me.

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.

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.

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.

So we’ll add another rule to my list of do’s and don’ts.

Don’t pay attention to the magazines.

Pay attention to yourself.

So, did I pass his test?

Let’s just say it went well. Very well.

He likes the way I dress.

He likes my sense of style.

He likes that I’m open.

He likes…me. Just the way I am.

Cool. Which is just the way it should be. It's nice to feel appreciated for just being me.

Oh. And as a bonus, he hates all those shoes too.

:-)

crumbled and transparent...

2011-05-15T18:48:00.001-04:00

I stood at the very end of the pier.

It was early, way before sunrise and I was alone.

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.

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.

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 know 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.

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, “You mean, you were skiing while all those people were dying in Japan?”

Yep. I was. How thoughtless of me.
I resented his comment. I tried to shake it off, but instead of a “I’m glad you are happy and enjoying life.” I got more criticism and negativity. It got under my skin and bugged me.

But when I'm here, it can't get to me. Nothing can.
When I’m here, I'm safe.
I like to walk. And I enjoy to walk the beach. I prefer the mornings before others come down. In the morning, this is my beach. This is my pier.

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.

My pocket is full of all these scraps of paper.

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 needed to do this. I must. I extended my arm as far out away from the railing as I could, and then….I let them go.

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.

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.

I wrote it all down.
On little pieces of paper.
Which I shoved into my jeans pocket this morning before leaving for my walk.

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.

When going through my divorce my estranged husband would say to me, “Stop being a victim.” 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.

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,”Bring it.”

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.”

All those mistakes?
All those faults?
All those resentments, fears, and emotional baggage is lying with the fishys in the ocean.

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.

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.

It’s a beautiful morning. It’s a beautiful world.
And as for me…?

I have a beautiful new life. With memories, yes...but no baggage to hold them to draw me down. They be all gone.
:-)

problem solved...

2011-03-27T21:13:00.002-04:00

“You can read it, Mom, but don’t change anything.”

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.

“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.

“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 changed.”

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?”

Boy. Does it ever.

“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?”

"In a minute. I’m not quite done. But don’t change anything…okay?”

I agreed. I wouldn’t change anything. But I was now really 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.

I looked at the screen and this is what I read.

Creative Writing: Solving Problems

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Now, remember, my daughter just turned 12.
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 fatal sounding “Bye Rachel” that kind of blew me away. The one day they are your best friend and the next they’ve forgotten all about you.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

JOY.

I felt joy.

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.

“Is he mad at me?“ Boo asked through big crocodile tears. “Has he forgotton about me?“

“No, honey. He probably is confused as to what to do. He hasn’t forgotten about you.“

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.

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 ‘one day they are your best friend and the next the have completely forgotten about you’ is in reference to D.

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 not be part of our lives, at all. 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.

“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.

JOY. Ultimate joy.

“You seem so much happier now, you glow.” she told me. So you see, it doesn’t get much better than that. I’ve got to go stock up on those Life is Good t-shirts.

Low cut ones that I’ll wear with heels. Problem solved...
:-)

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.

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...

They say there are no such things as coindidences. This may just fall into that category. Timing, I guess, IS everything!

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!!!
:-)

gone baby gone...

2011-03-06T10:11:00.007-05:00

Wow.
It’s textbook, really. So somewhat expected in a warped way.
But it’s still a big Wow.

I can’t stop laughing. I find myself shaking my head and chuckling, muttering, “Holy Christ. He’s fucked.”

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.

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.

Let’s see now shall we?

I split with him in October.
He joined eHarmony.
He met this girl in November.
The baby is due early August.

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’.

He’s getting his masters degree. He’s 36.
She has her masters. She’s 30.

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.

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, “It ain’t my life….thank you God.”

And “It’s not my worries either. Thank you again God, my dear Lord and Saviour.”

But it still has me shaking my head in disbelief and shock.
Wow.
BIG Wow.

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.

I knew my life would change. Drastically.

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.

Not fun.

I love 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.

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.

“Do you love her?” His mom asked him. “What is love…” was his reply.

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.

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.

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.”

“Thanks for being there.” He added at the bottom.

We made plans to get together to talk.

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 so little, Morgan. He replaced me so quickly.”

“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.”

I sense some sort of underlying hidden agenda lurking in the background. However much I dislike the idea that I was 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….ghetto.

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.

His mother told me of the pregnancy. He didn’t even bother to do so.

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.

“Oh my God. Are you kidding? Oh. My. God.” 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.

“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.

“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….”

I’m shocked, but I’m really not mad.
And I’m really not angry.

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 that almost sucked my life dry. I’m physically and emotionally in a much better place than I EVER…and I mean EVER was with him.

No, I’ve not felt this alive in years.
Years.

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 I realized the true timeline 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.

So I withdrew my offer of friendship.

I don’t want to see him.
I don’t want to hear from him.
I don’t want to know what’s going on in his life or what his fucking baby will look like.
I don’t want to know. ANYTHING.

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.

I literally watched as the screen of About Us 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 ‘dear’, from ‘dear friend’ has been removed to just say ‘friend’. 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.

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.

“We’ll see.” He replied. “She’s pretty controlling and it may get out of hand.”

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.

No fucking way.

But I’ve got to shake my head.
And thank the dear Lord for protecting my ovaries and eggs.

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.”

Thank you, Brooke. I concur.

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.”

Yuppers, I’m in full agreement there.

“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…the guys a dick. 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."

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.”

Thanks guys. I love you.

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."

Amen, sister.

Indigo said, “Smile Nancy. He’s gone.”

You're right Indigo, Oh, how he’s gone. Just like the Ben Afleck film, Gone baby, Gone.

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.

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. Good luck with all that.

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?

Matched November ’10.
Knocked up November ’10.

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.

Just what the world needs…another bastard child reared by a bastard.
:-)

Holy Kaka, Batman...

2011-02-23T07:22:00.003-05:00

"How did I get here? How possibly did I manage to get myself into this predicament?"
Why didn't I listen? Or not really listen, I listened, I just didn't pay attention. Actually, I paid attention...I just had not heeded the advice. Go figure.

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.

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.

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.

I had ventured into an area that at check in, the desk clerks warned the clientele about.

“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.”

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.

It was at that very moment of revelation of “Holy Crap, where am I!” that I heard the sound. Distinct. And close. Too close.

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.

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. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat.

And it was nearby.

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. “Beware the Moors, stick to the road.”

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.”

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 anywhere for that matter. I promised myself that I would not buy another unneeded trinket ever, if I made it out of this roadside stand alive.

It was then that I felt the blast before I heard it. Literally felt it. I knew I was dead. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t scream. I was frozen.

Frozen?
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.

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…pillows?

"What the hell?"

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.

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 had, however, bought that cow hoof turned into a flask as a gift for my old boyfriend.

As I jumped out of bed to quickly close the window in my still sleepy state, I wondered if he still had 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 had to capture this on film.

I grabbed my camera and coat and headed outside to photograph what I saw. Not only the beauty of it all, but the sound 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.

Stunning.
Absolutely stunning.

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.

The sound was coming from my Nikon. The lens clicking away like machine gun fire, Rat-a-tat-tat-tat, as I tried to capture, unsuccessfully, the absolute beauty that Mother Nature had left for me to behold.

:-)

if only it could be that simple...

2011-02-13T20:46:00.003-05:00

“Let her down easy!” he shouted over the clang of distant church bells. “That’s it….easy.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

But it’s the words he spoke.

“Let her down easy”.

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.

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?

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. “Hell. no”, 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. For a long, long time….”

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.

I used to have a favorite song years ago. The lyrics of this particular XTC song read, Everyone seems to wipe their feet with anything with Welcome written on it. I believe that somehow I have become that pervierbial welcome map.

“Come on by”, it calls to passersby. “There’s still a spot left unmarred on this baby. Spots still clean…wipe away!”

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.

Yes girls…you all are very, very welcome.
Not.

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.

But I’m done with that portion of my life. The next person that comes in will have to BE someone on their own merit. Not be-coming one with my help.

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. Yet. 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.

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 “I don’t care, wherever you want”, or a day “Anytime is good, you just let me know”, or take the initiative “I was just going to call/text/e-mail you but you beat me to it”. C’mon. Really? Bye-bye Jimbo. Good luck to you.

Or the ego fragile Bradley. Good luck on your search I get in a text at 6am. What? I coyly answer him back How did you know I couldn’t find my matching earring? I get it. I didn’t answer him back in the middle of the night when he texted me. Uh, dude…it’s called ‘sleeping’. 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.

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.

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.

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.

Yes.
You read that right. Without doing anything.

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.

With a good attitude.
Feeling great.

Go figure!

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 go skiing every week.

Yes. That’s the secret.
My friends daughter told me so.

See…Katlyn’s thirteen.
A tween’er.
And smart, with a the solution to all my woes.

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.

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.

I told her that I had about given up on the eHarmony thing (really? THESE are the people that are my matches by 29 dimensions? I think not) but that I was still engaging in conversation with some people on Match.com.

“Match?”, Katlyn said with exasperation. “Match dot com? Are you kidding me?”

“Yes. Match dot com.”, I responded, “but, why the tone Katlyn?”

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.

“Oh….please, Ms. Mac. Match is for losers. YOU...aren’t a loser.”

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.

As if it could be so simple.

Single? Need a date? Want a companion for life?

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.

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.

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.

We’re the Fa-go-wees = Where the fuck are we

Yes.
There was alcohol involved.

And skiing. Lots and lots of skiing. Or was it lots and lots of alcohol with a little skiing. I get confused.

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.

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.

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.

And a retired man skiing on equipment that might be found in the Smithsonian.

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.

And he’s from Cleveland no less.

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.

Very nice…..

Hmmm, I wonder if he can golf?

But let’s get through the first few dates to see if this guy has backbone. And likes women that don’t wear pigtails.

Tomorrow I’ve got to go shopping. For some new shades.
All of a sudden my future looks mighty, mighty bright.
:-)

go west...

2011-01-02T16:59:00.000-05:00

Lately, I’ve been conducting an experiment.

No. I’m not a scientist. I’ve not been following any rules or guidelines and I’ve not been writing down the results.

But I DO have them stored away in my mental data base. And today? Today, I’m going to share them with you….

You are so very lucky.

I've found that when driving, there are basically two kinds of people. Those that will not, for any reason allow another to pass them or let another car in if merging. And those that will.

The first group, for the sake of argument, we’ll just call them rude. 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.

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.

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.

We’ll call these people kind.

These kind people will wave in another car trying to get on the road from the gas station. “Go ahead…c’mon in.” As you might imagine, I fall into this category. I wave and smile and they usually wave back in return.

Mankind helping other mankind. Being polite. Helping out. Pay it forward. Whatever you want to call it….It’s a good thing.

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?

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.

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.

I go where I want to, damnit.

I’ve friends that live on the Eastside. But they used to 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…

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. Is that okay?” Patti’s a westsider as well. She understands that this might have been a deal breaker.

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.

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…less. There are so many 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.

Like what happened a few days ago.

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.

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.

Right?
Wrong.

I had to wait for the pump to open.

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.

C’mon already. MOVE YOUR CAR and THEN go and buy supplies. Can’t you see there are people waiting for the pump? Geez.

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!

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.

No one will stop and leave enough room for me to merge.

I drive a Jeep Commander. It’s rather big. There is no way that I can’t be seen.

It’s big, but it’s not menacing like a Hummer. It garners respect without the heavy Moxi of “Hey! Look at me!!”

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.

45.

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! “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….”

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!

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.

Nothing, that is, except for my nice driving etiquette.

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.

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 ‘just so’.

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.

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.

I looked at her license plate. It read HYM8NX.

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.

High Maintenance.

The plate read High Maintenance.

I laughed and laughed and thought ‘How fucking perfect is that!”

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.

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.

It has started a whole ‘nuther study for me.

I now smile 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.

Not to an asylum…

But committed to staying on the Westside where the people are kinder. More forgiving and they smile and let people in.

Yeah.
I’m definitely a westsider...

:-)

it's soooooo me...

2010-12-09T07:20:00.000-05:00

“Oh My God! Look at this! You MUST buy it!” my friend exclaimed, “It’s soooooooooo you!”

I was out doing some good ol’ multi tasking. Social interaction with friends and 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.

The sweater that my friend held up was cute. But not for me. There were several things standing in the way of it ‘being for me’. One was it was pink. I don’t do pink. Secondly, cascading down the front was a plethora of sparkly sequins. I don’t do sequins. And third, it was cropped. I don’t do cropped.

As she stood three exclaiming how purrrrfect 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?

Grey jeans? Me?
Tucked into boots? Over the knee high boots at that.

I don’t think so. The only thing that was me about that sweater was that it was a cardigan. I do do cardigans. But they must be rather classic in style and usually in shades of gray or black. Pink? Um, no.

Over the years I’ve met many a person that has claimed “Oh Nancy, I know you.” Some really do and some might think they do, but they really don’t. Perhaps my friend saw in that sweater a Nancy that she thinks that I should be. Pink sequins? In her eyes am I really a pink sequin donning girl?

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?

Is that what is expected of me? Is that what men want?

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?

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.

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.

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. Bah. She was wearing a red dress. Go figure.

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.

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?

I don’t think so.
These aren't the men for me. How would I got 'matched' with them in the first place amazes me.

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.

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 ‘Nancy and Ray ~ matched November 2, 2010’ anytime soon. But to share a pint or two…sure thing. Larry was a nice man. Really 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?”

Funny? Yeah…no, weird. 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 no nookie from Nancy. Sorry.

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 seemed 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 phoofed. 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. Take that. Good luck to you, buddy.

Maybe I will buy that sweater after all.
But in black.

Maybe it’s time to break out some sequins and sparkle on my next pint with Ray. Who knows, maybe that hidden me that my friend seems to know should come out and play.

But I am not buying gray jeans.
Or tucking them into boots. Especially over the knee high ones.

I’ll save those for when I wear red.
:-)

wrong place, wrong time...

2010-11-21T21:28:00.000-05:00

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?

And it makes me sad.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Which worked. But the first thing my eyes focused on upon opening was “the list“.

I sat up and looked it over. Miss Queen of Procrastination residing on my left shoulder was already mentally marking things off. “That can wait. That can wait, too. Even that. Don’t even start that task…please.”

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.

“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?”

The blankets were pulled up high and I could see her feet and the top of her head…but nothing else. “Boo?”

“Huuuhhhhhhhhhhh?” came a soft reply. “Do I have to go to school today?”

“Um. No darlin’…it’s Sunday. Do you want to rake leaves or do something fun?”

“Sunday!” she bounced straight up in bed. “Cool! Let’s go to the science center and see the Imax.”

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 IN the screen.

“Great idea! Let me see what movies are playing.”

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.

“How about the art museum? I haven’t been since they reopened.”

So the art museum it was. She invited a friend and we commenced on our adventure.

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.

I hate rubberneckers. 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.

Today I was that rubbernecker. 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.

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.

I even saw the bucks eyes.

Shock. Definitely in shock. There was blood all down his left side. The legs were at an unnatural angle.

“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.

“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.

Right there. In the road. I started to weep.

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.

I cried for the buck.
I cried for me.

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.

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.

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.

I forgot about the buck.
I didn’t even look for him when driving back home.

But I remember him now each and every morning.
As I drive to work and that chunk of fur and flesh is still in the road.

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.

But there it is. Right on the line in the second lane.

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.

Because with the snow brings the plows. And then the plows will get it.
That poor piece of buck left in the roadway.

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.

But I do. I saw it.
I saw him.

Poor thing.
He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And now all that's left is the sad reminder left on the Shoreway....

on a roll...

2010-11-06T15:39:00.001-04:00

I’ve been busy.
I am on the proverbial roll.

I’ve been cleaning the house of the big items…i.e.-boyfriend. And cleaning the small items as well… i.e.-lazy suzanne and pantry.

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 is looking quite orderly and clean in the aftermath!

It started with my scouring the house looking for remnants of life with the boyfriend. All of it had to go. 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 boxes. 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.

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 “Great to know you! Keep in touch!“ Bins of his past life that ended up in my basement.

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.

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.

But surprisingly, it doesn't look empty. It looks...good.

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.

I used to 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 could 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.

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.

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....what’dya want to do tonight?” careless approach.

This purging of all things boyfriend 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 creatures. Well guess what…it’s now nice and clean and organized and dusted.

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, and labeled 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.

I’ve more time.

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 (which I did to myself…I know) I’m now able to get more things accomplished.

Bah! To putting another’s schedule before mine.
Bah! To putting myself last on the to do list.
Bah! To all of it.

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….I’ll do it. Or if I want to go for a walk late in the evening, I’ll do that too. If I don't want to make dinner, of coffee, or do laundry...I won't do it.

My time is my time.
And damn, if it doesn’t feel good.

But in retrospect, after all the things on the back deck were picked up and long gone, I have but one remorse. I should’ve kept the white navy uniform with the Dixie cup hat.

I would’ve looked hot in that for next years Halloween party.
:-)

Kumbaya...

2010-10-28T08:37:00.005-04:00

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!!!”
I was glad she couldn’t see me through the phone line because I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, “Uh-huh. How?”

“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….”

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…Amen.

I don’t think so.

I DO believe in Karma.
I DO believe in paying it forward.
I DO believe in the golden rule.

I do NOT believe that a book on Oprahs book list is going to change my life.
I do NOT believe that putting something under my pillow is going to get me everything that I want in life.

I DO believe that is basically up to me. AND I can keep the $25 bucks in my pocket while it’s happening.

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 4 times! only to have it end up in the trash a short time later. She’ll vote for the candidate with the sleekest campaign.

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.

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.

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.

I DID 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.
I DID 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.
I DID 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 previous blog post….it just made me know that I wasn’t getting what I should even without the pills.

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. Ouch.

But boil it all down and what you get is usually measured by the effort put into it.

I KNOW I get results when I walk everyday.
I KNOW that not eating that piece of cheesecake will definitely make my bathing suit look better.
I KNOW 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!)

Even with what I KNOW, what I do NOT, what I DO and what I hear about that I should have, blahblahblah….sometimes things actually DO happen. Just because. Without effort. Without money. Without energy.

Like yesterday.

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.

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.

But yesterday, yesterday the phone rang and I looked at it and it said “Unknown Caller” and yet here I was moving my thumb over the answer button like it was possessed.

“Hello?” I answered with a upward lilt to my voice knowing that this was indeed a mistake.

“Hi!” an overly cheerful voice said, “Is this Nancy?”

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.”

“Nancy! I’ve asked many people there in the Cleveland area and your name keeps getting referred to me!”

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.

“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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

Full time. Benefits, including vacation, dental, medical and a discount! Can I hear a WooHoo!?

WooHoo!

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. A Shoo-in, Joey!

Let’s all collectively hold hands, keep our fingers crossed and sing Kumbayah. That’ll make everything go smoothly on Friday.

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…

...perhaps she put this wish for ME under her pillow.

:-)

Footnote: The photo above is the fortune I got this afternoon while having lunch with my dad. THAT just made me smile....

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!!!

Cheers!
:-D

enough is enough...

2010-10-20T13:09:00.001-04:00

Enough is enough.

How many times have you heard that phrase? Have you really understood what it meant? At least by the person that said it?

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.

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 "Hurry Up! We’re going to be late!” 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.

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.

It gets rather annoying.

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 'No'. 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, “Enough is enough.”

It’s a big sentence considering it’s only made up of three words and fourteen letters.

Enough: adj. occurring in such quantity, quality, or scope as to fully meet demands, needs, or expectations.

My big enough is enough 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…

Do you see a trend?

Do that for six+ years! Oh yeah…I had a enough is enough moment last weekend. Like an Oprah ’Aha!’ 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.

How did I get here? I am SO much smarter than this!
How did I get to a point to let myself be manipulated and then demeaned? I deserve more than this!
How did I allow myself to be mentally abused? I AM better than that!

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.

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.

But I did.
Yup. Finally. I finally got up the nerve to address it head on and say, “Enough is enough.”

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.”

Words from a stranger. Perfectly timed.

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, need to say to him. ‘Can we talk? ‘Sure. When though?’ he answers.

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.

“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 This is where I’ve been-This is where I’m going 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…because of him.” she gestured to none other than my boyfriend.

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, because you did.”

A sentiment that has reverberated through everyone that I’ve spoken of this to. “It’s you we like. It was never him. We liked him because you did.” Brooke told me, “You’re a Rock Star! Don’t ever be a groupie. Especially to him. YOU’RE the star.”

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.

Now granted, it wasn't all 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.

I once read something from my fellow blogger Mike who wrote, 'It brings me great joy to see the light in my fiancées eyes when she smiles…' 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.

He sent a note yesterday. One of apology. One of supposed remorse. “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." Bleck. Make me puke. "I do wish the best for both you and Boo and hope that I can send you things, such as gifts and messages and funny jokes and maybe we could hang out sometimes…”

Did I read that right? Are you fucking kidding me?
Hang out? Send us things?

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 'listens to your voicemails and dreams of your hands on her and how you rip her clothes off at a party in a closet.' Lets talk about the return reprimand of “why do you do this! You know Nancy sometimes checks my Blackberry” when she asked why she should use the other e-mail address.

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. The hurt never goes away. It just gets buried until…well, now.

Sure. Lets go ‘hang out’ and be best friends. Sounds like a great night out. Bah.

Get a grip buddy.
You had plenty of time to ‘hang out’ with me. You just took it for granted. You messed up. Big time. You don’t treat people like that and then expect to be friends.

No. You cannot send us gifts.

No. You cannot send me messages or funny jokes.

No. I do not want to hang out with you ever again.

No. You gave up the right to be my friend.

I think my response shocked him. ‘Wow’, 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?”

“I don’t believe that we will never speak again or that we won’t be friends (at least I hope not)….” he writes in the letter. Friends? Talk? Seriously?

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.

But I won’t.

I can think of that and it brings me pleasure to think of it, 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.

Enough is enough.

Fourteen beautiful little letters to live by.

“I hope you can forgive me.” 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 ‘couldn’t fulfill him sexually.’

Excuse me? Come again?
Please tell me you didn’t say that. And to my face.

Fulfill him sexually.

Get a load of that.That is the excuse made for all of his indiscretions. That is the basis for all wrongs commited towards me. He has continued to use me 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.

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? "I hope you can forgive me."
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 ‘woe is me’ thoughts. It creates a mantra in my mind…

Enough is enough.

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.

Footnote: Yes, to those of you might have already guessed. This is the same friend who told me that ‘My blog doesn‘t matter.”

As my mother might have said...Good riddance to bad rubbish.

it's been how long...?

2010-10-06T10:50:00.002-04:00

Break Away (intransitive verb)

        1 : to detach oneself especially from a group : get away
        2 : to depart from former or accustomed ways
        3 : to pull away with a burst of speed

The word break always has intrigued me. It means so many things. For instance, I love breakfast. I would break away from the pack in past track years. Taking a break and going on vacation. Getting a break on the price. I had to break into my car when I locked the keys inside. I broke ground on the new deck addition. I broke my knee skiing. My divorce broke my heart. My daughters loveliness breaks my heart. Breaking the silence. Breaking the news. Breaking 80 golfing. Breaking a sweat. Give me a break.

It goes on and on.
Variations of the word break, in so many forms, meaning so many things, pop up daily.

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.

I dig that. I get it. I understand.
I was also disappointed.

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, “Nance…take some time. Don’t write on your blog. Don’t read any blogs. Just. Don’t.”

No.
I didn’t have that conversation in my head. It just happened.

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.

My down turn happened basically due to a close friend giving me some ‘friendly advice’. I took it. I don’t know why, but I did. He said, “focus your energy and attention on something that matters. Your blog doesn’t matter. You’re not going to make any money on your blog.”

Money?
Who said anything about money? Did I start this to make money?

No.
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 Dooce. (although, wouldn't that be nice! One can only dream...)

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.

I should’ve replaced the furnace.
Maybe bought a few new green windows, or solar panels.
But instead we went to DisneyWorld…the happiest place on earth.

And we had fun.
Lots of it.

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 queens and princesses’ actually, but you get the idea.

My mother was smiling down on our festivities. We smiled right back up.

But my friend has a way of turning everything into a way of making money. Or the thought of HOW 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…

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.

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.

Not everything comes down to money. To dollars. To cents.

It annoys me.

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 lots 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.

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.

I was the newbie. The rebel. I had a strong tee shot and a good short game. I was either On. Or I was Off. 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.
Not bad.
Not bad at all.

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.

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.

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. Bah to me. Taking that all for granted. Then my divorce.

I no longer had the club membership. So I no longer played.

For some reason it took me two years 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?

I was humiliated. And I never went back.

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.

But, it's okay.
That was eleven years ago. A lifetime.

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.

And then again, maybe not.

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. And I know who you are.

I feel badly about not being around. About not being here.

It was a break.
A break away. Away from my friends.

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!

I don’t.

Oh...Thanks for agreeing with me.
:-)

years passed by...

2010-09-13T10:12:00.000-04:00

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.

“Nannncccyyyy!?” 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.

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.

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.

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.

The Keep on Trucking 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.

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 ‘Mom would have liked that’. 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.

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.

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.

I hadn’t been down here to the farm in many, many years. Standing here now as the memories come flodding in, I wonder 'Why?'. 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.

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.

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’.”

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…”

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.

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.

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.

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. “Amazing….” 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…

“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 Suz-E-Q’s 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. Hmmmm...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. BAM! Feed for the chickies….Yup. I still could.

I loved the farm.
I love the farm.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

That’d be cool.
I’d like that.

I think I may just do it. That would make Mom happy...

:-)

water water bo boater...

2010-08-30T18:01:00.001-04:00

I have always lived near a large body of water.
I consider myself blessed.

The water is a source of energy, of inspiration, of centeredness for me. In one fell swoop it makes me feel as if I can do anything and also makes me fully aware of how small I am. It’s powerful. It’s serene. It’s…water.

I live on the shores of Lake Erie. Lake Erie is the smallest of the Great Lakes and the fourth largest lake in the United States. It’s the thirteenth largest lake globally. Its sheer surface size and what it all connects (Pennsylvania, Ohio, Canada, Michigan and New York) you can easily travel between states, hop to the islands or bring your passport to visit another country.

It’s also the shallowest of the lakes. Its average depth is 62 feet. For comparison; Lake Superior has an average depth of 483 feet deep. That makes our lake the warmest, which is great for water sports, and also the most violent.

I used to own a sailboat. I loved it. At times I wish I still had it. It was one of those things I gave up when I got divorced. Every time I look out over the lake and see the sails, I feel a pang of envy. All those people still with boats...damn them. When there is a stiff breeze, my first thought is, “time to set sail”. But I've no boat to set sail on. So I damn them all again. Many times as the wind picked up, my ex and I would head down to the marina. It was if we were drawn to the boat by the wind. Chores were set aside, work left unfinished. There was a good wind and we must take advantage of it...now. We had it down to a science how fast we could set sail. As we were heading out putting on our foul weather gear, we'd pass the power boaters heading in. They'd shake their heads wondering 'why?' and try to give us warning of the rising waves on the lake. Too choppy for them; perfect for us. Our sailboat was perfect for Lake Erie. At 30 feet it was large enough to have several people on board but small enough that I could sail it on my own.

As a sailor, I never pre-plotted a course. I’d hit the mouth of the river and see where the wind was coming from. If our preconceived notion of where we wanted to go was changed by wind direction…well, we’d just change the destination. If there had to be one. Most times there was no destination...just the joy of being on the water was all that was needed. Once when wanting to go to Chez Francois for dinner, the wind was coming directly from the direction that we needed to go. Go figure. So instead of heading to Vermilion we ended up in Leamington, Ontario. It’s due north of Cleveland. Many times when sailing Lake Erie you’d tack back and forth between the US and Canada.

“Hey, could you grab me another glass of wine?”
“Eh? We’re in Canada now. How a’boot a Molson instead? We'er in Canada now don't ya know...” (insert Canadian accent)

But we didn’t always go out when the wind was at its height. There are many times where we would just go and lull about in the summer haze when the lake is like a sheet of glass. Just get out on the water to take the edge off the day's heat and take a dip in the cool of the water. Once while swimming right outside the break wall to the left of the harbor lighthouse we tied rafts to the boat and just bobbed around. When you leave the break wall of the Cuyahoga River, five miles out lies the water crib which is the water source for Cleveland. When the big ships leave the Cleveland Port Authority they head out to the water crib before turning and heading west towards the St. Lawrence Seaway or Highway H2O as it’s called.

HWY H2O Serves Nearly One-Quarter of North America’s Population

HWY H2O is a 2,340-mile marine highway that flows directly into the United States and Canada’s commercial, industrial and agricultural heartland. The waterway carried more than 300 million metric tons of cargo in 2004, valued in excess of $300 billion. HWY H2O ports are often closer to European markets than East Coast or Gulf ports. For example, the distance between Cleveland and Hamburg, Germany, is shorter than the distance between Baltimore and Hamburg.

On this particular day visibility was low. The haze hung low and thick over the still water. My friend Jennie and I lazily resting on rafts. Michael was taking the opportunity to wipe down the sides of the boat. I saw the ship coming down the river. The railway lift bridge had signaled to rise and let the huge tanker through. When it reached the lighthouse it immediately started to turn, instead of heading straight out.

“Ummm…Michael? Look at that ship. Where is it headed? It’s not going out to the crib!” I was slightly alarmed. We’re just this little boat out on a silver piece of glass. The sky and the water were all the same color and the chances of the pilot even seeing us in this glare was remote.

“Get on the boat. Get ON THE BOAT! Now!!!” he screamed to Jenny and I. The ship was looming in the haze. It was starting to pick up speed as it passed by the lighthouse marking the mouth of the river.

We frantically pulled at our lines to get our rafts to the railing. I wasn’t making good enough progress and left the raft and swim as fast as I could towards our craft. Jenny wasn’t a strong swimmer, so I pulled on her line once on board while Michael tried to start the engine.

When docking our boat, people would assume we were die-hard sailors. We would sail up the river and dock, never turning on the engine or dropping sail until we were close to our slip. Fact is, we just didn’t like using the engine. It was a 1 cylinder diesel that knocked crazily in the hold. I hated the sound of it. So we hardly ever used it. It wasn’t the silent engines that are on the new boats allowing them to glide along in peace. On some days when the wind left more to be desired we’d see other sailboats cruising along at 6 knots. In this wind? How did they manage it? It turns out they were technically under sail, but had their engine running as well. It was silent, so if you didn’t see the slight wake coming from behind their boat, you wouldn’t have known.

Since we didn’t use it that often, sometimes the damn thing would be a little temperamental…to put it mildly. “Damn thing won’t start!” Michael was cursing at the switch like a trucker. Flick on, pump, pump, flick off, push. On the third try the engine sprang to life. The sound of its banging sounded beautiful to me on this occasion. He engaged it to its full capacity and we swung the wheel hard left towards the break wall. The lake was perfectly flat, the only ripples caused by our trailing rafts. The Edenborg, which is 450 feet long, passed right over where our boat had been just minutes prior. We were hyped up with the adrenaline of almost being crushed by this huge ship looming above us a mere thirty feet from our stern. The power of it’s engines rocking our boat as it passed.

Lake Erie can catch people unawares. It's not an uncommon thing to read about casualties and boating tragedies in the paper. Even the most careful of boater has gotten themselves into trouble one time or another by not paying attention to all the signs Mother Nature is delving out.

On a gorgeous day one September some friends asked if they could take the boat out for a quick sail. We’d been out earlier and were content remaining in the pool at the marina. They were seasoned sailors, presently without craft and thought it not a problem to let them take the boat without one of us on board. A sudden storm blew up and pitch poled the boat. Susan had been below when it happened and was white as the sail itself when they came backs. “I’ll never go aboard a boat again…” she said as she hopped off onto the dock, “Ever.” The wind has gusted just twice up to 75 mph, they got caught broadside and Wham! Mast to the water and then back up again.

I’m happy to never have had that happen directly to me. I might have the same view as Susan.

I like power boats, but I've never owned one. There are some good times to be had on a power boat. Have you ever tried tubing behind a sailboat? Fun, but not quite the same. I’m glad that my next door neighbors have one. And last evening I got a call. “What are you up to tonight?” Kevin asked.

“Nothing really, why? What’s up?”

“It's a beautiful night. Melissa and I were thinking on taking the boat out to Lorain and eat at Jackalope’s. Do you want to come with us?”

Without a moment's thought, “Fab! I’m in!"

Ten minutes later, camera in hand, bathing suit on...I was all aboard the USS BoatYetToBeNamed with drink in hand, ready to embark on an evening of adventure.

When we got out on the lake it wasn’t as flat as it had been earlier in the day when their plan had hatched. But with two foot rollers and the wind at our back, the fifteen mile journey shouldn’t be bad. It was the return trip that had Melissa’s bathing suit in a bind. “Do you think it’ll lay down?” she asked speaking of the waves that seemed to be building rather than flattening themselves down.

“Yeah…I think so.” I replied. Usually after sundown the lake usually calms down. I’m an optimist, I always hope for the best. Although the last two times I had a boat outing with Kevin and Melissa, the weather wasn’t accommodating. I didn't want to return to the dock because now I was looking forward to being out on the lake. I kept my fingers crossed, prayed to the wind Gods, gave a knuckle bump to Kevin and he hit the gas.

Jackolopes was great. We watched the sun come down over the Lorain Lighthouse that has been standing watch over the harbour since 1898. No longer actually used as a lighthouse, it is still lit at night, has tours (both by land and water) and is a historical landmark for the lake. My steak was perfect, my drink strong, the company fabulous and the conversation even better. After a couple of cups of coffee, we decided that we should start back home. Melissa had already received over a dozen calls and texts from their daughter wondering when her “errant parents would be home.” Katie’s the watchdog of the family.

We were pleased to see that indeed the lake had calmed itself. The moon sat low and bright in the sky, illuminating a path of sparkling diamonds on the black water for our return. Sitting at the bow in the lounge chair I enjoyed the trip back immensely. The constant purr of the engine, the sound of the spray off the hull with a little David Gray giving a soundtrack for the journey home.

With Cleveland illuminated in the distance, the dazzling lit path on the water...it was like we were skipping along on our way to Oz. It was beautiful.

Although just slightly eerie this late at night as well. The water was so, so dark. Black, really. No one else visible on the lake. You could pick up the smell of fire pits from the shore. And a burst of laughter every now and again. But we were at least a mile or two off shore. That's a really long swim. At night. After a few cocktails. Let's just pray that there are no floating logs out here in our path. That takes out several boats a year coming back late from the islands.

As our boat sped across the water we startled a few gulls which gave flight. The idea was bounced around to take an evening dip. I declined as every horror movie involving water started playing in the recess of my mind. There ain’t no way/ no how I was going to jump into the lake last night.

My mind KNOWS jaws doesn’t live in fresh water Lake Erie.
Nor does the Loch Ness monster.
Nor Jason.

There have been some fishermen pulling some large ass Bass out of our lake, but I hardly thought they would be big enough to eat me. Nonetheless…I wasn’t even going to dangle my toes in with it this dark. Perhaps with a few more cocktails in me I could’ve been persuaded when my guard was down, but once those movies thoughts start running...that camera won't turn off.

Maybe another time. Once I get my brain to dump all the nonsense horror crap.

After such a great day spent on the water I feel energized. I feel refreshed. I feel inspired.…
Man, did I sleep good last night.

Just keep Nessie on the other side of the pond...
:-)

send off week...

2010-08-26T18:43:00.002-04:00

It’s been a send-off week.

Boo started this year of schooling on Monday. What happened to starting after Labor Day? Apparently youth is not as important as it once was. Everyone is in a rush to grow up, do something, go places…be somebody.

Bear’s entering into the sixth grade. They started changing classrooms for different subjects last year. It was a transition for getting organized for my Boo. She ended up in the hoosegow more times than not for forgetting a paper, a notebook or a textbook when arriving at the next class. Three minutes between classes just didn’t cut it.

One of Bear’s classmates was so afraid of not having something she needed at any given time, she never put anything in her locker. She carried it all with her. All the time.

Her damn backpack weighed over 40 pounds. She only weighs 65.

The mothers would get together and bitch about it. But we never said anything…to the school officials at least. We would just talk amongst ourselves.

I guess we must have spoke loudly. They okayed the use of rolling backpacks this year. AND they bought new textbooks that are split into several sections so each textbook doesn’t weigh 7 pounds, only 1. That’s good stuff. They’ve also changed it so there is 6 minutes between 4th and 5th periods. It allows the kids to get the stuff needed for the second half of the school day. But they aren’t allowed to carry backpacks at all this year. They must carry their books and folders needed in hand.

Interesting.

They must have those little developing backs in mind. For once. I kept thinking that if my daughter develops some sort of back trouble later on, I’m holding her elementary school accountable.

They must have heard how loudly I was thinking that. Thus the change. I wonder if I'll get some sort of waiver soon in one of the weekly news envelopes...

But the start of school and sending Bear off on her daily routine isn’t the only send-off I’ve had this week. As you might already know, my best friend Chrissy’s dad past away over the weekend. I didn’t get the word until Monday. I went to the wake. I went to the funeral. I held it together.

I wanted to be there for Chrissy, but I hated going. It brought up all the thoughts of my mom and her funeral just over a year ago. Her dad was to her as my mom was to me. Indispensable. Fantastic. Wonderful. The more loved parent.

I hate funerals. They make me physically ill. I can feel the bile rising if I think about it too much. Funny that I was going to go to medical school. When death makes me sick. Literally. I guess all my patients would have to stay alive. Or I'd be a mess. Could you imagine me tending to a terminally ill patient? "Hi, Mr. Corrigan. How are you feeling today? The chemo helping out at...." Spew. Chunks. It's probably a good thing I changed professions before continuing with that line of work. Too bad I decided after I'd taken the MCATs.

The funeral was beautiful, although I didn’t get much of it. It was all in Armenian, except the Eulogy. That was presented in broken English. My brain didn’t even register it was in my own language until the third sentence. I didn’t know when to stand, when to sit, when to join in what sounded like the Lord’s prayer or when to give the sign of the cross. I was definitely an outsider; an ‘Odar’ or non-Armenian.

I always like to take in my surroundings. I was sitting with several of Chrissy’s close friends, one that she’s known since they were 4. I’ve met them all before, but it had been many years since I’ve seen any of them. It’s a East side-West side thing here in Cleveland. For that matter since Chrissy’s moved back to the East side I hardly see HER anymore. Which sucks donkey doo if you ask me. It's only 18 miles. You'd think she lived in another state. Maybe if she lived in another state I'd see her more. We'd plan things. We take for granted that they are here. You know?

But as I looked around this church, which happens to be the only Armenian church in Cleveland, I notice that the depiction of Mother Mary over the alter is of distinct resemblance to Chrissy herself! I mentioned that to the other Odar’s with which I was sitting and yup, it was unanimous that if Chrissy were indeed wearing red lipstick, she’d look like the mother of Jesus.

Wait. Red lipstick?
Yes…the Mother has some rather red lips. Who knew? And it was the main alter she presided over with the baby Jesus giving what looked to be a high five surfer hand signal. I'm used to Mary being on the side and a simple cross hanging above the alter. Mary's usually at the side.

There's a tortured looking Jesus was on the left side of the church in a little alcove apse. And some dark, brooding, sinister looking guy on the right side. There was a red veil over some old black leather bound book of Gospels. Who is that scary guy? I haven’t a clue. I couldn’t imagine sitting there as a child. Those images might give you nightmares. They would me.

Chrissy’s dad was very involved with the church. The rest of the family…not so much. Chrissy herself said that she hadn't been there in fifteen years. She told me that the priest made her very aware of that fact. Go figure. It was obvious that St. Gregory of Narek was going to miss him. I heard it mentioned several times that they wouldn’t have been able to build the cultural hall without his overly persuasive letters sent out to parishioners and local business’s to support the project. At least two people attending the luncheon following mentioned ‘No one could possibly say 'No' to that man and his letters’. That made me giggle. It was hard to imagine George as a mafia-esque money gatherer for the his congregation when the most recent photo I’d seen of him wearing google-eyed spring glasses.

George was a veteran of the Korean war. So the Honour Guard was at the gravesite. I’ve seen the Honour Guard in movies, but never in person. Quite a moving sequence of events. I was curious how long they trained to make their folds in the American flag…just so. The salute crisp. The steps perfectly planned. Taps played with just the right tempo and volume.

Chrissy approached me after the conclusion of the internment service. “Thanks for coming Nancy, I really appreciate it….” she said through red rimmed eyes. Her hair was pulled back tight in a high pony. Her mom had made mention that her dad liked Chrissy with her hair away from her face. Chrissy’s mom is well versed in the passive aggressive. Chrissy was sure to have not a single strand anywhere near her cheekbones. Her red eyes didn’t shock me, I’d witnessed her crying several times off and on throughout the services. What shocked me was her rapid approach.

Geez…she saw me last night at the wake. I know it’s been awhile before that, but what the…..her hand was rising towards my head. I thought ‘should I back up?’ That brief moment where the fight or flight instinct kicks in…”Nancy! Don’t MOVE!” Whack. Her hand smacked through the right side of my head.

“Whaa………?” was all I could manage.

The people lingering at the gravesite started to turn to find out who could be upsetting the youngest daughter of the recently departed.

“A spider. A big spider. It was IN YOUR HAIR!”

How long had it been there? Where did it come from? There weren’t any trees nearby. Did anyone else see it and think it a hair decoration like the peacock feather headbands all the rage? Had I actually reached up and fluffed my hair and had a spider bite my hand, or fall out on my clothes, or make it’s way down into my clothes, or my neck before she killed it….Ugh. The mere thought makes my skin started to crawl. I’m sure I probably would’ve passed out right then and there.

Maybe even died of a heart attack.

They could’ve just rolled ol’ George-y over a notch and I’d join him in his eternal resting place. The priest was still there and all. I’m sure he’d have said a prayer for me. Even if I were an Odar. And it would make his wife Jean happy…she’d only have to pay half the funeral cost. A discount. A bonus.

And maybe, just maybe, with giving the funeral home business for two services instead of one, she’d get Chrissy that date with the single brother of the funeral home...after all.

:-)

Please say a little prayer for Chrissy and her family.
I love you, Christine.

hammy whammy...

2010-08-17T18:15:00.000-04:00

For the first time in many, many weeks the air felt wonderful. Not oppressive, hot and sticky as it has been. This air doesn’t sear your lungs when you inhale. This air feels fresh.

I walked my yard this morning in my jammies, cup of java in my hand, looking at the damage the heat and drought has done to my gardens. The leaves are starting to turn early, the maples and plums trees already shedding their foliage. Acorns are rapidly dropping off the pin oak and filling the pond, driveway and deck with their shells. The tomato plant is full of green tomatoes but none turning red and ripe for picking. The perennials all look forlorn and wilted like a dying man in a dessert asking for a last drink of water before he expires.

I gave up on watering. I had tried to keep up, watering both in the morning and evenings. Turning the timers on for the sprinklers to give the lawn and plants a soak. Then I got my water bill and decided that perhaps it wasn’t exactly within my budget to maintain a green lawn.

Looking about my neighborhood, everyone else has given up on watering as well. All the grass is turning a nice shade of beige-brown like shown in the fall decorating magazines. I hope no one drops a match while walking. The whole street will go up in flames. There are a few still standing out in the mornings holding a spray wand, trying desperately to keep alive the flats of annuals put in the ground in the spring. Back when they had visions of bountiful beds of colorful floral. Not any longer. The plants that remain look like those at the end of the season when they are 75% off. ‘FINAL SALE! No Returns! ‘ the sign exclaims. The stores don’t want the risk of having to refund money on plants they bet aren’t going to survive.

I lost a decorative cherry tree in this drought. Although the curly willow seems to love this weather. It’s doubled, maybe even tripled itself in size since it was planted last year. How is it that crabgrass has found its way into my yard when the Kentucky Blue is now singing the blues, unwilling to fight off invaders? Weeds have made purchase in the ornamental beds almost waving to me as I walk by. “Hey there! Yeah, you. Look who won this battle of the garden.” they cry out righteously. They know it’s been too hot to maintain the beds. The heat has knocked the ‘Oomph’ out of my green thumb. The heat has managed to flatten any motivation to work in the yard. Hell, I’ve only mowed twice in the last month. Only the weeds are growing, not the grass. Besides, who’s outside to see the yard anyway?

I haven’t hosted any summer lawn parties this year. I’VE not even sat out and enjoyed the yard let alone entertain others. Normally you can find me reading by the pond, playing a game of cards or just tossing the ball for the dogs. That hasn’t happened. Too hot to sit and the dogs aren’t going to run if they don’t have to. It’s been too damn hot. All that time spent staining the deck, spreading the mulch and edging the beds, getting the yard up to par for the par-ties. It looked probably the nicest it ever had earlier in the year. Not so much right now.

Usually in summer our yard is full of screaming children. Either tirelessly jumping on the trampoline, playing in the playhouse, swinging on the swings or running through the sprinklers. I go through gallons upon gallons of lemonade each summer hydrating Boo and her friends. All activities have remained indoors, except for swimming pools. I’ve handed the baton of Kool-Aid mom to those with pools.

But today it’s gorgeous outside. As I look at the yard, I’m not just accessing which plants need the most TLC or transplanted or removed, I’m also looking for a nice spot to dig a hole.

You see, last night Momma hamster died.

We’ve a household of animals. Two dogs, a cat, a beta fish, a plethora of pond fish (yes, all named) and a hamster. We actually had two hamsters. Then seven, when we found out Momma was indeed a Momma, instead of a Butterscotch. Santa Claus, whom the gift of hamsters was from, apparently had a keen sense of humor. All the babies we gave away to Bears friends except for one that had died. Poppa, or Pumpkin, died not too long after we removed him from the main cage. All he did was eat and sleep. He became huge and then one day, just died.

He’s out here somewhere. I know the vicinity, but the marker has since been trampled by running pooches. I thought it might be nice to have Momma right nearby. BooBear decorated a cigar box for her and filled it with the fluffy bedding that she liked so much. ‘Angel Hair - Night Night’ it’s so aptly named. The perfect fluff bedding for your pet.

Booest cried when I told her I thought Momma was dying. I could tell when we cleaned her cage the other day that she’d lost weight. She was also walking a little odd. On further inspection there seems to be some blockage in her intestine that is causing swelling to her underside.

I don’t know much about hamsters, but I did call the vet. She was polite, and caring, but her answer was ‘It’s a hamster. If it were a dog, or a cat or any other domestic pet….perhaps we would do something. But hamsters have short lives anyway. It’s really not worth the investment.’

I knew that before I called, but did it for BooBear. She was so upset.

“She’s the best hamster I’ve ever had!” Boo said in broken speech through her big crocodile tears.

“I know Baby.” I replied, “She’s also had a really, really good long life.”

“She never bit me once….she was such a good hamster!”

Which she was. We’ve had many hamsters over the years. A few escaped when the kids over playing had left the cage door open. Sometimes I could find them. Or trick them into returning to the cage with extra good treats. One I found had been played with and practically de-headed by the cat before it could be returned to sanctuary. That had upset Boo as well. Her and her friends never left that cage door open again after that. I now always remember to put on slippers or turn on the lights when checking on things in the middle of the night. I had almost stepped on the darn thing in my bare feet when going downstairs for more drinking water. I didn’t find it until first light when I awoke to make the coffee. It was not more than a half an inch from where I could see my footprint in the freshly vacuumed carpeting. Wouldn’t that have been quite a surprise awakening for me while drowsily making my way in the dark.

Ick.
I find my toes curling just thinking about it again now!

I asked Bear if she’d like to shop for another furry friend to take Mommas place. She said that maybe she should wait a little while. ‘In respect to the best hamster ever, Mom’.

Smart kid, my Boo.
So, in respect to our just past away hamster, if you would now all bow your heads.

“Please Lord, keep our Momma hamster safe and comfortable on her journey. Amen.”

Oh look. That's where Poppa is! The marker is trampled but not unsalvageable. And it’s in a nice, cool, shady spot here in the back. It’s a perfect resting spot for anyone.

Even for the best hamster ever.

:-)

eek on one more...

2010-08-13T12:02:00.003-04:00

The cosmos is aligned.
The stars are shining down.
Everything is right with the world, or at least my world. (knocking hard on wood)

Isn’t it amazing that there are some days when nothing happens as planned and then there are others that everything seems to go right? How does or can that happen? It’s like everyone was given the memo to make sure that you…have a glorious day.

The good happening seems to cover everything. From the traffic lights changing serendipitously in your favor allowing you to cruise along to your destination without a single stop. To expecting a long line (per usual) at the post office and finding that you are alone in the building three tellers waiting for your package. From finding the perfect outfit to wear to the wedding this weekend, on sale mind you, to winning twenty dollars in free gas for being the 10,000th customer.

I had one of those days the other day.

When I popped into Marc’s Discount store, which is notorious for it’s low prices but unbelievable long lines at the checkout, I shopped and then with trepidation approached the cash registers. There's normally a big traffic jam near the checkout. People with their full carts jockeying for position at one of the few registers open. The store itself isn’t planned out quite right. The area near the registers is small, to accommodate longer shopping aisles which crams in more merchandise. This makes navigating the aisles a nightmare. It’s hard enough to coax your cart past another in a row, but when you near the end cap at either end of the lane, making the turn is near impossible. Especially at the north end of the store where the registers are.

Trying to make your way around with those waiting to find a line to pay for their goods and you are just trying to get to the coffee, well…let’s just say I’ve found it easier to make several small trips to Marc’s carrying just a basket than to do big shopping with a cart.

As I turned the corner, I did in fact see about 8 people eyeing each others carts and baskets gearing for a possible line jump if one moves along faster than another. I scanned the area and decided that staying towards the left of the store would be most prudent. Only registers 8, 5 and 4 were open but those by 5 and 4 seemed to have overly filled carts which would , for obvious reasons, take a long time to make it through the line.

Marc’s is truly a deep discount store. You can buy pints of locally picked blackberries or raspberries for a buck. I bought a pair of Converse tennis shoes the other day for three dollars and a Coleman cooler for ten. You never quite know what’s going to be there. And they only take cash.

It has a pretty full grocery on top of all the rest of the items available. I used to avoid Marc’s because of the lines, a little on the worn side (i.e. beat up carts and shelves) and many of the consumers haven’t probably even heard of Nordstroms. The Marc's consumer is a good heaping slice of the socio-economic pie.

They have large displays of whatever close out they got their hands on at the register lines, which actually create the line space. Thousands of cans of tomato soup or Cheez-its. Spontanious purchase buys there for the taking. I always looked at these shoulder high stacks and wondered how long it took to pile these all up so perfectly. And what would happen if I accidentally on purpose drove my cart into it.

One day while waiting in line I looked over to see what other items were lined up. I’m a ‘didn’t know I needed it until I saw it’ kind of shopper. Three aisles down were cases of Ramen noodles. Oooh! And at a really good price too! As I reached over to grab the supposedly chicken flavored variety the man in the next lane blew a huge luger into the stack. Needless to say, I was disgusted.

This one guys lack of personal hygiene and manners caused me to set down my little basket of home grown goodness and promptly walk out of the store. I went home and scrubbed my hands until they were red and showered. I witnessed this instance. How many others might there have been? Could I possibly have been handling merchandise with dried foreign substances on it? The thought just made me want to gag.

It was eight years before I returned.

I can’t remember how or why I went back to Marc's to shop, but when I did the bargains were so great (ream of colored tissue paper for two dollars) that I vowed to just examine with my eyes thoroughly for any questionable matter before touching anything and watch my pocketbook grow with the savings rather than shrink while shopping at Target to get 10 sheets of tissue for five dollars.

But on this shopping day, as I eyed the checkout, mentally tallying how long this is going to take me to get out of this damn store, a cashier said, “Hey…I can take you right here.“ Aisle 10 was now open for business.

Sort of.

He hadn’t turned on the lanes light yet and as I set down my basket of blackberries and wine his manager told him to ‘Take your break after this customer’. So he hooked the chain behind me blocking anyone else from entering the hollowed realm of 'I'm next!', rang me out and I was quickly on my way. As I walked towards the exit door I noticed all the other people that had been right were I was were still all tapping their feet, looking at their watches and overall looking rather exasperated with the slow process of buying their goods.

It’s a trade off. Good prices? Or good customer service.

But for me, this day of all things gone right has turned into all things gone right…for a week! It’s been amazing. I think that maybe I shouldn’t have written that, I may jinx this spell. (fingers crossed tight!)

Only this weather has really blown. So oppressively hot you perspire without even moving. While watching sweat slowly drip down the back of Charlize Theron’s thigh might be extremely sexy in the movies, feeling beads of sweat running down my back into my crack….is not.

Thank God my neighbor has a pool in which I take a daily dip. They have been gracious enough to allow me free access. It’s sort of like the water house in Thailand that my friend Melissa tells me about. She spent a year with the Peace Corp in Thailand. Each day when the heat became unbearable you'd enter the water house, disrobe and splash cool water from a large basin of rainwater with a ladle to bring down your temperature. When I complain of the heat (which she concurs has been bad) she says, “You don’t know heat unless you’ve spent a year in the back country by the equator.’

True that.

I don’t. The chances of me spending a year there are pretty close to nil. Unless they build a Ritz-Carlton and ask me to run the concierge floor, with my own room there to live in….thank you very much. God bless her that she has had this experience that I can listen to and live vicariously through her, but in the meantime when the sweat starts to bead…you’ll find me floating blissfully in my neighbors pool.

Coolest thing about that?

Yesterday Andy brought me out a beer while I floated on their raft.

What was he doing? Yard work.
Mine was completed, so I had the time to relax. In his pool.

You see, the teenager neighbor on the other side has been seeking some extra spending dosh….so he did my work. As I lounged at the other neighbors house in the pool. With a beer. Listening to the drone of the hedge clippers in the mid-day heat.

See, I told you it’s been a good week.

Hope yours is the same….
:-)

once upon a loon...

2010-08-02T20:41:00.002-04:00

Simplicity.

Many times it’s the most simplistic of things that makes me smile; that makes me happy. Yet all around me things seem to continually get more and more complicated. Which does not make me smile. It makes me frown.

I do not like to frown.

So I’m doing my best to streamline. Get back to basics. Go back to when things were so much simpler. Or at least my perception of when I thought they were.

I was out walking with my labradoodle Sienna (aka: the best dog ever) and as we strolled the streets on this wonderful summer night; I smiled. I smiled on the outside for all to see and I smiled lots on the inside. The evening was pleasant and warm. A light breeze lifted my spirits and hair seemed to add a little more spring to my step. All was right with the world.

The past several weeks the air has been heavy with humidity that made even breathing laborious. The weather has matched my mood. Dark; heavy and somewhat sad. It was nice, for a change, to feel good. Really good. To forget about what's past and focus on the now. And now is gorgeous.

We turn into Lakewood Park to walk the pedestrian trail that runs around the perimeter of the park along the shore of Lake Erie. It’s nice to be able to finally legally walk my pet in the park. I like to go and see the sign that I sponsor. It has my dogs names on it and houses bags and instructions for others with pets to clean up after them, if needed.

I see this night there are few others in the park walking their dogs. Many residents are still unaware that the law banning dogs from city property has been lifted. At least on a temporary basis until the council is sure that dogs owners are responsible and won’t add their pets dung to that of the Canadian geese on the ball field.

A gal runs up and stops to give me her card and ruffle Sienna's fur. Sienna is looking quite beautiful as she had a day of doggy beauty at the Paws and Effect dog grooming salon, compliments of Jason and Angel that owns and run the place. Sienna loves going to the salon. Somehow she knows she looks and smells good, you can see it in her gait. She almost preens.

She’s a docile dog with a friendly manner and wonderful, soft light brown eyes. People are always drawn to her. This gal tells me she works for American Greetings as an artist but has started doing dog portraits. The thought of her coming over to paint my dogs as they sit on velvet pillows, still and regal, makes me chuckle. I can see hanging this portrait over the mantle in the living room. I smile a little bigger. I’m easily amused.

As we stand there chatting, a few other little kids come by. “Big doggy!” a little boy about two squeals. The mother gives me a look of ‘Is it okay?’. “Yes, she’s very gentle. She loves kids” I tell her.

Once her son has his hands deeply embedded into Sienna's fur, my pup gives him a big lick and he again screeches his delight. Sienna is sitting there on her bum with her legs askew watching as the little boy rolls around on the ground directly in front of her. She places a paw on his stomach and he laughs. A few other kids see this and come over to join in the festivities. Sienna is loving the attention but after a time she gives me a sideways glance of ‘Enough. Can we go now?’ So I take her direction and extricate her from the growing crowd of little kids all trying to get her to lick them next and we continue down the path.

There’s a group of nine adults trying to get a group photo. One person takes a picture, then rejoins the group as another takes the next photo with the previous photographer in it and them not. As I get closer along the path I see them do this particular switch three times. It’s a rather amusing little dance they’re engaged in. My mind sets it to a waltz by Brahms. One and two, one and two, one and two...snap!

“Can I take the photo of all of you?” I ask.

“Really?” comes the response, “You would do that?” Her tone is incredulous. Like I've just given them a winning lottery ticket or something of that nature.

“Why sure! It’s really no problem at all.”

So I take all their expensive digital cameras and run away….

No.
That didn’t happen, but the thought also made me chuckle.
And smile even bigger, again. I’m thinking, ‘people must think me a loon’. I arrange them all and one by one take several photos on each of the cameras dangling from my arms.

“Oh…thank you! It’s perfect!” The lady in the back tells me. “Stan, take her photo as well! I want a photo of the nice lady and her dog that stopped to help out.”

I really don’t like to have my photo taken. But I oblige and pose with Sienna so these people can look at the photo one day and say, ‘who the heck is this gal?’

I learn that this group is all in town visiting from Iowa and Washington for a wedding. They are enjoying the fine weather as well. We chat for a few more moments and then Sienna and I are back on the trail. As I walk away I am saddened that this simple act of stopping and helping out this group with a photo drew so much praise. Isn’t that just the right thing to do? Wouldn’t anyone have done that?

I look around me and the park is indeed busy on this beautiful summer night. There’s a couple lounging and canoodling on a blanket, some people unsuccessfully trying to volley a ball over by the sand volleyball court, the tennis courts and playground is filled and many other groups are sitting on the bench swings. There are many walkers, bikers and joggers on the path. I think back and try to remember how many people I passed as I approached this group before I asked them if I could help.

Twenty-four.
In my minds eye I counted twenty-four.

That’s twenty-four other people that passed this same group, that watched the same switching photographer dance and didn’t bother to change their course and stop to assist.

Why is it when passing people on the street, many cast their eyes downward? Or away? As if all of a sudden the most interesting of birds was found nesting in a high tree branch. If they met your gaze they would have to acknowledge you. But by being otherwise engaged by the interest of the pavement, or in the trees, or in the cars driving past, they have avoided contact.

I test this scenario over and over and am always amazed by my results. It seems that the majority of people would rather not have contact with a stranger. They would prefer to load their groceries and not greet anyone between their car, the store and back to their car.

I, on the other hand, like to see how many people I can force into saying “Hi” or “Good morning/afternoon/evening” whatever the case may be. I’ll settle for a mere nod or slight smile. Just an acknowledgement of sorts. Maybe I am a loon. But wouldn’t people be less suspicious of others if we all were friendly with one another?

Back to a simpler way? A simpler time? A time when people helped others out?
Even with the simplest of things like taking a photo.

I’m doing my part.
Can you?

In the meantime I’m content to continue in my own fashion. Who knows? Stan and his wife may actually remember my name when they print out my picture and add it to their album. I may have altered some course of action by my little photographer skills and my loon-ish ways.

I suppose in the big picture, it doesn’t really matter all that much.
But it makes me smile.

And that’s all I need.
:-)

Sorry I've been gone for several weeks. I put some of my thoughts down on paper, but it was all very caustic. So I just waited for the cloud to pass. I know Carlos would say, welcome to the dark side if I did indeed post my rantings. But maybe sometime. Now isn't that time.

Thanks for your patience.
It's nice to be back.
Again.

And thank you to those sending me condolences on my mothers anniversary of her passing. It really means alot. {{{hugsback}}}

good trait or bad...

2010-07-17T06:57:00.002-04:00

After years of introspective analysis, I’ve determined that I’m tolerant.

tol-er-ant adj. 1. showing the capacity for endurance; 2. showing respect for the rights or opinions or practices of others; 3. tolerant and forgiving under provocation; 4. showing or characterized by broad-mindedness.

Many times in my life I’ve been at a crossroads. I’ve had to make a decision. Once that decision has been made, I’ll stick by it and see it through. But this doesn’t mean that there aren’t times that I wish I could go back and perhaps react differently, say something, stand up or run away…but different than what it is that I’ve actually done.

Growing up, in our home, we learned tolerance. We learned acceptance. We learned consideration. We took others thoughts and feelings and many times placed them above our own. Not that we didn’t stand behind our convictions, mind you, but just that if others had opposing thoughts or theories, we never criticized or disparaged their views. We listened. We might debate, but we still listened.

We got all the facts before jumping on any band wagon or cause. We didn’t rock the boat. I wonder if I had grown up in a family that automatically jumped and then apologized later if wrong, if I would have a different approach to life. And in turn, things in my life would have turned out differently?

Once when visiting my parents, a friend came along with me for the drive. Carol had a new kitten and although it would have been fine left alone for a few hours, Carol wanted to bring it with us on my pilgrimage home to Sylvania. Cats don’t like cars. They make horrible guttural sounds. The drive is 2 hours long. I was about to lose my mind.

At my parents’ house, the cat had free reign. We were at the dining room table and this cat, whom I’m decided is most definitely possessed, is laying track through the family room, the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the foyer and then back around all over again. And again. On one of its rotations it leapt up onto my brothers back, made a sharp 90 degree turn and grabbed onto my mother’s formal draperies directly behind him.

My brothers face was in pain. You could tell it hurt. His eyes were watering, his lips drawn tight, his shoulders now contorted into odd angles. But not a sound came from him. He didn’t cry out. He didn’t scream…although you could tell he most definitely wanted to. But that would be impolite. We were at the dinner table after all.

My mother spent weeks, months even picking out the right silk and having them made for their house. To see this kitten hanging with its claws halfway in the middle of these draperies…well, it didn’t please my mother. But this was a guests pet. She wouldn’t have said anything. That would be impolite.

Carol got up and removed her cat, as carefully as possible from the drapes, but even where I sat you could see the small tears that those little claws made. You could see the little drops of blood pooling on my brothers shirt where those little claws had been. But we just took it in stride and passed the brussel sprouts.

That’s tolerance.

My mother would offer the devil himself lemonade if he appeared on her doorstep. She was tolerant.

Recently my tolerance was tested. A woman that my family has known through church for years has tested it. And my dad. My dad has been on a kick to ‘clean house’ since my mother died. She wasn’t like on the television shows, but she did have a tendency to be a mild hoarder. My dad would throw away mail or newspapers and my mother would retrieve them, put them in a brown Krogers bag and stick it in one of the spare rooms to ‘take a look at later’. Sometimes later never came. And by that time there were 3 more bags of the Blades newspaper Peach section for her to look at before it was deemed ‘ok’ to throw out. It’s the 2 steps forward 1 step back syndrome. This went on for years.

When my mother was ill and at home, she thought that people were taking her things. And in truth, they were. My father never disturbed her ‘bags of things’ when she was 100%. He wouldn’t dare, although you knew it had bothered bothered him for years. But with her not running at full capacity, he thought this the perfect time to do something about it.

He had the cleaning lady start removing the bags from the spare room. Pretty soon she went onto the other storage space. And the hallway closet. And the eaves.

After my mom died, I went through her belongings. Icleared our her closet space. Some of her dresses I wanted to keep. The purple silk Schrader Sport dress that she wore to school when teaching was one of my favorites. It just looks like her. I wanted to keep that one. Her dressing gown that still smells like her. I wanted to keep that too. I wanted to keep some of the beautiful costume jewelry, and all her fine jewlery items. And some of the dressy gowns that I knew would make fun dress up costumes for Boo in the future. I don’t necessarily have that much room in my own home, but I transferred the items of mention into the closet in my room at my parents house.

My dad and I had an agreement. Louise, the cleaning lady, can go anywhere she wants in the house and take anything out…but no one is to go in my room. I mean, you can go IN my room, just don’t go through anything in my room or remove stuff. There are items in my closet that belonged to my grandmother. Some stuff that belonged to Grandpa. My wedding dress was in there and my graduation dresses from high school and college. I used to collect vintage cashmere coats with ¾ sleeves. My collection of those and the antique hats were in there as well.

There were lots of really cool things in my closet.

They are no longer there.

At my mothers funeral, Gigi and her husband Bob attended. I personally don’t like Gigi OR Bob, but I’m tolerant. Gigi’s a busybody. Both she and her husband do not do anything without knowing that somewhere, someone will say, “Oh…that Gigi and Bob! What good people! What good Christians they are!!!!” I call bullshit. People shouldn’t do good deeds for the accolades they might and expect to receive. They should do it because it’s the right and good thing to do.

Gigi and Bob took aspirin and over the counter medications to South America on a mission trip. They like to tell people about it. To gain a listening ear, hear their voice congratulating themselves and get sympathy because of the hardship they endured while trying to ‘do good’. Whatever.

Gigi was a deacon at my parents church. She liked the recognition. Actually, she loved the recognition. It made her feel important. She busybodied herself into a place of importance when the church was between pastors. Once the new pastor arrived, he thanked Gigi for her service and her input, but she was no longer needed. She didn’t like that. So she left the church, in a huff. Gigi isn’t quiet about her thoughts of the new minister. It’s not good. And personally, I really like the new guy…the sermon he gave at my mother’s funeral was most amazing. It was moving. Most in attendance were in tears. It was a beautiful tribute to my mothers life.

Afterwards, Gigi and Bob were in the foyer. I stopped and thanked them for coming. I was raised tolerant. They wanted to talk…a lot. I tried to excuse myself.

“Gigi, Bob. Why don’t you join us for the luncheon? The ladies of the church have been busy; please join us in the fellowship hall.” I asked them, gesturing towards the other wing of the church.

“Oh no. I couldn’t. I can’t be in the same room with that man...”, Gigi responded with disdain in her voice. (She was talking about the minister.) “Because of him, we had to leave our church home.”

Now….this is bullshit as well. They didn’t have to leave. They chose to leave. They didn’t feel as if they were getting the right amount of attention for all their “good deeds”. Bah.

At this point, I’m mad. But I’m tolerant, so I don’t say anything. But DO NOT use my mother’s funeral as a platform to gain sympathy for yourself. Please. So these are my thoughts about Gigi and Bob.

I bet at this point you wonder, 'What does this have to do with her closet?'

Gigi’s daughter, who apparently is a self deemed expert at garage sales, resale shops and the likes, is in town from Tennessee. Somehow Gigi has filled my dad’s ear with her daughters skills and he invited them over to help sort through things for potential garage sale, resale shop or Goodwill. Where did they go? My closet.

This woman and her daughter went through all my things. Packed them all up and took them away.

All the stuff that I’ve saved over the years? It’s all gone. Why? Because of a woman whom I abhor.

My dad said that they told him there were some valuable items. No shit. And now they are gone.
I’m mad.

I’m mad at my dad for reneging on a promise to not allow anyone into my room. In his overzealous efforts to 'clean house', there are items lost that cannot be replaced.

I’m mad at Gigi for thinking it was okay to the rest of the family members to take MY belongings and those of MY mother and MY grandmother out of the house. What possibly could she have been thinking? Why wouldn't she double check before running off with my wedding dress, and my mothers wedding dress?

I suppose they are just items. Stuff. Clutter.

But they were MY items. To be sorted through and given away at MY discretion. Not Gigi and Bob and her daughter. Not even my dad. Had I known what he was planning, I would have removed everything long ago…but I didn’t know that my room was no longer my room. I didn’t know that anything left at the house where I grew up and what belongings I left behind would become rummage sale items. I just didn’t know.

And now I’m pissed. And I’m mad.

And I’m still damn tolerant.

I SHOULD call and give her a piece of MY own Christian mind for imposing on my belongings. But I haven’t, because that would be impolite. So I am presently choking on my horse sized tolerant pill.

I’ve done it before and lived, so I assume I can live through this as well.

Did I ever mention way back when I was married, I awoke from a deep sleep to hear my Land Rovers engine idling in my driveway? After looking at the clock and seeing it was past midnight, I went down to see what was going on. My then husband was in my car. There was a woman in my car. He said he couldn’t find his wallet and thought he had left it in his car. He was giving this gal a ride home, or downtown or somewhere, I can't remember. The excuse seemed lame at the time. It's still lame today. I was in my nightshirt with no shoes, no makeup, and the baby sleeping upstairs. I asked who she was and what she was doing in my car. Her response was to my ex, "I told you not to drive up the driveway." What?

Turns out it was his mistress.
But I didn’t learn that until over a year later.

I should have insisted she get out of my car.
I should have insisted that my husband turn off the engine and go back in the f*ing house.
I should have screamed, or thrown a tantrum, or been a bitch.
I should have done something.

But I didn’t.

I was tolerant.
What a great attribute to have….
Bah.

But this morning is a glorius morning! I'm leaving soon to go pick up Boo from camp. I feel enlightened. I feel good. Today...there are going to be some internal changes for Nancy. I can be tolerant, but I don't have to be silent.

And I have Gigi's phone number.
Yup. Today is going to be a glorius day...God help her.
:-)

Update: 5:45pm...I talked to my dad. He assured me that he will do everything that he can to see if he can get the items back. He apologized for not understand OUR understanding. He said that he didn't know there was anything in there that I would want, or wanted, or did want. I don't quite believe that. I think a little of it is lip service...but hey, I guess he's trying. He's never been good at admiting to wrong or apologizing.

Gigi and Bob? Or Gibob (as Julie named them!) They didn't answer the phone. I was very polite, yet firm, with the message I left. I let her know that I was displeased...VERY displeased that she and her daughter went through my personal belongings. I let her know that I was indeed incredibly disturbed by the fact that they would have the audacity to ASSUME that wedding dresses could/would not be of any significance...and take them away. I asked to have anything that they removed from the house returned.

I'm not sure if they will call me back or not. I'm going to assume they will call my dad and deal with him instead of me. Oh....but I did also call and vent about this to my brother. He does not like Gibob either, and now his view is even less of them. He is going to see what HE can do about this as well. There is a crawl space behind my closet that has many of HIS things in there. If they got to his stuff? In comparison, my verbal attack will be nothing....
:-)

Oh, and Boo is back, sunburnt and very, very tired. But had a wonderful week. She's like the Pet Detective in ALL the animals in the house are presently trying to see who can get closest to her.

a little Pitt-y party...

2010-07-13T16:23:00.002-04:00

I’m beside myself.

Easy to do as a Gemini, there are usually two of us at all times. Invite one and it’s automatically a party. But no, this is no regular party. This is a pity party. Or a Pitt-y party to be perfectly correct.

Boo’s at summer camp this week. She's in Pitt cabin this year. Third time return camper, she’s old hat at this camp thing. No more ‘missing Mommy’ sessions, it’s more of a ‘yeah. Got it…time for you to GO.’

It’s not that bad, but still. I can’t help but see that she’s grown up quite a bit since I took her to her first residential summer camp two years ago. That year I didn’t make it out of the parking area before tears welled up and I had to pull over because I couldn’t see.

One whole week of no contact. No phone calls. No mail. No nothing.

I awoke this early this morning with the flashes of heat lightening illuminating my bedroom. I immediately reached for my cell phone on my nightstand. I’ve got the Weatherbug App on it and have Camp Tippecanoe programmed in to monitor the weather in that area. Camp Tippecanoe is about 115 miles south of here. It’s been unusually hot this past week and I lamented signing her up for camp in July. Seemed like a good idea a few months ago, plus it fit into the rest of the busy summer schedule…but July? It’s usually the hottest in July! What was I thinking? It’s supposed to stay humid and in the high 80's and 90’s all week. There is no air conditioning. How will they manage? Is it raining there? Is it too hot to sleep on that upper bunk? Leslie, the cabin counselor, had said when I emerged from the cabin sweating after helping Boo unpack her things said that one of their fans broke and she was hoping to get a new one. With that info, instead of heading back home perhaps I should have located the closest Wal-mart and brought one back for them.

But they're kids. It probably won't bother her. I shouldn't worry.

As I looked at my phone I saw that not only was a storm approaching Lakewood, but that there was a storm front moving swiftly in on the Little Town of Tippecanoe as well. I wonder if she'll remember where I put her poncho? I left it in the duffle bag. I thought that perhaps by leaving it packed away I was creating a positive mojo to keep it from raining during her week at camp. Doesn’t look like that plan worked. But perhaps the rain will bring down the temperatures.

Camp Tippecanoe is run by the YMCA. I like that it is a rustic camp. It’s not very built up, located on an undeveloped lake in Stark County. They have all the amenities that they need; running water, flush toilets, electricity…roofs. But they are secluded enough to be part of the wilderness. Or as much wilderness as they want. But no cell phones, no Nintendos, no TV’s, no iPods. This is about camping and bonding with new friends.

It’s considered an Adventure camp. They have horses, swimming, archery and hiking. There are old Indian caves and acres and acres and acres of woods. To get there you follow a gravel road that isn’t located on my cars GPS. It winds you higher and higher into the rolling hills of Ohio around a large meandering reservoir. There is no cell signal once you leave the county road. Actually, even on the county road there is no cell signal. Even my satellite radio lost its oomph 20 miles from camp.

I went to an Adventure camp when I was a kid. I remember it well. For many years I went there. I looked forward to the two weeks spent each summer. Camp Todemeka was even more rustic than Camp Tippecanoe. We slept in covered wagons or teepees. We cooked our own food. We would order the food that we desired from a list and each day they would deliver our daily meal plan. But we wee campers were responsible for our own meals. Cooked over an open fire, no less. We all had ‘kitchen’ duty for meals and if you burned the bacon for breakfast?…well, everyone ate burnt bacon. There were some times that we had to wait for the next meal to get anything somewhat passable to eat. But that was the fun of it.

I’ve felt a little lost since I dropped Boo off on Sunday. I didn’t cry coming home this time. I waited until the morning when I realized I couldn’t wake her as I usually do. The fact that I can’t talk to her makes me want to hear her voice all the more. I've felt very vunerable and emotional these past few days, constantly on the verge of tears.

Some of it I’m sure has to do with missing the Bear. But I’ve been thinking of my mom a lot lately as well. The feeling of not being able to talk to Boo has brought back the feeling I had when I could no longer talk to mom every day. After her last stroke, she lost her ability to communicate…so I couldn’t just call like always when I wanted to hear her voice. It was horrible. Prior to that stroke I spoke to my mom every single day on the phone and I no longer could.

This afternoon I took a nap in Boos bed. Why? Because I could. I didn’t have anything else on the schedule this afternoon. The way I feel presently, it’s an amazing feat that I even showered or got somewhat dressed. But I also did it because the sheets smell of her. It gave me a little comfort. Made me miss her a little less.

While lying there with my eyes closed I saw my mom’s face, like it was hanging above me. It made me cry. It’s a year to the date that we got the first of several “she may not make it through the night’ calls. I remember leaving home immediately to be at her side. She was a fighter, my mom, and she wasn’t quite ready. At least that time. But she deteriorated fast and died on the 20th. That date is fast approaching. I try not to think about it but some invisible time clock inside me must know that. So I’ve been schmeeshy.

Bear’s camp has an online thing called BunkNotes. Since they’ve no mail there, you can bring mail to be delivered each day at dinner or send e-mails that they print out and give to the campers. I brought notes and cards so she’ll get one each day. The one that will be delivered at dinner today is a music card blaring the Hampster Dance. That should bring a smile to her face. Enclosed in the envelope is a new whoopi cushion that she can terrorize the counselors for the rest of the week. I’m sure she’ll put that to good use. Bear’s cabin mates will be glad that her mom thinks up such things ahead of time. They are allowed a care package on Wednesday. I decorated a big box for her and filled it with goodies to share. That should make up for the whoopi cushion debacle I’ll have created. (amongst others) Hopefully Bears fellow campers and the counselors won't egg me when I come on Saturday to pick her up.

Bunk notes posts photos taken of the campers doing daily activities. So I’ve seen Bear busy being a tie-dyed Ninja, whatever the heck that is. Between stalking the Weatherbug page and Bunk Notes, it makes me feel like I kindof know what’s going on down there with my Booest. Makes me a little less antsy. A little more connected. Slightly closer even though we both know it's miles and miles away.

The parent handbook suggests to hold off on the ‘Miss you terribly' messages so they don’t get the midweek 'I want to go home. I miss my mom' scenerios. They say that it’s usually the parents are child sick, not the kids being home sick. I get that. And I’m feeling it.

I am full fledged child sick.

So I’m having a pity party, or Pitt-y party, with both of my Gemini sides. I’m left here wanting to talk to my kid and my mom and unable to do either. Some might celebrate being kid free for a week, but I’ve no desire to go out. I’m going to see if I can last the week without dressing in anything but yoga pants and tees. I’ve a nightstand of books I’ve been wanting to read, but have been unable to find the time.

Now I have the time, but not the desire to delve in. Perhaps I should check to see if they’ve posted new photos instead? Bah. Turn off the computer to stop watching the camp from Google Earth and monitoring to see if BunkNotes has posted new pictures that might give me a glipse of the Booest. Oh, and shut off that weather app. As if knowing that it rained .26 inches and is 73% humidity with a heat index of 88 degrees with a south west wind of 5mph is going to help at all.

Camp Tippecanoe is Bears stepping stone into being independent of her mom.

Now, if I can learn to become independent of my Bear…
:-)

grace under pressure...

2010-07-06T22:17:00.006-04:00

A big THANK YOU to Pam and Sandy of Words of Wisdom for honouring me by naming me as a Blog of Note! If you've not checked out Words of Wisdom, you should. By nomination, they review blogs and then highlight them on their own blog. It's a grand way to find new reading material and revisit old friends of the blogosphere!

Join the conversation!

I've been blogging for a little over a year. It's been great fun meeting so many people all over the world. I'm pleased to call many of my new aquaintances 'friend'. It started one frosty winter morning talking with one of my best friends on the phone. "Nance....you should start a blog.", Christine told me. "I did. You'd love it." And you know what? She was right. I do.

And I'm glad that YOU do too! Thank you to all of those that have been with me from the beginning and those just coming on board. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Also, a big thanks to Leah Rubin of Funny is the New Young for nominating me for this awesome award! It's truly good to have friends...
:-)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I sat down.
For a just a moment.

I decided to take a little time for myself since no one was home and not expected back for a few hours. I made myself a highball and put in a movie rented from Blockbuster that’s been sitting on the bureau for weeks. And sat down. It was heavenly.

Not the movie.
Not the highball. Although it wasn’t all bad.

But the sitting down just for a little while.
Forgetting that the garbage needs to be taken out, the yard mowed, the dishwasher unloaded, the laundry put away. I still have on my list to re-paint Boo’s bathroom…I could get that done in this block of time, but no. I’m just going to plant myself on the couch and watch a film, of my choice, by myself, for a change.

As I sat there, I wondered if this is how my parents felt. The weight of all this responsibility. Always having a 'to do' list running in the back of their minds. Too much to do and not enough time to do it in. The burden of having a family and running a home. Maintaining schedules. Making sure that everything is in place at all times.

My mother always had everything under control, but she was not controlling. She never, ever showed any distress. She never got caught unprepared when guests were arriving. She had everything planned days in advance. I never looked in the refrigerator for a snack and was unable to find anything. Our fridge wasn’t full of processed packaged foods…it was stocked with things that my mom made full well knowing that we would be sticking our heads in the ice box after school looking for something to eat.

As a high school teacher, her schedule mimicked ours. But also as a teacher, we usually got home before she did. She taught at a downtown Toledo public school. We lived in the suburbs of Sylvania. It wasn’t far, but we usually would be home at least an hour before she pulled in the driveway.

I grew up with an outstanding role model and at the time really didn’t know it. Just like everything else in my bubble, even though my mind knows differently, I forget…and think everyone is like me. That everyone's parents were like mine. That everyone had what I had. That everyone went on vacations. That everyone had to learn to play piano. That everyone had Saturday chores to complete before being able to play with friends.

I remember being in school and wishing that we lived in the development down the street. I had many friends from school that lived there. That seemed so cool at the time, all those houses close together on curved roads. Cul-de-sacs seemed to be the golden place to live. How neat to be able to ride yours bike in circle all day long. They had sidewalks. Their houses were close together so you could cover more ground at Halloween. You could talk between windows with cans tied with string.

We lived on several acres of land. My neighbors had several acres, and the next neighbor had several acres. Our lots were very deep and wooded in the back. The woods all connected and we rode our bikes and mini-bikes through the trails we forged. At Halloween we had miles to cover since the houses were far apart. But everyone gave out full sized candy bars, roasted hot dogs and apples to bob for all the children in costumes.

My friends in the developments wanted to come to my house to play. I wanted to go to theirs.

That is my first memory of the 'grass is greener' syndrome.

But now, as I’m older, I appreciate more what I had as I was growing up. My dad was the provider. My mother was the ultimate homemaker. She worked and ran the house. Growing up I hung equally with both my parents. My dad taught me how to properly use tools, fix things, garden. My mother taught me how to plan and cook meals, iron shirts and balance the checkbook. My ex-husband said I was Bob Villa and Martha Stewart wrapped into one. And I was. Am.

I can have a meal cooking and go out to lop down and tree and split the wood for a fire by time dinners done. Paint a room while the soufflé is rising. Run for a quick manicure while the laundry is on spin cycle.

I’ve become my mom. And my dad. With a bit of Nancy thrown in as a twist.

I appreciate my parents more now than I ever did. My mom was a gem. My dad, too. Grace under pressure. That’s what they both taught me. What an amazing lesson that I’m still trying to perfect. Do your best. Plan ahead. Don't get caught unprepared. Smile.

How did they do it? Are things that much faster now? I think so. The lazy days of summer you see in movies are long gone. Now is the time of schedules. Blackberry picking is about choosing a cell phone, not of gathering materials for a pie. I wish things were just a tad slower in pace. To take some time sipping sweet tea on the hammock. Relaxing shouldn’t just happen on vacation. It should be something implemented into daily life, before daily life passes us by. Quite an epiphany.

So I sat down.

I plugged in a movie I’ve been waiting to watch when I had the time and I made the time. I enjoyed it.

Not the movie.
Or the highball.
But the time spent doing nothing...

:-)

Footnote: Thanks to both my mom and my dad for all their support over the years. I'd never be where I am without their love. I'll even add in there my big bro'. No matter what happens in the future...I know that I'm a pretty lucky gal to have had them all in my life...

it's not the breed...

2010-06-30T13:28:00.006-04:00

It’s not just a face a mother (or owner) could love.

It’s a face that constantly exudes abounding joy, uncompromising love, and unending slobber…usually delivered all at the same time.

I was surfing the internet the other night, trolling some of my favorite blogs, catching up on some news and a posting caught my eye. On lovelakewood.com, an update was given on some of the latest happenings in my city.

Lovelakewood is a great source of local information. Linked to the police blotter, it can keep you updated on all the crime in the area. The blog side of this site highlights some of the goings on in non-police pdf. blotter form. It's interesting stuff that usually doesn't get picked up by the news. This particular post listed all those with outstanding property taxes listed (amazing!). A lawsuit against Calanni Auto Service because they have a tendency to not return your car to you (incredible!). Police notified about several buildings stripped of the copper plumbing (unbelieveable!). A building demolished after being considered a neighborhood nuisance (so sad!).

But then in two lines, the author of this blog (who is a Lakewood resident as well), in a tongue in cheek way, managed to upset me with his coy delivery of an news item. I'm sure it was unintentional, but still upset me nonetheless.

I quote ‘There was another report of an 'it’s-not-a-pit-bull-it’s-an-american-bulldog' situation. Sounds familiar.’

Last year I wrote a blog post about Otis. I posted the video (which is hard to watch…) where the police tasered this dog. Several times. The City of Lakewood demanded Otis to be removed from the City limits or they would destroy the dog. The owner provided results of DNA testing showing that Otis was indeed not a pit bull. The City refused the findings. It made National headlines. People were riled up. The owner eventually made a deal with the city and moved away.

On March 19th, former Lakewood resident Lenard Shelton has brought a lawsuit against the city because he feels he was subjected to undue scrutiny and harassment from police when he would walk his dog. The police think it’s a pit bull. He claims it’s a Boston Terrier mix. He provided DNA testing to prove that his dog is not a pit and the city refused those results as well. He moved to a neighboring city. Why? Because of continued harassment and visits by police to his home threatening Mr. Shelton with criminal charges if he allowed his dog Rosco to remain in the city limits. He seeks $475,000 in damages.

There have been council meetings where residents have brought up that perhaps City of Lakewood employees should be schooled so they can identify, correctly, different breeds of dogs. The public safety guy was not pleased.

Lakewood banned pit bulls two years ago. Unless you lived here before that time and own a pit bull, you cannot register a dog with pit bull blood in any mix in the city. If you DO own a pit, you are required to provide a photo of your dog, copy of your homeowners liability insurance policy of not less than $100,000, provide proof that your dog has been micro-chipped, proof that your dog has been neutered or spayed, your dog must always be confined at all times and must be muzzled if walked in public. Oh, and the extra $50 for registering the dog.

All this is for dogs that have never had any history of violence.

506.03 PIT BULL dogs or Canary Dogs.

(a) All pit bull dogs and canary dogs (Perro de PresaCanario) are deemed to be dangerous animals even in the absence of a hearing by the Director of Public Safety or his or her designee.
(b) As used in this section, “pit bull dog” means any Staffordshire Bull Terrier, American Pit Bull Terrier or American Staffordshire Terrier breed of dog, any dog of mixed breed which has the appearance or characteristics of being predominately of such breeds, any dog commonly known as a piut bull, pit bull dog, or pit bull terrier; or a combination of any of these breeds.
(c) As used in this section “canary dogs” pr “Perro de PresaCanario Dogs” also include any dog of mixed breed which ahs the appearance of characteristic of bring predominatnly of such breed.
(d) In the event of a dispute as to whether a dog or not a dog is a pit bull dog, a canary dog, or some other breed, the Director of Public Safety or his or her designee shall make the determination without a hearing, and the burden of proof that such dog is not a put bull dog or canary dog shall be upon the owner or custodian.

506.10 Evidence
The Director of Public Safety or his or her designee may hear and consider relevant evidence offered by any person desiring to provide such evidence at a hearing to determine whether or not an impounded or confined animal is a dangerous animal or a vicious animal.
In making a determination as to whether or not such animal is a dangerous animal or a vicious animal, the following evidence may be considered:
Any previous history of the animal attacking, biting or causing injury to human beings or domestic animals
The nature and extent of all injuries inflicted and the number of victims involved
The place where the bite, attack or injury occurred
The presence of absence of any provocation for the bite, attack or injury
The extent to which clothing or other property was damaged or destroyed
Whether or not the animal exhibits any characteristic of aggressive or unpredictable temperament or behavior in the presence of human beings or domestic animals
The manner in which the animal has been trained, handled and maintained by its owner or custodian
Any other relevant evidence concerning the animal
Any other relevant evidence regarding the ability of the owner or custodian or the City to protect the public safety if the animal is permitted to remain in the City

506.04 Exception, Registration and Fee
Any owner of a dangerous animal as defined in Section 506.03 on the effective date of the ordinance who intends to keep such dangerous animal within the City of Lakewood shall have 90 days, from the effective date of this ordinance, to register such dangerous animal with the Director of Public Safety or his or her designee. The fee for such registration shall be $50.00. Registration shall take place annually thereafter. Registration shall include providing the name and contact information of the owner of the dangerous animal, the location where the dangerous animal shall be kept, and any other information deemed necessary to ensure the safety of the public by the Director of Public Safety or his or her designee. Registration shall be rejected and the dangerous animal shall be removed from the City of Lakewood if the owner fails to show proof annually of compliance with the following conditions:
**Summarized**

The dangerous animal must be implanted with a microchip, and the information contained on the microchip, must be maintained in a database by the Division of Animal Control along with a photograph of the animal
The animal must be spayed or neutered
The owner must obtain liability insurance for at least $100,000 for the entire period of registration
The animal, while on the premises of the owner or custodian, shall be confined indoors or in a securely enclosed pen or “dog run” with sides six feet high, imbedded at least one foot underground, and with a secured top
The animal, while off premises of its owner or custodian, shall be securely muzzled, leashed with a chain not longer than three feet (having tensile strength of not less than 300 pounds), under the control of a person eighteen years of age or older
Any government or utility company employee, and anyone else who comes on the property, shall be immediately informed of the animal’s dangerousness. The owner of the animal shall immediately notify the Director of Safety of any change made to the information on the registration

506.12 Disposition of Vicious Animals
Any animal designated by the Director of Public Safety or his or her designee, after a hearing, to be a vicious animal, if not already impounded by the City, shall be immediately surrendered to the Director of Public Safety or his or her designee, Animal Control Officer or a police officer.
Any animal declared by the Director of Public Safety or his or her designee, after a hearing, to be a vicious animal shall be humanely destroyed.
The Director of Public Safety or his or her designee shall issue an order authorizing the destruction of the vicious animal to take place not earlier than five days following the written decision by the Director of Public Safety or his or her designee designating the animal to be a vicious animal. If the owner or custodian of the vicious animal, within such period, files a notice of appeal of the Director of Public Safety or his or her designee’s decision with a court of competent jurisdiction, serves the Director of Public Safety or his or her designee with a copy of the notice of appeal and removes the animal from the City pending such appeal, the City shall stay the order of destruction, pending the appeal.

(Ord. 58-08. Passed 7-21-08.)

Lakewood is trying to become dog friendly. They recently have allowed people to walk their dogs in Lakewood Park. Lakewood Park is the main city park open to the public on the shores of Lake Erie. Since a council meeting back in 1973, dogs have not been allowed on park properties within the city limits. You can walk them on the sidewalks, but if you want to enjoy the park…leave your dog at home. No one has been able to determine why this was originally put into place. The council, when asked, would always support the ordinance because it was more cost effective for the city. It was “too expensive to put up signs and waste stations”.

Yet the city is in the process of a Clifton Boulevard revamp which will add a landscaped median (why?), improved lighting (no need), bus-coordinated traffic signalization (whoop de doo), new bus shelters (the ones there were put up 10 years ago and look fine), and a dedicated residential-side bus lane in each direction during rush hours. This is going to cost the city over $7-14 million dollars.

When asked about the need for medians, the answer was that would add a safety element to the roadway. It would give pedestrians a mid point to stop. No one I know has ever stopped halfway between a 7 lane thoroughfare. If you are crossing the street, you cross the street. Not stop in the middle for the next traffic light sequence! And if someone DID stop in the middle...don’t you think it would be distracting to drivers and create problems for the vehicles? Bah.

The most interesting part is that in each meeting about this beautifucation project, they stress over and over that ‘at this phase there is no expense for the City of Lakewood.’ Although if you go to see the budget planning, it shows that this study was indeed paid for already. To the tune of $765,000. Although again the refute the cost by saying it was from stimulus money. Really? We couldn’t do something else with three quarters of a million dollars except get a study to show us how to spend another 14 million?

I know, and I’m sure that everyone knows, no project is ever kept to budget. They started replacing pedestrian crosswalks with red brick. This was done at several stages. They would refinish the road with blacktop. Then come and cut the black top. They would then add the brick. Then the had to replace a sewer line and dug up both the brick and the pavement. They replaced the brick. They fixed the pavement. They are now adding these light poles which them damaged the brick and it has to be fixed again. When driving on the road it's uneven where it's been patched.

Does that make any sense?

Do the new Welcome to Lakewood signs really have to cost $10,000? Each? They want to replace all the current sandstone sidewalks. Granted, there are some that are in need a little repair…but it’s sandstone. It has character. It’s what all of Lakewood is about. Old with character. They are planning to remove and trash them all. Trust me, I once had an opportunity when they were diggin out some sandstone to do a repair I stopped to ask if I may have some that they were throwing away. They refused. He insisted that it HAD to be dumped into the dump truck, broken and trashed. ‘It was the policy.‘ he said. I’m sure that the city paid a pretty penny to have all that sandstone hauled out on a barge into Lake Erie and dumped as well. Why not let homeowners have their take at it and then dispose of the remainder? That would make sense.

But they would rather tear them all out and spend $810,000 (that's the estimate) to replace them with concrete. Supposedly this will help Lakewood remain in competition with it’s neighboring towns. Yes; Rocky River has a boulevard with a median. Yes; Bay Village has a median with plants. Yes; even Fairview Park has a median. Each of these cities had them in the first stages of city planning. They didn’t go to the expense of having this done after the fact. Especially during a recession. When unemployment still remains high, is it that necessary to spend $14 million of tax payers dollars? On a median and plants and new traffic lights and garbage cans and bus stops? On beautifucation?

If you go to the website, only 94 of the almost 55,000 people that live here commented in favor of this project.

But I’m on a tangent here. With all these project expenditures for the city, their excuse to not allow dogs into the park is “it’ll cost too much for signs”? Nonsense.

After the Otis incident, the council decided to do something to appease the upset pet owners in town. They did in fact put up signs and waste containers with bags for pet owners. It was never publicized. One day at the park I happened to see the sign. Prior to that viewing, I hadn’t a clue anything had changed.

“Hey Damian! I can NOW walk the dogs in the park!”

“Really? When did that change?”

“I haven’t any idea. But I saw the sign where I can leave the poo…if needed and took the pups in for a stroll. I DID get some nasty looks from others at the park. Apparently they don’t know you can walk your dogs here yet either.”

But it’s not just the cities view on dogs and dog breeds that has me again in an uproar. It’s the way people, like Mr. Davis, author of Lovelakewood.com present news that concerns dogs, dog owners and dog breeds. By putting ‘American Bulldog’ in the same negative connotation sentence with ‘Pit Bull’; people that don’t have knowledge of either breed first hand will automatically connect the two and thus think that an American Bulldog is vicious like a Pit.

Not all Pits are vicious. Nor are American Bulldogs.
It’s the Owners not the Breed that makes a dog vicious.

When buying or adopting a dog, people should be aware of the personalities of said dog they are bringing into their home. They should take into consideration their own personalities. If you are a couch potato and want a lap dog, do not get a working dog that needs extra exercise! If you want a dog to run and play Frisbee with, do not get a dog that is unable to physically carry out these tasks.

Dalmatian adoptions went sky-high when the Disney movie 101 Dalmatians was released in 1996. In 1997 and 1998 there was a dog pound glut of these dogs that their owners no longer wanted. In order to please their children, many people brought home these dogs not educated in how to care for a Dalmation. They abondonned them in shelters after becoming too big or too unruly. Sure the pups are adorable, but high energy and a bit skittish, they need lots of exercise and interaction. They didn’t think whether this breed would be a good fit for their household, they just liked the dogs ‘look’. When the movie 102 Dalmatians was released activists asked Disney to put a small statement at the beginning of the movie to discourage people from creating the same puppy glut that happened after 101 Dalmatians was in theaters.

I short term adopted my brothers puppy after the death of his wife. Arrow was a Border Collie. Extremely smart. Border Collies are herding dogs, they like to make sure they know where everyone is. I already had two big dogs (a Bovier and a Canadian Golden Retriever) so I knew that this 3 dog thing wasn’t going to last long, but I wanted to find a good home for Arrow.

When my parents were on vacation I told them I’d check in on the house. I took Arrow and Cameron (the golden) with me that afternoon. Cameron was a great dog, but he was one like in Assops fables where he lost his bone in the stream trying to get the bone from the dog reflection IN the stream. I was on the phone in the upstairs hallway, sitting and chatting with a friend that had called knowing I was in town. Both dogs had big bones to keep them busy. Cameron would routinely stop chewing on his bone and go over, push aside Arrow (who was a ¼ his size) and take his bone. Arrow would patiently give his bone up and then go over, take the original bone Cameron had and start chewing. Cameron after a time would then go over and push aside Arrow, take his bone and lay down. This happened about three times when finally as Cameron approached Arrow, Arrow ran to the top of the stairs and tossed the bone down the staircase. Cameron went lumbering down after the fallen bone, Arrow turned and grabbed the other one and laid down happily chewing away.

Had I not seen the “FACE!” that Arrow gave the bigger, yet obviously less intelligent dog….I wouldn’t have believed it. “You want the bone, dummy? Go get it.” You could see it in Arrows eyes what he thought of this big dumb dog. It was priceless.

I want to protect MY American Bulldog. He is not a pit bull and I hate that people are prejudicing him.
Yes; he has a big head. Yes; he can be intimidating if you are afraid of dogs. Yes; he will slobber on you if you allow him too. But my cat is more ferocious than my dog. My dog can’t sleep at night if he isn’t tucked under the blankets just so. He’s a big baby, my American Bulldog. So I would appreciate it if people like Anthony Davis not use his name in a counterproductive way.

I couldn’t find any thing on the internet to substantiate the news of ‘it’s-not-a-pit-it’s-an-American-Bulldog‘. I’d like to know more. I e-mailed him with no reply as of yet.

In the meantime, I’m off for a walk with the pups. They have brought me their leashes and are ready. After my vent here….I’m ready as well.

Maybe we will stroll through Lakewood Park since we can. I dare anyone to stop and ask me if Stuey is a Pit Bull. Now would not be the time. I might fill their ears...

:-)

If you’d like to sign the petition to change the ban on certain breeds; you may do so here. And also here.
Remember: It’s not the breed…it’s the owners.

This is interesting! My friend Karl sent this to me...do you think YOU can identify a Pit Bull? Take this test. I dare you! :-)

Postscript: I just received further identifying information about the news bit Mr. Davis wrote about on his post in lovelakewood.com. From the police media log report:
(Page 37)
Animal - miscellaneous
6/16 at 4:48 p.m. at 15524 Detroit - Ross Deli
Out with two females who possibly have pit bulls.
Teresa A Gurthrie of 1249 Lakeland was walking two dogs that appear to be pit bulls. She claims
they are American Bulldogs. One is a 4-year-old male. It is white in color and is named Romeo. The
second is a 6-month-old female. It is white and brown and is named Ania. Animal warden notified for follow-up

I've met Romeo and his owner Teresa. Their street is just over from ours, so they regularly walk in front of our house. One time I walked out to meet them as Romeo looks very similar to Stuey. He's a bit smaller and not quite as handsome, but his eye patch is the same but on the other eye. He is very much an American Bulldog. As a owner of one, there are similarities that are quite glaring to be able to tell the difference. Ross's Deli is just walking distance from here. My daughter and her friends like to ride their bikes over and buy penny candy. Now knowing this information that Teresa was just out for a walk with her dogs not far from her home and was stopped and now has to prove to the animal warden her digs DNA? That troubles me even further! Do I ned to start carrying Stueys papers with me when we go out walking? Romeo is a very mild mannered dog. Lathargic actually when you approach him. So it's quite obvious to me that the officer wasn't responding to anything he/she saw aas a threat, just a random stop of a pedistrian with her dogs?

Bah.
Looks like I should stop all gardening and house projects and call a realtor instead...

Nancyland...

2010-06-22T18:06:00.003-04:00

All’s well in Nancyland.

I got an e-mail from Carlos the other day saying just that. “Is all well in Nancyland?” he asked. Which made me pause and look at my calendar. Are you kidding? What day is this? Which then made me realize that it’s been 21 days since my last posting. Yikes. 21 days. A veritable lifetime in bloggy world. I’m sure you’ve been fine without me, but still…I am so sorry.

The last few weeks have been slightly (ha-understatement) hectic in said land of Nancy…complete with a bout of vertigo, pneumonia, laryngitis and ear/eyes/nose/throat summer cold. Add to that the garage sale, landscaping project and a friend requiring help moving , and my daughters two summer camps coinciding on the same days (who planned that nonsense!)…the equation brings you to taking three weeks off from my beloved blogoshere and its inhabitants.

Outside of an annoying repetitive cough, I’m better. Now.

The vertigo started after Boo and I spent an entire two days riding the coasters at Cedar Point. We stayed at the Breakers which allowed us extra time after regular park hours and an extra hour before the park opens as well. We are yearly season pass holders, so we have gotten rather elitist about the rides. If a line is too long, we just come back later. Doesn’t necessarily have to be that day since we only live 45 minutes away. But when you get to ride the Maverik (average wait time 2 hours+) or the Millenium (average wait time 1 hour+) 3 times each before 10am…well, life is good.

That is, until the next morning.

I awoke and rolled out of bed heading for the bathroom and realized that I had no equilibrium to keep me standing upright. It was rather precarious as I found this out at the top of the flight of stairs leading down. In my minds eye I saw myself a crumbled heap at the bottom unable to call for help. ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!’ keeps running like a mantra through my brain. This feeling of nausea and unstableness lasted the entire day. Me thinks I must curtail my overanxious inner 12 year old. Just like alcohol…one must pace themselves.

I love to get manicures and pedicures. It's a time when I can just totally relax and be pampered. I get manicures about every two weeks and a pedi about once a month (unless there is some new fabu colour that I MUST have and have now)...but for some reason my timing has been entirely off when scheduling such events of late. Instead of having fresh, shiny nails right before some social occassion, I end up doing yard work immediately afterwards. Which even if wearing gloves, ruins said manicure.

My daughter has determined uncounsiously to break every toenail I have. For some reason she feels that walking on my feet when wearing flipflops is preferable to walking on her own in sturdy Keens. Flipflops against Keens? The Keens always win. The nail technician is always wondering what I do to my freakin' toes...

BUT, even though my nails may not be shiny presently, my darn yard looks great. Maybe the best it's looked since I've lived here. My ex-husband even said so. (yay me!) I built a stone table of antique sandstone along the driveway where we cocktail while playing Cornhole during the summer. It's fabulous! Like a mini-Stonehenge! I had stopped at a garage sale and they had all this thick beautiful slabs of sandstone. I bought it all. Didn't know what I was going to do with it, but had to have it. I pulled in the driveway and asked my contractor to take it out of my Jeep.

"George....hey could you unload this?"
"What is all this? What are you planning on doing with it?" he asked me. I knew that he was eyeing it and realizing that this shit was h-e-a-v-y. It was perhaps the hottest day this year and he was almost completed staining my deck. Not a good job in the mid-day sun.
"I'm not sure yet, George. But I couldn't leave it there...I had to have it!" I explained.

He just shook his head. He's getting used to my antics. As he unloaded these extremely heavy articles out of the car and placed them alongside the driveway, I stood over them patting myself on the back for the beauties I just procured. All of a sudden it came to me. "Dig two holes right here George. And we'll stand these up and mortar the long piece across the top."

"Your kidding."

"Nope. Dig. I'll buy you some beer."

My contractors cool. I think I find jobs just to keep him busy at my house.

My basement has been cleared of clutter, another manicure sabotage. Well, almost cleared. I’m not perfect, you know. I need a little bit of mess. Control is overrated.

Over the past year I’ve been taking things that I no longer want, but haven’t been able to fully give up quite yet. I’ve been sorting them into boxes of maybe I might use again and boxes of give away and boxes of garage sale. I keep a stack of price stickers at the base of the stairs so I’ll tag the item before placing it into the bin. I read about that once in a magazine and thought it a brilliant idea. Amazingly enough I’ve been able to implement it into my life. Most brilliant ideas I ponder but never, ever actually use.

This past garage sale has cleared a large area in the basement that I’ve put some new shelving units in. There are shelves along the walls, but the floor area has always turned into a jumble of miscellaneous. My idea is that the shelves are deep and ceiling height. You can access them from either side. I even made flaps or covers for them out of old sheets to help keep dust and dirt from the items stored. Another ‘good idea’ supplied to me ala Martha Stewart.

I used to have a catering business. I have a lot of catering equipment. From Cambros to keep the food warm or cold in transport to stainless roll top chafers. I have plates and silverware and glassware for 100. I have a plethora of serving platters and bowls for any occasion. The problem is storing all these items. And keeping it organized.

My basement is a basement not meant for anything but a basement. My home was built in 1905. At that time families didn’t use their basements as another room in the home. It was a concrete filled space below the house that had the guts of the house in it.

The ceiling is low. Fine for me, but if you are over six foot, please watch the beams. You might end up with an unscheduled trip to the hospital. I’ve painted lines around the furnace and hot water tank so nothing gets stored close to those items. Another tip from Martha darling. And I’ve tied a red ribbon to the spigot for the overflow tank hiding in the ceiling beams for my boiler. I can’t tell you how many times I myself have hit my head on the valve knowing full well that its up there and that I should avoid it at all costs. It hurts. It leaves marks. It makes you swear like a trucker.

“Mommy! THAT’S a BAD word! The worst of the words!” my daughter once said after the tank leaving yet another large dent in my forehead.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby. That IS a bad word and I shouldn’t have said it.” I told her as I tried desperately to compose myself and keep my forehead from bleeding all over my white shirt. I thought it’s not quite the worst word, but damn near close. “I just hit my head on that fuckin’…I mean, darn thing AGAIN!”

After hitting it about a dozen times I finally got the bright idea to tie a ribbon dangling from the spigot so to unconsciously see it before banging into it. Again. And again. And again. You get the picture. (I get the bruises...)

All of this organization has come only after a long bout of un-organization. If asked for a tool, or an item I can recall where it’s located. I have a memory like that. I made more money off my dad by finding his wallet or glasses over the years. I’d be a good detective. I can walk through a space and then recall what was in there. I don’t go into the room thinking that I need to remember stuff, I just can see it in my minds eye. I’ve no need to pray to Saint Anthony for lost items, I can find them myself.

The problem is I can find it because I know where it is. I just can’t direct anyone else to it.

“The clips for the tablecloths are in a plastic bag on the second shelf over by the hot water tank next to the candles in a shoe box under the bin that has the gift wrap ribbon in it. It’s a blue shoe box, you can’t miss it.”

“Huh?” is usually the reply. “Where exactly?”

So I put down what I’m doing to go and retrieve it myself. It’s much easier that way. But it would be better if I had it organized so anyone would be able to find things. Delegate responsibility. That’s what I was always taught as a manager. You may do a better job yourself, but if you delegate responsibility correctly you’ll get more work done in a shorter period of time.

Thus the organization.
And the time put in. Or should I say…overtime.

Thank goodness the basement is cool. The last couple weeks have been scorchers up here on the North Coast. So to spend time in my not made for habitation basement was actually pleasant. I’m going to try to make it another year without air conditioning. I’d like to say it’s because I’m trying to reduce my carbon footprint on good ol’ Mother Earth. But truly it’s just to keep my energy bills down. I’ve not central air in my 1905 home. And I don’t care what kind of window unit you buy, they are not energy efficient. There are about 3 weeks of the year that I would gladly sell my home and buy some prefab McMansion just to have central air…but if I can make it through those 3 weeks then I love all the glory of my century mission style home.

Enter in the sick part.

Hot. Sticky. Humid. I slept with a fan blowing on me in close proximity one night. I awoke with a cold. Which continued to get worse. Which turned into laryngitis. Which then moved into my chest. Which then landed me with a minor case of pneumonia. Summer sickness is the worst.

But I’m better now. I still sound like a was a smoker from way back. My voice is deep and cracky. My friend Melissa thinks I sound like Kathleen Turner. She thinks I should re-record all my outgoing messages for voice mail now so I can add a sultry sound to my normally nasal “We can’t come to the phone right now….”

I don’t like the sound of my voice recorded.
But then again, I don’t like my image in print either. Unless it’s taken while on the front car of a roller coaster. Before the vertigo sets in...

:-)

Thanks to all for hanging in with me during my little involuntary reprieve from the blogosphere!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks also to Molly of Hope, Fate and a little Hypothetical Coffee for tagging me in a 25 things you really never wanted to know about me-MeMe. Of course, HER 25 things are grand. 25 things about me? I really don’t think you want to know….but to appease Miss Molly, I’ll give it a go.

1. I’ve been buying clothes other than black, white or gray.
2. I’ve been taking all the clothes other than black, white or gray back.
3. I spend too much eating out.
4. I won’t curtail my eating out although I should.
5. I love dirty martinis.
6. I can’t drink more than two or I become a blithering idiot.
7. I’ve not answered any phone calls in the last 3 weeks. That's why I have voicemail.
8. I only have checked voice mail once every two days. Unless absolutely necessary. I'm sure it drives my ex-husband insane.
9. It’s been like heaven not answering the phone.
10. I just ordered 3 pairs of shoes that I don’t need but must have.
11. My credit score has finally recovered from my divorce so many years ago.
12. I now get 3 offers daily to open credit cards.
13. I love apple. Not apples, although I like them too, but apple Inc. The stock I bought back when the market crashed at $80 a share has now about paid off my house.
14. Who knew I was a stock market genius.
15. My daughter is funny.
16. She likes gray, black and white clothes too. With a little splash mixed in.
17. I like to procrastinate. I mean, I don't LIKE to procrastinate; but obviously I must since I do it so often.
18. I love doing laundry, but hate putting it away.
19. I love to entertain, but stress out and hate doing it prior to anyone arriving. Once they're here, I’m fine.
20. It’s been almost a year since my mom died. I still talk to her daily.
21. I was never a coffee drinker until I met Damian. Now I can’t hardly go a day without it. Cold/Hot…doesn’t matter. But it HAS to be with crème. Bah.
22. I could eat sushi everyday.
23. I love to buy sparky party jewelry, but never wear it.
24. I own 26 evening bags. I like to display them in my dressing room.
25. I hate celebrity magazines and such but love to read PerezHilton.

Now I must tag 10 people to also tell me more, tell me more, tell me more!

These 10 unsuspecting people are:

(drum roll……)

1. Chrissy @ I ShouldaBeenAStripper . Why? Because she’s one of my best friends and I pass everything on to her.
2. SuziCate @ The Water Witches Daughter Love her!
3. Julie @ At Home with Myself. Jules is soooo adorable.
4. Karl @ Intense Guy. 'Cause I'd like to know 25 more things about him!
5. KaLynn @ Kacklin' With KaLynn KaLynn always makes me smile.
6. Maureen @ Island Roar If I lived closer, we'd be best pals I'm sure of it. :-)
7. Janice @ Take It Aweigh I need to do this and be accountable. Maybe just THEN I could skip those sweets. :-)
8. Renee @ Style...the New Black Renee is just one of those all around talented gals. You should SEE the scarf she knitted for me and the pin she made for Boo!
9.Tinkerbell @ If I were my best friend... She makes me feel. Nuff said.
10. Senorita Andauluciana @ The Decline of Youth and the Beginning of Me She's one that's been with me for a long time. I always look forward to her comments!

Many of these people you've seen probably before. (hint: most are in my reading list) But....NOW they will be peer pressured into giving us more insight into who they actually are. 25, my friends. 25.
:-)

(all those that I didn't officially 'tag', feel free to pick this up even if I didn't call you out!)

another deja vu...

2010-06-01T13:30:00.003-04:00

As I sit here typing this, I'm experiencing a serious sense of déjà vu.

It was a year ago today that I sat on this same chair, looking at the same scenery, senses experiencing the same set of stimuli. The lake is silent. Calm. Flat. The sun just peaking over the trees on the other side making the water sparkle like perfectly cut diamonds. The only sound is the swans speaking with each other.

It’s obviously going to be another perfect day.

The rest of the household is still sleeping. There are no window treatments in the room I’m in, so I laid in bed last night watching the full moons reflection make it’s way across the black and blue water. It was too beautiful and serene to sleep. But I did; eventually.

To wake to this.
This calm. This peace. This beauty.

Sometimes when I’m at places that take my breath away; like the house I rented on the ski slope in Colorado, or the home deep in the Tennessee hills, or the beachfront property on Amelia Island. I wonder if the owners of these gracious vacation homes, or their neighbors, see it the same way I do. Do they see it’s perfect-ness? Or do they see it so often that they no longer feel the zen that perhaps it created for them on their first visit to the property.

My brother has lived here for seven years now. His intent when he purchased this particular piece of land on the lake was to build, sell and build again on the lot next door which he owned as well. It was about business. He wasn't building a home, he was building an invesment.There is a gorgeous large weeping willow tree between the two properties on the edge of the lake that he was going to have removed.

“It blocks the view. It’s got to go.” he told me one day.

“Uh. No, Charles. It raises the property value. It’s beautiful!” I desperately tried to convince him.

He was unwavering in his decision to remove the tree. Once Charles has made up his mind he may listen to other peoples input, but he usually follows what he has already planned out. But for once, my argument worked. He listened to me. He did not cut it down. It is a focal point on the lake. If out on a boat, you can see it from just about everywhere with my brothers house behind it. It's idealic. I’m sitting under this magnificent tree right now. He ended up staying in the house he built and sold the property next door.

His home is large. Three stories of large windows face the lake. It's built for entertaining, complete with infrared stereo system that extends all the way out to the water line. But his house is sparsely decorated. He is a widower of seventeen years. No ones quite been able to fill Terse's shoes. His home lacks a female touch. The kitchen would make a gourmet drool except that it doesn't have any cooking utensils. Things aren't put logically into the correct drawers or cabinets. Where the silverware should be, the drawer houses pads of paper and appliance manuals. The best spot for pots and pans holds small isualted coolers instead. The pans are located next to the fridge and the plates are where glassware should be and visa versa. Granted, he doesn't cook or use his kitchen much, so he doesn't think about these things.

Model homes tend to have more knick-knacks than his house does. I noticed a huge change on this visit. It's taken seven whole years, but on this visit he actually has artwork hanging on the walls. There is a beautiful large area rug in the living room and a tall copper pot with fronds. He's now decided that this house is indeed his home. The throw pillows gave it away.

Oh, and he now loves the tree. You’re welcome Mr. Willow.

We set off fireworks last evening. Normally when I come up we pass the signs on the highway touting ‘FIREWORKS! Easy off, Easy on’ but we keep on driving. Each driveby we comment that some day we should stop someday when we have more time. We’re usually in a rush to get there, or in a rush to get home…so stopping at the FIREWORKS store is not a priority.

Yesterday it was.
We stopped.
And we bought.

In Ohio it’s illegal to sell or set off fireworks. In Michigan they do sell them, but it’s still illegal to set them off. But on a private lake where there are always someone lighting the night sky with sparkly lights. We had Black Cat mortars which went extremely high and sent lovely colors in every direction. Ending with a sparkly, fizzily finish. A package of 12 tubes called Size doesn’t Matter that sent timed shots airborne that made us look like professional pyrotechnic operators.

But the most amazing thing we lit and sent off was floating lanterns. Not floating as in water floating, but floating as in air floating. A semi-opaque biodegradable three foot high coated tissue thin paper balloon of sorts with a black flammable square attached to the base. You can write messages on the side if you wish, light the base, wait a moment for the hot air to fill the balloon and up and away it goes.

It was beautiful. Starting out slowly at first and then when it reached the height above the tree line it took off. We lost sight of it about a mile or so away, but it was still up there. No losing altitude. Yet. I wonder where it will land. Who will find it. Who sat on their porches or decks last night pointing up at the night sky “What the hell is that, Mable?”

“I’m not sure Irving. Some sort of alien ship? “, she’d answer. “Git me another beer while yur up.”

We’ve let go many a helium balloon and watched them float away. Some on purpose, and some not. But nothing compared to the sight of this glowing orb floating up into the clear night sky. There was something peaceful and calming about watching it drift ever higher. Tilting this way and that in the gentle breeze.

I went online first thing this morning and bought a case of them. Whenever I feel the need for zen, I’m going to write my woes on the balloon, light it up and watch my cares disappear.

Not that I have many woes. Today is my birthday. Life is good, just like those T-shirts. And I’m sitting on the deck on the lake at my brothers house. Coffee in hand watching the lake come alive.

Again.
Just like last year. The zen is still here. I still see it. I still feel it.

As my daughter I said to me yesterday, “It’s all in how you look at it, Mommy.”

Yup. She’s got that right. I asked my brother what he saw when he looks out over the lake on which he lives. He likes it here, but he's just too damn busy. He doesn’t get to spend all that much time on it. He doesn’t savor it’s beauty as often as he’d like. He doesn’t take the time to sit here under the willow and listen to the signs of life around the lake.

So I’m savoring it for him while everyone still sleeps.

I love this time of day. I love this tree. I love this lake. I even love that water skier because he is has made my déjà vu complete.

It’s good to be alive. Even though after today I might have to start lying about my age.
:-)

Footnote: Many people have asked about the sky lanterns and where to purchase them (or see them!). There are a few places that sell them, but this is the one that we sent off and it worked great. Just check here to send you to their link!

that third cup...

2010-05-22T08:39:00.002-04:00

Civic duty. n -the responsibilities of a citizen.

Duty. Obligation. Responsibility. The social force that binds you to the courses of action demanded by that force; "every right implies a responsibility; every opportunity, an obligation; every possession, a duty"- John D. Rockefeller Jr.

I received a letter in the mail a few weeks ago. Stamped 'SUMMONS' from the City of Lakewood. I felt a bit of anxiety in opening the damn thing. What does the clerk of courts want with me? Anytime I get paperwork like that unexpectedly, I can feel my abdomen tighten with trepidation.

Jury Duty.

I’ve been called to serve on a jury and I must report at 9:00 am to the court house. My first thought it Oooh! Fun! It’ll be like on Law & Order! But I’ve never watched Law & Order, so immediately you can see my brain in out of skew.

The instructions listed were to call the day before after 4:00pm to make sure the jury is going forward. I’m to understand that many times cases get settled before they actually make it to jury selection. 4:01pm I place my call.

“Hi. I received a letter instructing me to call?” I ask the woman who answers the phone.

“Your juror number please?”

“Juror number 10.” I politely respond.

“Thank you, Nancy” I’m slightly taken aback that she know my name. Caller ID? No. She’s obviously looking at a list. “I appreciate your calling. The jury is not going forward this week.”

“Aw. That’s too bad. I was kind of looking forward to it! I’ve never been called for jury duty before.”

As these words are coming out I’m instinctively reaching for my shoe so I can insert it into the hole that serves as my mouth. Shut up Nancy, my mind is screaming.

“Really?” the lady chuckles. “Would you like to serve on next weeks jury? We rarely get anyone that wants to do this, they normally call with excuses to get out of doing it. Some of them are just priceless.”

It was too late. I could have said ‘No’, but I didn’t. She scheduled me for the following weeks jury. Juror number 19 this time.

Wednesday morning as I was getting ready to leave, I started putting on the usual daily uniform. Jeans, tee, cardigan, flip flops. I looked in the mirror and thought, Duh. Show some respect to the court. You can’t wear jeans. What were you thinking? I quickly, as I’m running a little behind, change into some trousers and pumps. The rest is fine.

At the courthouse I’m guided to the appropriate window to sign in. “Good morning. Please sign your name here and print your address below, please.” I do so and respond with good wishes for their day as well. The sun is shining, the air fresh. It’s perhaps one of the nicest days we’ve had in weeks…and I’m headed into a courthouse. By my own doing from opening my pie hole a little too wide.

“Oh! Nancy McDonnell!” she exclaims. “We had a judge Nancy McDonnell.”

This I know because a.) I’ve met her before. b.) I get many official invitations to political rallies and dinners addressed to her. c.) I get offers that people would like to work on my campaigns and d.) this is the one that frightens me sometimes; I get phone calls late at night from the police station wanting me to sign emergency warrants.

No one likes to wake at 2am by a phone call that the caller ID identifies as the police station.

I was arrested once (yeah , I know. Little ol' me…I’ll tell you all about it sometime) and had the jail in a tissy because word spread that Nancy McDonnell had been arrested and was presently incarcerated. The police were very nice, I don’t think they knew whether I was the Nancy McDonnell or another…so they were on their best behavior just in case. They didn’t even put me in a cell, they let me sit at the desk until someone came to pick me up. Even brought me coffee. I guess it helps sometimes to share a name.

I smile and say, “Yes, I know. I’ve met her. But I’m not her, trust me.”

By the time I’ve been escorted to the chambers where the jury is housed before going to the courtroom I’ve gone through this schpiel several times. Finding a chair I look around. My fellow potential jurors obviously didn’t think the same thing I did about respecting the court.

Yes, there are a few that are dressed obviously for work hoping to get out of here soon. A young man with a tie; an older gentleman with trousers and tennis shoes; the lady in the suit that is busy pecking away on her Blackberry even though there is a large sign that says ‘No Cell phones’. That obviously must not apply to her.

There’s a young girl in skinny jeans, pink streeked hair and Converse high tops that looks like she works at Starbucks (which ironically during questioning later we find that she does work at Starbucks); an overweight younger man in his mid 30's with a huge black t-shirt emblazoned with Led Zeppelin over long hip-hop shorts. He looks like he still lives at home and is missing out on serious PS3 zombie killing time. His hair is longer but has that ubiquitous balding spot. He never meets anyone’s eyes. He hangs his head, fiddles with his hands and just looks angry and miserable; and a gal missing many teeth that is shoveling the donut holes the court provided into her mouth at an alarming rate. She informs us that she never is up this early. (9:15) Wow. Really? That’s so unbelievable…ha.

It’s an interesting crowd to say the least. Thirty random people in Lakewood all gathered here for their chance to serve their civic duty to their city. A few know each other and are talking about their kids soccer games or PTA meetings. Lakewood is a small town. But I don’t recognize any of these people. There is one gal that I think works at the party store, or is it the grocery? I’m not sure. I’ve seen her face but don’t know who she is.

As we are waiting in this conference room I wonder what kind of case it will be? Not much happens here in Lakewood. If this venue had been in Cleveland proper, it could be anything. But in Lakewood? I’m sure they won’t turn this into a TV show.

The baliff appears at the door. He calls our names and line us up to walk single file into the courtroom. As juror 19, I’m in the second row. They call the first eight jurors up into the stand and start their questioning. Married? Employed? Where do you work? Ever been assaulted? Ever been the victim of a crime? How do you feel the police handled the situation? Do you know any of these other people sitting by you? Anyone in your family work in law enforcement?

BlahBlahBlah
Same questions, many times over. I'm starting to get bored. I stifle a yawn.

The benches in the courthouse are wood. Like old church pews. As I’m sitting there listening I come to the realization that I shouldn’t have had that third cup of coffee. Or I should have used the restroom when they said “If you need to use the bathroom you should do so now before we go into the courtroom” Ooops.

I’m glancing at the clock as the judge is thanking us for our being here. That we will be taking breaks. That they never know how long these things will last and that by us appearing here at court as prospective jurors, this is how the justice system continues to be fair and impartial by citizens such as ourselves.

Judging by the progress made thus far, I’m thinking, You can hold it, Nancy. I’m also thinking I should’ve worn those crepe soled shoes rather than the leather ones, these click on the tile and I can’t sneak out if needed without drawing attention.

Damn.

The defense lawyer is ill-prepared. He obviously doesn’t do this much. He keeps referring to his notes and his delivery then is ill-timed because he has to keep flipping through pages. His client keeps turning his head and rolling his eyes. Even the judge is looking at him impatiently. Blue pin striped suit, double vent, jacket a little too snug. He doesn‘t miss many meals this guy. Black hair done Guido style with a little too much hair goop. He’s one of those that hangs out after work downtown letting any stray female know he’s a lawyer. I can just picture it. Fact is, when out I purposely sidestep these characters.

His client is a middle aged man wearing perhaps his best clothes. Black leather jacket and khaki pants. Black tennis shoes. Slumped shoulders, wiry black hair, mustache. The charge is assault. At a car wash.

The City of Lakewood’s prosecutor starts with her questioning of the jurors on the stand. Until she introduced herself, I figured she was a stenographer. She’s poorly dressed. As I’m looking at her, I feel badly for her. Her hair is greasy…like two days past acceptable greasy. It’s shoulder length and hangs in the back like spaghetti. She’s wearing a floral skirt. White background with large hot pink hibiscus on it. Little clear palettes make it shimmer. It would be nice and appropriate for a summer wedding or cocktail party, but not in a courtroom. I can’t see what blouse she’s wearing from my seat but whatever it is, it’s covered up by a ridiculous oversized hot pink jean jacket. Ill fitting, but a hot pink jean jacket? Ina courtroom? I’m amazed that she hasn’t been given a dress code warning by the court. She’s even wearing sandals. And do I need to mention the white at this time of year? She's got so many Glamour don'ts added up, we need not add more.

To me? By her dress alone, she doesn’t carry any importance or authority.

This is fun, watching this court of law unfold. It’s some good people watching also. Except that my stomach is now making these sounds that alerts me I soon need to use the restroom. Luckily enough, both the prosecutor and the defense attorney are satisfied with the original eight people addressed. They pull one more and send her through the same question field and they are happy with her for an alternate.

The rest of us sitting in the courtroom are thanked for our time and dismissed. I’m slightly disappointed that I didn’t even get called to be questioned, but happy in a way that I didn’t get called to the stand. I had to put a lot of things in place just in case I did have to spend the entire day here. So I’m ecstatic that on such a beautiful day I can do something other than watch these two unprepared, poorly dressed lawyers present their case.

I’m sure those called will be riveted by their performance.

I might not have been able to keep myself at break from informing the prosecutor that she’s dressed inappropriately. Maybe I’d have given her my business card. I could definitely help her with her professional wardrobe. The least I could do is to send her to my hairdresser to fix that mess.

CSI this was not. Or at least I’d assume it wasn’t even close.
I don’t watch that show either.

But now I’ve done my civic duty. I wonder if I’ll ever get called again. Probably not. But if I do, I’m not drinking coffee that day.

But I may wear jeans.
:-)

majestic trees...

2010-05-14T11:06:00.002-04:00

Are you safe?

When you go to bed at night, do feel like your home is a safe haven for you? I’ve always felt safe in my house. It’s big. It’s sturdy. And having been built in 1905, it’s built well. Solid. Safe.

Lakewood is rather safe as well. Everything about Lakewood creates a comfort zone and sense of stability.

On the North Coast on the edge of Lake Erie we are protected from natural catastrophes as well. We aren’t in fear of earthquakes, or mudslides, or tsunamis, or volcanoes. We don’t have forest fires, or flooding, or tornadoes. We are seemingly insulated from disasters. At least those that Mother Nature is responsible for.

Usually.

The last tornado on record in Lakewood was back in 1965. But one touched down here this past Friday night.

A joke here in Cleveland is ‘the weatherman can’t tell yesterdays weather’. Or ‘In Cleveland, just blink and the weather will change.’ It’s true. It does.

Weatherbug showed on their radar that a huge storm was headed our way last Friday. Allright, so what. I did the manditory pre-storm checklist and made sure all my tools were put away. Rakes and shovels put back in the garage, garage doors firmly closed and windows closed and locked. No biggie.

The wind started picking up around 7:00pm. The rain started hammering the house at 8:12pm. And then the hail started at 9:22pm.

Large as marbles, it hammered the back side of my home. Boo had a girlfriend over for a sleepover and the sound was deafening. They were a little scared by it, but a little intrigued all the same. We don't get that much severe weather here and I don't think Boo has ever seen (or heard) hail before.

“Mommy! WHAT is that out on the ground?” Boo asked.

“It’s hail, darlin’. BIG hail.” I replied. I can't remember, if ever, I've seen hail this big myself. I remember collecting some as a child that looked like peas, but never marbles.

“It’s the size of my marbles! Can I go out and get some?” she pleaded.

“Not unitl it stops. If those hit your head, it’ll hurt. Really, really hurt. Bad.”

So we watched.
And we listened.
And it WAS scary. It sounded as if there were a firing squad out on my deck firing off clip after clip of ammunition against my back windows. I thought they would break at any moment. And then I thought about my car. I failed to put it in the garage and it was sitting out in the drive. Under the pin oak. Imight as well have painted a bullseye on it. 'Incoming!' Ugh. I hope that it makes it through this unscathed.

Then the towns siren started.
Low at first and then drowning out even our conversation. It never goes off except for testing.

“I think maybe we should go downstairs for a bit.” I calmly suggested. At least I tried to sound calm. The wild look in my eyes belied my voice.

My basement is a basement made for a house built in 1905. It’s not the rec-room basement of modern built homes. The ceiling beams hang low and the copper pipes shine in the rafters. It has a laundry room and the rest is storage. Not exactly a place to hang out. But hang out is exactly what we did.

Grabbing a couple of bean bags to sit on we cleared a small area, drug a old discarded side table over and started to play cards. One game of rummy, three of old maid and then a rousing game of concentration using not one deck but two. With the storm booming through the house periodically even the dogs and cat came down to hang with us. When the siren subsided we ventured back upstairs. The power only flickered once. Just enough to turn off any televisions and clocks so the house permeated with an eerie blue glow.

When the storm was mostly past with just remnants of gusting wind blowing swirling debris, I ventured outside to find that the hail had sheared off freshly emerged leaves from the trees. They lay covering the driveway and lawn as if it were fall. But all the leaves were a fresh green, not brown after a seasons life. Small twigs and branches littered the area. My car looked as if it had been decoupaged with oak leaves.

I walked out to the tree lawn to inspect the damage up and down the street. My neighbor two doors down lost a large limb in the storm that smashed her new garage and punched out a couple of west windows in the process.

A friend in Clifton Park had lost power when a tree fell over their street. They just moved into their home in December and have been busy with yard work this spring. Her middle daughter was having her first communion on Saturday and they were in a rush to get the particulars together for the family party. Their home wasn’t damaged, but all their new landscaping was a mess. The power was out until Monday. The party was moved and all the food perished with the outage.

Everywhere you looked there were large 125 year old red oak trees uprooted and laid out across property lines. Clifton Boulevard is known for it’s oak lined parkway. Every third tree seemed to be on it’s side. Their large root systems exposed for all to see. It was sad sight. History in the making. Or unmaking as it were.

I have a rental property on Clifton Boulevard. A three family home that I had purchased back in 1991 and have owned since then. The property has two very large oaks in the back. I’m not necessarily a tree hugger, but if it’s still alive, I’ll keep it. By their sheer size, arborists have estimated their years to be somewhere in the 130-150 year old range. Those bad boys can stay there as long as they’d like. They were here long before I was.

I don’t do much for the trees. I have them fertilized from time to time. They come and inject goodies into it’s cambium layer. For a tree it’s like me sticking a B12 under my tongue. It gives them a little boost. I have them trimmed of their deadwood periodically, but I pretty much let them do their own thing. They are healthy for trees of that age. Every so often there will be a branch that dies off. It’s the way of the tree. It reverts it’s energy to another portion of itself to keep growing.

My neighbor behind the house hates my trees. She thinks ‘They are dead or dying. Cut them down.’ But they aren’t, so I won’t. It’s a point of contention between us. She doesn’t like me because of my trees. She has even called the City of Lakewood to file a formal complaint. But the city inspector doesn’t see anything wrong with my trees either, so they still stand.

I don’t think she’s going to be inviting me to tea any time soon.

Yesterday I drove in to visit with my dad. We had a great day. And after dinner he said, “You’d best get on your way back home.”

Dad’s kicking me out of the house? That’s unheard of. He usually asks if I can stay longer. “There’s a big storm coming and I want you to stay in front of it.”

Another storm? Argh. I just dodged a bullet with that last storm! With all the trees down, having found my dead branch that my neighbor hates to have still hanging on is a miricle in and of itself. But I don’t want to have to worry about another storm coming. I do have due diligence on my side. I am in possession of a signed contract to prove I was being proactive with the trees in case something does indeed happen before they get there, but still…please don’t let that branch fall before then. My neighbor will never, ever let me hear the end of it if that happens.

I suppose that branch shows just how strong and healthy those trees actually are.
Or stubborn. (like me)

The drive home was uneventful. But I checked the Doppler radar when I got back in front of my computer. Yup. There is was. A doozy of a storm front headed right towards us. One that shows red and yellow on the radar screen.

I went to bed feeling anxious.

And the storm did hit. In the middle of the night with large crashes of lighting and booming thunderclouds. The heavy downpour left my backyard a veritable pond.

But no downed branches or leaves this time around.
And the oaks at Clifton still stand.

Standing on my deck with my coffee this morning, overlooking what more yard work needs to be done to clean up after this last temper tantrum from Mother Nature, I can envision my neighbor doing the same. She's probably having her morning tea in her breakfast nook looking into her own backyard shaded by the branches of my tree that she hates. Lines creasing her forhead as she sees her nemisis, my trees, still hanging there majestically over the back of her property.

Ha.

Another bullet dodged.
I do hope Mother Nature will take a few days off. That she will be nice to us for the next couple of weeks. I like me a good storm now and again. However I've still yard waste to pick up from LAST weeks storm, let alone the one from yesterday.

Mother Nature...please. With all due respect, just wait until the tree guys get here...
:-)

nothing but time...

2010-05-07T12:27:00.004-04:00

Six months.

Does six months seem like a long time?
Or just a small drop in the bucket?
I suppose it all depends on who is checking. At that particular time.

Six months for a kid waiting for summer vacation seems like a lifetime. Waiting for your income tax refund check can seem like forever when you're eyeing a new patio furniture set that you shouldn't really buy. But for others? Maybe time moves much too swiftly.

In conversation the other day I learned that a friends uncle by marriage has pancreatic cancer. Still a young man by today’s standards, the doctors have informed him that he only has 6 months to live. Most of those six months he will probably not be in robust health.

It made me pause to wonder, ‘What would I do if I were told I only had 6 months to live?’

If I had an unending supply of money perhaps I’d take on that list of unfulfilled dreams and check them off, one by one, until my time ran out. But unlike Jack Nicholson in The Bucket List, I do not have a unlimited supply at my disposal. I don’t have that Black American Express card that I dream about. You know the one. It has no spending limit and the bill never comes? That one. And my money tree in the backyard seems to have shriveled and isn’t looking to grow a new root system anytime soon.

So what does one do?

That weight loss program I’ve embarked upon would seem rather futile. I seen people get into shape and lose weight to look perfect for their wedding day, but for your own funeral? Nah. Bring me another crème brulee instead.

And what about my golf game? No need to lower the handicap further. I highly doubt I’ll be playing where ever it is my soul ends up after my death.

I would still like the opportunity to hike to Machu Pichu in Peru before I die. Perhaps that trip might bring me the peace and serenity that I seek. After sitting in the clouds amongst the ruins, I could probably let go. Of everything. Perhaps I’d pass whilst there. I would physically be closer to heaven. Maybe because of my close proximity to the heavens they might let me in those pearly gates? “C’mon in Nancy. No need sending you back down.“ Peter would say, jingling the keys.

Or would I sink into depression and drown my sorrow of my ill fated pull of the lifeline straw? Open a line of credit at the local tavern and spend my days like Bukowski writing down my remorse over my impending doom.

I don’t really know. I’m not sure what I would do. Fight? Give up and resign?

I’d like to think that being of a positive nature that I’d fight back. But I can’t be positive that I would.

I’m always amazed when watching I Shouldn’t Be Alive on television. The strength that many of these people find within themselves leaves me speachless. They tenously hold on by a thread to life in certain situations that by all regards seems a hopeless cause. But they do. And they live to tell about it.

I wonder what might happen if I were caught in a canyon for days. Could cut my own arm off slowly with a pocket knife in order to make it out of their predicament after 3 days? I highly doubt I could.

I ponder if a shark just ate my leg while diving that I could garner the strength to fight back by punching it until it swam away? And then go on to be fitted for cyber legs and run marathons? There is definitely no way.

I asked a couple of my close friends what they would do. Melissa, always upbeat, said that there were some places that she’d want to return to. To basically say ‘Goodbye’ to people that who mean the most to her. The family in France and the people in Thailand with whom she lived while she was in the Peace Corp. She did say that if she had the energy that she’d make the trek to Machu Pichu with me if there were time. Always thinking of others, that gal.

Damian said he’d finally write that book. To leave something of himself behind. The book would allow him to have peace. For himself and for hopefully for those reading his words. That it might perhaps shed an understanding of peace, his peace, as guidance for others. I'd like a copy of that. It'd give me something to hold on to. Signed, of course.

And one said they’d find a way to get medicinal marijuana, dig out the old albums and live like Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix in a blissful Purple Haze until the end came.

There was a movie shown at the Cleveland Film Festival called Timer. A digital clock is implanted into your wrist that counts down the seconds until you meet your one true love. That could be rather distracting and become all consuming. But what if the watch told you the time of your death? Would you live the rest of your life with reckless abandon because you know that your time isn’t up? Yet.

I’ve got timepieces that don’t keep quite the right time. Gorgeous wrist art, but they do lose seconds. Which turn into minutes. Which turns into hours if you don’t keep track. So who’s to say that the timer on your wrist couldn’t be wrong as well?

I’d probably get one of the faulty ones. Somewhere in the universe is some sort of bias when it comes to 'all things Nancy'. I went to a meeting where someone said, ‘God won’t lead you to it if you can’t get through it.’ Well yippity-do-da. I’m so glad that He feels that I’m capable. But c’mon now. How about letting someone else get through it for a change?

I bought a pair of shoes on eBay. The seller packed them wrong; sent them in a bag, not a box. So they have creases in the leather on the front due to the handling at the post office. Easily avoided. But I let it go. It wasn’t that big of a deal. I DID let her know so she wouldn’t disappoint future eBay buyers. It was an obvious oversight due to her newness to the eBay community.

I had my house painted. They did a great job. Or so I thought. When I put the screens in this spring I found that they hadn't scrapped away the excess from the window panes up on the third floor. It wasn’t obvious from street level and I didn't know that they missed it. Solution? I could call them back and bitch, but instead of confrontation I just threw up a ladder and scrapped it off myself. No biggie.

I bought a Jeep. So far I’ve had to have it serviced for the DVD player, the catalytic converter and the drive train. All under warranty but they don’t supply loaners when service is being done. Something I got used to when I owned a Land Rover. The dealership is close to the house, so I just walked home and shopped close to home the next day or so. Why complain. I just looked at it as leaving a little less carbon footprint on Mother Earth for a couple of days. The weather was nice, so I put away the pretty shoes, pulled out the comfy ones and just hoofed it.

That’s the way I am.
I’m rather complacent. Or too understanding.

I had a tenant let me know about a couple of things at the property that he felt could be improved upon. He’d been renting the house for three years. “Nancy, when your electrician replaced the electrical boxes, I think he messed up with some of the breakers. You should have him look at it. Some breakers will switch if you have a hair dryer and the TV running and others won’t switch at all.”

First thought? Uh, Jeff. Why didn’t you tell me then? That was two years ago!

He continued with, “You’re a nice lady. Sometimes you should get mad. People are going to take advantage of you.”

Interesting comment.
One for food for thought.

Me? Get mad? Get angry?

Nah. It takes too much energy. And creates wrinkles on my forehead.
I don’t want to be one of those women that look like they are constantly mad and bitter that I see in the grocery.

So I take a deep breath.
And I take a look at my landscaping.

How IS that money tree coming along…

It better grow faster. I need the funding for Machu Pichu.
And if it doesn’t mature by then….I might get mad.

But at least my timer seems to be working. I’ve at least a few years left.
Hopefully.

:-)

lost in different translation...

2010-04-29T21:58:00.000-04:00

My dad is a genius.

No, really, he is. He’s a card carrying member of Mensa. The International High IQ Society. Which is pretty darn cool. IntenseGuy the other day had a blog post about the Hubble Telescope, wishing it a Happy Birthday, if you will. I mentioned to him that it was my dad’s patent that allows the mirroring system to work on the Hubble. Fact is, all mirrors now sent on space missions are because of my dad’s input to the scientific world. He's got thirty-four current patents under his name. Neat stuff.

Growing up, this didn’t mean much to me. I knew dad went to work. And then he came home. We had a pretty normal nuclear family. It was right out of Better Homes & Garden Magazine. A family of four with both parents, one son, one daughter, a dog, two cars, ranch home and a television. We went on family vacations the week after school was out. The car would be loaded, camper hitched to the back and off we would go for two weeks into the great American countryside.

To complete the picture, my mother was even a Home-Ec teacher. She wore aprons at home. We had church ice-cream socials. They had bridge parties. My brother and I would bring out the cocktail nuts, say a joke to their friends and then go to bed.

We were the typical American family.

When my brother and I got older we started to understand that my dad was more than a little smarter than our friends' dads. He had a scientific mind. He was a scientist, so that worked out well for him. He could figure shit out. When solving a problem, he would not only solve the problem at hand, but found ways to improve the original design. Routine jobs became science projects.

I hung around my dad a lot. My mom too, but I liked to putz around with him. Each day was a learning experience. I re-seated my first toilet when I was five. I knew all the tools in the tool box and their uses by seven. I helped him re-roof the house at nine. I was mowing the yard with the rider mower when I was ten and learned how to drive when I was twelve. We planted award-winning gardens. With his guidance I learned the value of money and bought my first rental at nine. I learned a plethora of things from my dad. He was, and still is, a wealth of knowledge.

When I was sixteen the family started weekly sessions with Doctor Nausbaum. He looked just like you might envision a Doctor Nausbaum to look. Mousy brown hair, big glasses, slight in stature but he didn’t miss to many meals. He had facial hair, but that wasn’t uncommon in the late 70’s. Our family scheduled weekly sessions with him to help facilitate our family communication.

You see, since my dad had such a great mind, he didn’t know how to communicate outside of the scientific world. He didn’t understand ‘feelings’. He had a hard time getting his mind around the soft sides of emotion. My mom was the lovey-dovey one to us kids. My dad was the man in the family. And up until our own free thinking ways, we never questioned it. It’s just the way dad was. But then we started to realize that our dad was different and there was a break in translation.

It not bad being different, at all. But you still need to have the communication skills at hand to well, converse. We couldn’t talk at his level and he had absolutely no understanding of ours. Enter Doctor Nausbaum.

Doctor Nausbaum had this annoying trait. He would rub his beard and sort of hummm, and say, “hmmmmm (as if in aggreement) ….so how does that make…you…feeeell? Hmmm?”

It made me want to scream. Or tear my hair out. Or as I just heard a line in the movie The Answer Man, chew my arms off at my wrists.

I can still hear his voice in my head. I can still see him rubbing his beard. I can still see his beady little eyes as he watched our family. I can still hear the Ka-ching in his head as he said “Come back again next week. We’re making progress.”

Progress? Please.

The sessions did have a benefit. It got all of us together at least once a week at that point. Me being a junior in high school, I had places to go; people to see. My older brother? He had even more places to go; more people to see. Doctor Nausbaums was not high on our list. But it succeeded in getting the entire family on the same page to understand that we disagree on different subjects. My dad would never fully understand how I resented not getting the message that one of the Daves had called, not being allowed to go to the basketball games as a punishment or missing ski club because of the Doctor Nusbaums sessions. And in turn I can honestly say in turn that I’ll never understand the process of how his brain works.

Over the years I’ve done a pretty good job translating what he says and does into human-oid terms. But sometimes my brother and I will share a shrug over the dinner table when visiting that equates to, “That’s dad for ya’.” After you Alfonzo.

I was replacing a light fixture in the hallway. It’s an old house; very old. 105 years old to be exact. The wiring in places has been replaced and in others it hasn’t. This particular light was on a four way switch. I understand basic wiring and can easily follow a diagram, yet I couldn't get this fixture to work. One switch would have the light hot all the time and another wouldn’t work. Run down two flights of stairs, turn off the power, go back up two flights and change the wiring around, run back downstairs turn the power on and let’s have a go again. Different problem but still not right. So...run down two flights of stairs, turn off the power, go back up two flights and change the wiring around, run back downstairs and turn the power on and let’s have a go again. Still not solved.

By the fifth or sixth attempt, not only was I getting an excellent stair master workout, but I was getting a little frustrated. I called my dad. He’d know what to do, I was sure of it.

“Dad…I need your help. I can't quite figure out this wiring.” I asked.

“OK. What have you done so far?” came the fast reply. He perked up with the knowledge that his knowledge was needed.

“Black to black, white to the other wire, green to ground, second black to black and well….I must have mixed up the travelor. But it’s not working.”

“So there’s two wires from the ceiling, but four in the light?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s a 3 bulb fixture?”

“Yes. But one stays on all the time and it’s not supposed to.”

“Did you change the wires?”

Duh. Many times. “Yes.”

“Did you…blahblahblahblah….” while he was asking all the did you questions, I started daydreaming and thought about the wiring and figured it out on my own. He didn’t give me the answer, but listening to his questions made me realize where I had made the mistake.

“Thanks Dad. I got it. I think I know the problem.”

“Are you sure? But….“, he hesitated, “I didn’t tell you what to do yet!”

His scientific mind had made my problem more than what it was. I just needed to attach the 3 wires to the same lead. No worries. It worked.

But that’s my dad. What he thinks is the easy fix is actually the hard way around. That’s okay. I’m older now. I get it. I understand that we see things differently. We process differently. We’re different.

He’s Mensa.
I’m not.

But I’ve got a better arsenal of common sense….so it works out.

Plus I beat him in Scrabble now three times. I wrote it down. It's a big deal. It is. Nobody beats dad at Scrabble. The game was almost made for him. The first time I caught him re-adding the scores because the game had been close. Very close. He’s one of those Scrabble players where he’ll play one letter in between 3 words and get 42 points. Tough cookie that one, my dad.

Maybe someday I’ll get to be a card carrier of Mensa. I'd wear that ring proudly. But I highly doubt that will happen. And I'm okay with that. However, I can always dream. And I can hear the voice in my head...

'But how does that make you feeeeeelll?'

:-)