Thursday, April 30, 2009

A Perfect Life

A very dear friend of mine and I have recently reconnected. I was stunned when he said,"I never knew you had even a ripple in your perfect life." I laughed and responded with, "A ripple, try a tidal wave."

I thought back to all the things that have happened from the last time we spoke in 1986 until now. It could fill a book and it has. Even now, in the last 10 months, so much has happened including some incredibly good things and some mind boggling bad things.
Last July I was diagnosed with bilateral carpel tunnel, a crippling condition that caused my hands to swell up twice their normal size, ache so much it kept me up at night and go numb into my fingers. It's a career killer for massage therapists. The up side was it led to writing the book and leading me down a path I never imagined was possible for me. August my oldest son left for college which was exciting for everybody.
September brought Hurricane Ike and primitive living. Tom's 18th birthday came and we celebrated at a restaurant with all of his friends and his brother who had come back for the occasion. I loved that night. Spending time with those kids was one of my favorite memories of my youngest son.
October everyone in Houston was still reeling from the shock and awe campaign of the hurricane and walked around dazed. Halloween, one of my favorite holidays, brought our haunted house and teenagers eating donuts off a string dangled far above their heads. They all bobbed for apples and played simple games while we laughed until our sides ached.
November the in laws came down and toasted me and my thirty seconds of fame while I was on Oprah's "favorite things show" in the first segment, showing off my cheap Christmas gift skills. I finally got acknowledged for my ability to stretch old George Washington so far it makes him beg for mercy. It's a gift.
December came in with a welcome hush of cold weather and kids and parents in for the holidays. January brought the first work of publishing the book. February was quiet and we celebrated Betty's birthday.
Then things really started to move and change shape on us. It came in like a lion and left with a continued roar. Triage was the order of the day and we are still putting out fires as I write this. Broken car, I went without one for 3 weeks. It didn't sound too hard until I actually had to do it. Broken washer, broken dryer, broken wiener dog, rock incident with the gas meter reader, flooding everywhere around town, sick kids, the oldest dog has a growth on her leg and needs to go to the vet, the computer broke and swine flu is moving in.
Last night I spent the night on the phone with my oldest boy 5 hours away while he sat alone in the emergency room waiting for his results if he had swine flu. Thank God he is negative, but he has bronchitis and is very ill and can't seem to shake it.
We've also had a free garden show up, the wiener dog has had little miracles everyday such as, now he is able to stand and take entire steps. I am meeting people who can help to further my new career and I feel re energized about my leap of faith. I now own a new lap top computer. I had to go out on a limb to do it, but I feel as if even I am taking me seriously for a change. I feel so grown up writing on my new fangled accessory. It goes with my eyes.

In all of this nowhere to be found is perfect. Believe me, I have checked. My life is sometimes crazy and hectic and dull and wonderful. Here is what I know for sure...we are all healthy today, or at least pretty healthy. Betty found her prom dress on sale from $169.00 reduced to $70.00. I almost kissed the sales clerk right on the mouth. Christy is filing her graduation plan for college. Tom graduates from high school in August and Dan will be moving closer to home which is fine by me, because I will get to see him more.
This morning I woke up to the most vile smell I have ever witnessed. BoBo, the cha-wienie, had an allergic reaction to something in his food and sprayed every rug in the house with day glow orange diarrhea. Room by room I had to scoop up the pooh and steam clean every rug we own. Even the other dogs were burying their heads beneath their blankets. As a nurse I had thought I had seen everything, until BoBo showed me my error in over confidence. I thought about my "perfect life" and I cracked up which was a lovely way to put a temporary stop to the gagging.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Living the Dream

When I was a small child I had 6 dolls representing the 6 children I dreamed of having. They all had quite ridiculous names I had made up and I spent hours in my basement tending to their every need. My "husband" had no face or purpose, other than to go to work and disappear. His invisible nature allowed me to do all the parenting of our plastic family. I had dreams of what I would be doing as an adult. I never thought of myself as working outside the home. I saw my tiny self being a housewife and mother only. My dream was to get married and have a family and live a quiet existence behind a white picket fence encasing a perfectly manicured yard.

That's the great thing about dreams, no yard work is required. I never did the math of who would mow the lawn and plant the flowers. In my tiny brain it all just magically appeared. I never worried about my invisible husband's job or health. I gave no fore thought to paying bills or house renovation. The house would just be perfect and maintenance would never be an issue.

By the time I was in high school everything for me had changed. Realities of life had begun to chip away at my perfect world and cynicism had taken the place of idealism. My perfect future was on life support barely hanging on.

College came and I was struggling to remember any of the dreams I had as a child. With the few remaining faint images that lived dormant in my subconscious, I decided to pull the plug and let them all go. I was different and I felt there was no turning back.

I met a beautiful boy after nursing school and once again my life turned a different direction. He also wanted many children and the white picket fence. This breathed new life into my past dreams and resurrected them from the ashes. We would have all I ever wanted and the invisible husband now had a face and a name.

The dream in my head began to show signs of strain when it began the process of becoming reality. I was a mother of 6, but 2 of the children didn't survive. My very visible husband and I were having very real and difficult problems to deal with. The yard work was eating up all of our free time and the house was in a constant state of change. Soon after, my dream morphed into a nightmare, where I was alone to support my 4 kids and take care of my tiny run down house by myself. The beautiful boy was buried miles from our home and the family and family home were my sole responsibility. I sat at my dining room table exhausted at the end of the day many evenings wondering how in the hell things had gone so wrong. Until one night it occurred to me I was so busy living the life I had asked for, I had forgotten to open it up to possibilities I hadn't even thought of.

As a single mother of 4 young children I was publicly reduced to the ideas of what others decided I could and should have. I had gotten boxed into a life that no longer served me. I was reduced to whatever stereo type others had set for me. People came into my life and told me what I could ask for and I bought into it hook, line and sinker. I was told I shouldn't expect anyone to want to marry me. I was told I would be best served to forget about any idea of happiness because it was all about the kids and the work. With all the tangible human loss my family had suffered, for me this was the single greatest loss of all.

In my 20's I would call my grandmother and tell her how my life was going and at that time it wasn't great. She would laugh at my melodramatic tales of woe and say this simple thought, "Kellie, you have forgotten who you are. Hang in there, pretty soon it will all come back to you. You, my dear, are a child of God and all the possibilities that holds." My grandmother must have said that to me a hundred times. It was at my dining room table, years after she passed away that I finally got it. Grandma was right, it all came back to me.

There was a definite turning point for me a decade ago when I decided that I determined my worth. I woke up from my zombie state of too much work, responsibility and martyrdom and made the active decision that I was not doomed to the life I was leading. I knew that I could not produce a prince charming to rescue me, but I could write a list of what I wanted in a life partner and stop wasting my time on men who weren't worthy of me or my kids. I wrote a list of all the things I wanted to do and see before it was too late. I wrote down my wants and needs and desires. I turned my dreams into paper so I could hold them in my hand and carry them with me, as a reminder that I could have everything I wanted and more. I wasn't asking for perfect. I knew then, as I know now, that life hands you things that can topple you over when you least expect it. What I wanted was a hand back up after the fall.

Something amazing happened after I decided to be different. Day after day simple changes began to take place. Day by day I began to appreciate things more. I had hope again in my life. I had possibility back in my heart. I began each day waiting for the good instead of bracing for the bad. I began to see the world, not as the hard, mean spirited torturer, but as a place I belonged to. I forgave those who had lost faith in my ability to turn things around. I understood why they looked at my life as a stark reminder of all the bad that can happen. There was truth in what they saw, however I didn't have to be defined by my past or even my present. In choosing to be different I had finally made a choice, instead of waiting for the choice to be made for me. I was being proactive rather than reactive. My troubles weren't completely over with this new revelation. There was and is work still to be done.

I am living my dreams. I have a family I love and am proud of. I have a husband who loves me and supports my dreams for myself. I have friends I adore and who so graciously adore me back. I know instinctively that I have all these things because I dared to make room for them. I had the unmitigated gall to think I deserved more than what I already had. I had the audacity to keep dreaming big things for myself long after others had given up on me. The best part of deciding anything can happen, is it usually does. My life isn't stagnant or in a holding pattern. Each new day brings good and bad and change. Every morning, I continue to hold the hope of something wonderful occurring. Even the smallest shift can make me smile.

I am growing as I write this. I feel the push and pull of muscles, brain cells and heart strings stretching to their limit. I feel the tightness giving way to openness and and outstretched hands. I have no idea where this road leads. I don't feel it necessary to know today which direction I am going. I firmly stuffed my emotional compass in my pocket away from the glare of doubt. I will trust that this path is right and I am going to see, experience and feel new and different things that will help me be a better version of myself.

What's on the agenda for today? I have no earthly idea. I know my kids have plans to be away for the weekend. I know Michael and I have two whole days to enjoy each other. I know the wiener, after being paralyzed for weeks, can now stand up on his own. The sun just came up. Looks like another beautiful day here. There rest resides in the place of possibility. I can't wait to see what happens next.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

He Put the Honey In Honeymoon


I met Michael on September 10, 1982. I was 19 years old and a sophomore in college. I was immediately taken with this boy, but had no idea why or where it would eventually lead.
All I knew was that he was adorable and something behind his eyes said he was a really good guy.

Michael and I dated off and on for years before deciding we were better off as friends. He has been one of my very best friends ever since.
We went our separate ways only to end up back together years later. We like to think of ourselves as late bloomers.

After being a single mother for 7 years and Danny being gone for 3 years Michael proposed on September 10, 2000.

Michael, the kids, and me all got married on the most perfect day in June in 2001. It was 76 degrees and sunny. We felt like we were being blessed from all sides. Our reception was in the back yard of the house we had bought together. It was truly one of the best days of my life. I am not a wedding girl. I had not wanted my original big wedding, so the idea of doing it again didn't thrill me. But Michael had never been married and his family wanted to be there. For him I would have walked through a ring of fire if that is what it took. Luckily, my requirements were considerably less. After all was said and done it was time for us to go on our honeymoon. The idea of just the two of us being away for 2 whole weeks sounded like pure bliss. We had chosen to start our extended vacation at the Poconos. We wanted something traditionally honeymoon like that we could drive to. We had to rent a car only days before we left because both of our vehicles had broken down. There were many catastrophic events surrounding our big day and the honeymoon was our chance to escape, if only for a while.

When we originally got to our room it had a deck facing a stagnant pond filled to the brim with mangy looking ducks and the interior decor hadn't been touched since 1975. There were no outside activities and the whole place looked forgotten. We unpacked, tired from the long drive and sat at a table full of other recently married couples. Michael and I were slap happy at that point. Everything had become hysterically funny. We had tried to engage the others in conversation to no avail. They all looked like they had just come from a funeral procession. The harder we tried to be friendly, the more it made us laugh that we were being ignored. We could barely contain ourselves. The other couples ate as fast as they could to get away from us which made us laugh even harder. At one point we both had to work at keeping the food and drink from spraying out of our mouths, we were guffawing so hard.

Our room was really bad in every way imaginable. It didn't look anything like the brochure and Michael started to feel like he was letting me down. I just laughed and said we would be fine no matter where we were. I was happy just to have him all to myself. We could have been in a tent for all I cared. Well that's not entirely true-he would have loved the camping idea but I wanted something a little more refined.

Waking up we headed out to the deck with our coffee and the smell from all the duck poop nearly knocked us out. Sputtering and gagging we went in to grab a bite to eat. Michael braved the outside one more time only to be surrounded by very brazen ducks who did not take no for an answer. He began backing up into the room as they swarmed him for the cracker he held in his hand. Slamming the door shut and locking it behind him he gasped, "I almost didn't make it! I had to throw half the box at them just so they would let me pass." That was the last straw for us.

We went to another resort in the same chain to water ski to get away from the honeymoon from hell. As we walked into the lobby we were certain we heard a choir of angels as we entered. This resort was everything ours was not. It had a beautiful wooden walls surrounded by trees with a lovely lake as their view. They had tennis courts, a driving range and water skiing. They had interior decoration that was peaceful, beautiful and new. A young girl who worked there began talking to us. She said the most magical thing. "Do you want to move over to this resort? It would only take a couple minutes to transfer your reservation and you can go get your things." Michael and I bolted so fast out there to get our stuff that only a blur of where we were standing could be seen.

A half hour later we were settle d in our new resort cabin. We felt so lucky the wonderful girl offered an escape from our Pocono prison camp. We loved our new resort and participated in everything. We even went rollerblading in the gym where Michael tried to "crack the whip" with me and only succeeded in cracking me in the face and cracking his behind after he fell. We did not go skating again after that.

This picture was my idea, of course.Michael, although a great guy, is still a guy. "Awe geeze Kel, those pictures are so cheesy."
" I know, but we are in the cheese capital of the world. If we don't do it, I will always regret it. C'mon, let's do it. It will be fun. Why go all the way to the Poconos and try to play it straight. When in Rome..." I began to beg my new husband. "OK, let's do it. I'm only doing it for you."Michael conceded, concerned about feeling completely stupid in a tub, in front of a total stranger.

We did have fun taking those pictures. We even have one really goofy picture where they super imposed us in a brandy snifter. Personally, it's my favorite. We keep the photo album of that week in our bedroom with the heart shaped tub picture front and center. Michael now likes our pictures as we laugh about killer ducks, seedy hotels and bathing in front of strangers.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Being "The Killer"

I got a nickname after I moved to Houston. My husband had gotten transferred to Houston with his company and worked downtown at the corporate headquarters. His co-workers were a great group whom he was just getting to know. Every day he came home telling me stories of the folks he worked with. He was happy he had such a nice and lively group. Michael had left behind his friends from Cleveland and had become the new kid at school. Feeling very sad about leaving his friends, he went to work wondering if he would be lucky enough to have the same caliber of great work friends he had at his old job. Lightening had struck again for him and the group he worked with were fun, energetic and inclusive. Michael was happy in his new job and just as before we began to socialize with the group.

One particular work friend was a loud, funny guy named John. He had things to say all the time about every subject under the sun. He teased everybody and made the group laugh at his antics. John is an excellent human being. Beyond his ridiculous rhetoric lies the heart of a kind and gentle man.

John noticed that Michael packed his lunch everyday and decided to scrutinize it's contents. Michael has been a healthy work out, eat right, take good care of yourself guy all his life. He packs his own lunch and has since his early days with the company. He has never once asked me to pack his lunch for him. He does an excellent job taking care of himself.

Mistakenly, a habit of his, John thought I packed Michael's lunch and began criticizing the contents and the portion size. Every day Michael would get his lunch and John would peruse the food and tell Michael I was trying to starve him to death. Every day Michael would tell John he packed his own lunch with no effect. "She's tryin' to kill you, Mike! A man can't live on that little lunch. I think she's trying to starve you to death!" John would go on and on about my death wish for my husband by way of starvation. This morphed into Michael's wife being called The Killer . "She's Kellie The Killer, man. She is trying to do you in!"John would say to anyone who would listen.

The nickname had begun to increase in popularity after I called John and let him know that not only had I not packed Michael's lunch, but I thought any man who expected that was weak and stupid. John and I started hurling friendly insults back and forth from that moment on.

I knew I would keep that nickname forever one night when we all agreed to go to a ballgame at Minute Maid park. John and I were meeting for the first it me face to face with all the rest of the office group. Immediately he started on my case about being The Killer and how I was starving skinny, little Mike. I am not shy or quiet. I fought back pointing to his pregnant belly and slow response time to my jabs. Verbal debate is a favorite hobby of mine and I have never backed down from a fight. Whatever I lack in physical strength, I make up for in word brawn. John kept trying to come at me from every angle and I kept batting back my own home run hits. At one point in the evening I got him so good he was stunned into silence. The group fell out into fits of laughter and jeers at John. Evidently I did the one thing no one had ever accomplished. I shut John up. That was the moment I earned the nickname The Killer. From that point on, that night was referred to as the Massacre at Minute Maid!

Everyone at the office knows I am The Killer. No one calls me Kellie anymore. The new hires don't even know I have a first name. The Killer is who I will remain long after Michael retires.
The nickname makes me laugh. I have never had a nickname that stuck before this. I had always envied people who had names given to them out of familiarity and love. I finally had a nickname that stuck like cement and celebrated the day I verbally kicked John's sizable behind.
( I say sizable because we currently have a battle to see who will lose the most weight. My blog, my interpretation!)

Every party I go to and every social gathering with the group I am introduced as The Killer. I feel honored to have slain Puffy the Over Bloated Dragon. I wear my nickname like a badge of honor.

If you happen to see me on the street and someone yells," there's The Killer!" Just know it is meant with love and affection and I am more than happy to acknowledge and to respond to it, waving wildly and smiling the entire time.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Something Unexpected Happened Today

I was on the phone with a dear friend of mine. She is the type of friend who encourages cups of coffee and very long conversations. I look forward to our time on the phone. It's a time for us to reflect, give each other advice about marriage, kids and life , and look forward to the near and distant future. We can talk about anything and frequently do. As I was talking, I was pacing in my kitchen. Pacing is something I love to do and have done for nearly my entire life. Walk and talk, talk and walk, round I go covering every square inch of my kitchen. The dogs were barking, well, two of them were, at the fence, at the squirrels and at each other. The dachshund remained in the living room only steps from me serving out his sentence due to his unfortunate back injury in his dog bed. He is in week 6 of his 8 week interment period. The barking is something I can ignore. I am a mother of four. Selective hearing is an acquired art for for survival in a busy household full of children. I merely adapted it to my dogs. The barking didn't seem any different to me than any other time.

My oldest dog Asti, is a 13 1/2 year old German shepherd and whippet mix. She has helped me raise my kids and kept us safely guarded when I was a single mom living alone. She is deeply embedded in my heart. She reminded me of the Nanny character in Peter Pan. She would go into the back yard with my children and run circles around them herding them in, keeping the watchful eye to protect them from harm and strangers. She refused to allow any man in my house who wasn't Michael. He was her boy and she would not yield. Michael and I broke up for 8 months and while I dated, no one was allowed near the house. She has been the singular constant in the last couple of decades of my life.
Asti is aging now, her hearing is dim and her eyesight is even dimmer. She runs much like she always has, only she sleeps much more.

Today as I was on the phone she and the youngest, BoBo were running and barking until I heard a strange sort of bark come from my constant companion. I looked outside to see a strange man in my back yard looking menacingly at my old dog. He was wearing a gas company shirt and I yelled "Hey!" at him right as he picked up a river rock the size of my fist. Asti was headed for the kitchen door and BoBo was skulking far away in a corner. Both dogs began the trot back to me when this man threw the rock at my Asti hitting her squarely in her side. Screaming at this horrific sight, I ran into the yard and he began walking toward the gate where he had let himself into my fenced in yard. The rock hit Asti so hard that it bounced off her and landed in the pool sinking to the bottom.

I was shaking as I told him all he had to do was knock on our front door if the dogs were out. They didn't attack him. He had walked into our property for 40 yards before he even threw the rock, so he knew they didn't bite. I tried talking to him, but he never broke his stride. He refused to look at me. I felt...helpless and victimized. I ran in and told my friend what happened briefly and hung up the phone. I grabbed my cell while checking Asti to see if she was hurt. The attack was vicious and unnecessary. I called Mike and told him what had happened. He told me to call the company and complain, which I did and told them that man was to never come in my yard again. I wanted a new meter reader. I got off that phone call and sat with my dogs. My head was pounding and I couldn't wrap my brain around why someone would be cruel to an old dog.

This evening I was talking to Mike about the incident and I felt my eyes well up with tears. Asti is fine and shows only a slight limp. She was wagging her tail and taking all the petting she could get. I on the other hand was starting to go through something. I told Mike that I felt unsafe for the first time since we moved here. I had always felt so comfortable in my home and yard and with the fence I felt the animals were safe and out of harms way. But today I didn't feel safe. Every time the dogs barked I jumped. One of my precious crew had been violently attacked in our own back yard. This was no small matter for me. This brought up my own trust issues and something sinister from my own past.

I was 17 years old the first time I was the victim in a domestic violence incident with a boyfriend. I can recall the exact instant he hit me for the first time. I remember how he blamed me saying that if I only would do what he said and shut up, it wouldn't have happened. Sadly, being so young, I believed him. I believed a few others after that as well. I believed it was my fault I got hit. I believed them when they said they were sorry, only to have them beat me and blame me again.

Unable to stop the attack on my dog I felt something I haven't felt for a very long time. I felt scared and vulnerable to what was beyond my control. I felt like the young girl who believed that if she got hit she deserved it. I felt like the terrified young woman in college, who raped by a friend, stayed quiet for fear of retribution and more shame. I felt scared and paranoid and exposed, much like my old wounds had become. I cried. I cried for not being able to protect the dog who has protected me all of her life. I cried for the fear I felt and how a single moment had taken over my day. I cried for the girl who has grown up so very much and whose wounds are covered over in the tough outer shell of scar tissue, yet in that instant I felt my wounds ripped open for all to see.

It was a stupid man, who for whatever crazy reason in his head made a cruel, violent, stupid mistake. I couldn't stop him. The dog is fine. I carefully tended to my old dog and the heart she resides in. After my cry and some distance and perspective, I knew that whatever unexpected things got tossed or hurled at me, I would be fine too.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

I am living vicariously through my friend Jim

I am living vicariously through my best friend Jim, the very least he could do is finish my list of all the things I want to do on "our" vacation.
I have a list of cities I want to see before I leave this earth. I have them listed alphabetically and in order of importance. I have had this list, which has changed and morphed as I have gotten older and crossed some off, since I was 20 years old. While I am in a holding pattern due to life and kids, My friends have been able to jet set off and see the world.

One friend in particular, Jim, has always traveled. His and my first big trip out of the country was together going to Spain, circa 1978. We were babies in high school and went with our Spanish teacher a fierce woman, named Mrs. Bradshaw. Mrs. B's actions in Spain was the stuff of legends. Jim and I still laugh about that trip to this day. Every year he goes to Italy and at least one other place, sometimes Morocco, France, eastern Europe, wherever his desires leads he gladly follows. I sit in my Houston kitchen listening to the latest installment of his adventures.

This year he had plans to visit my number one city on my list. Buenes Aires is a city I long to go to. I sit and look at pictures, read recipes of traditional food and listen to the beat of the tango. This is the place I have waited my entire life to see. It is in my opinion the place to beat all places. Buenes Aires is a place of sensuality filling your eyes with bright colors and blue skies, your nose with the scent of empanadas freshly made and your ears drink in the sultry music of the tango being danced in the streets. I have never been there physically, but my mind can conjure the image of it every time I am stuck waiting in line at the grocery store. When I do finally go, I have no doubt that the reality will dwarf my imagination.

Jim just got back from Buenes Aires. He's single and has carefully constructed his life, so he can travel often. I was not jealous of my friend going before me. I was elated at the idea of any stories he came back with confirming my research. I did make several vacation requests of him since he was going in my stead. He fulfilled many of them, however, he did not have an encounter with a beautiful, raven haired stranger as I had hoped. I am married so I take my beautiful stranger with me everywhere I go. Bless my husband's heart, he plays along with my crazy ideas and "meets" me every trip we take. I get the best of both worlds, I get my chance romantic encounter and not have to worry about whether he is going to steal my wallet. It's not a bad way to go, try it sometime. Hook up with your own spouse in a bar. It's only corny or stupid if you don't commit to the role.

Jim got back with tales of beautiful buildings, incredible food, street fairs and of course the Tango. They dance in the street, for Pete's sake. This place is hot! I sat glued to my kitchen chair as he told tales of the people , the kindness, the artisans and the shopping. Hello somebody. I am not a shopper until I go on a trip. I love buying jewelry on trips. Every time I wear the piece I think about where I was when I bought it, I digress. I listened as Jim described the hardship the people have had to endure since the our own economic melt down in 2002. They are resilient and in the midst of crisis something wonderful happened.

The people in Buenes Aires got moving and set their imaginations free . They painted or knitted or made jewelry or whatever they could to survive and out of the money pit came creative genius. Jim said they made extraordinary things with what talents they happen to possess. The street fairs contained not a few vendors, but a thousand vendors. They had gotten giant lemons hurled at them and caught them and turned them into not just lemonade, but the most refreshing, delightful beverage.

I told my husband all that Jim had said about my #1 city. We sat back and sighed knowing our day is coming. "Did he tango?" Mike asked. "No, he was busy doing other things," I said.
Michael looked at me with dark, sultry eyes,"I'm hoping that when I take you dancing the tango you forget about any other things." I looked at my dark haired stranger and leaned in close for the kiss. When he released me, I thought if this is the preview, it has been worth the wait.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Nature Vs. My Need to Nurture


Michael and I bought our house nearly five years ago when he got transferred to Houston, Texas. We live in a suburb thirty minutes from downtown, where he works. I had seen our house on the Internet back in Ohio while he was living with friends down in Houston and I was waiting for our house to sell back up north. He had clear blue skies and sunshine and we had snow, until May. So it goes with Cleveland weather. Being born and raised a mid western girl I was used to the weather bouncing back and forth between snow and sun until June arrived. Texas has spring as early as February and it lasts until the love bugs show up somewhere between late April and early May. Then it turns hot and humid. Love bugs are little black flying bugs that attach to one another and they show up declaring the humidity as natures way of saying, "Brace yourself!", in the spring and then again in the fall to let you know dry air is on the way.

Spring in Texas is the best season of the year. It's stunningly beautiful. If you have ever seen pictures of the wild flowers that bloom in spring here or been lucky enough to see them in person, you know what I am talking about. This is Texas' finest hour.
When we bought our house the landscaping was, well, in a diplomatic term, lacking. Houston doesn't have soil as much as it has sand. It was originally a swamp that was drained and the city was built on top. This makes growing things an adventure for someone from the north. Southerners know what to do and when to do it. They have that innate southern sensibility that guides them as they plant and grow what they need or want. Me, not so much. We have learned a great deal about plants thanks in part, to our very dear friend Randy who loves all things green. He has exotic plants from far away places and his back yard is nicknamed the jungle. We often go there to escape the city even though he lives smack dab in the middle of it. We are certain he bleeds green.

This year we are reaping the rewards of our planting, our diligence in nurturing and Randy's expertise. But the strangest thing started happening a few weeks ago.
I was sitting at the computer upstairs writing away when I kept hearing a thumping noise. The kids hadn't gotten up for school yet, so I assumed it was the cats. I tend to blame them for everything. If my car keys go missing, or the mail gets lost or I can't figure out what the devil that weird smell is, I blame the cats. They are old, petulant and aloof. They could care less about me until it's time to eat. I feel so used, so I use all my passive aggressive energy towards them.

I looked over at the sofa in our upstairs game room and saw that both of the bratty cats were fast asleep. The thumping continued. I got up and walked around the house trying to find the noise. I was annoyed that my ears were no longer able to pinpoint the noise and that I couldn't blame the bratty cats anymore. The noise seemed to be coming from outside as if someone were bouncing a ball off the side of our house. We have a large window in our foyer facing our front yard. Our foyer is 2 stories tall and this giant window illuminates both the game room and the downstairs den. The view from my computer is our loquat tree just outside this enormous window. The loquat, a Japanese tree that bears fruit every spring is in the kumquat family. The fruit is yellow, plump, sweet and delicious. Unable to determine the thumping I went back to my seat and gazed out the big window. Suddenly I saw a bird head straight for the window and hit it head on. THUMP! This startled me and it dawned on me it had made my thumping noise. I continued to watch the window in complete disbelief as a bird crashed into our window about every 5 minutes from the loquat tree. THUMP, THUMP, THUMP! Again and again birds continued to fly directly at the window hitting it and reeling back. I couldn't believe my eyes. The loquat tree now bent heavily laden with fruit had become the new bird hang out. Evidently drunk on fructose, they were unable to see that the window didn't provide them an escape. Baffled and somewhat appalled I called Mike. The retelling of the story had stopped several times to allow him to hear for himself the awful noise coming from the birds misguided flight.

This horrifying phenomenon went on for two solid weeks. Every morning the birds would be chirping happily on the branches of the loquat tree only to suddenly depart, crashing into the window. As far as we can tell there was only one casualty.

As I battle against roving squirrels in the garden and watch the butterflies gravitate to the bright orange and red bush that is their namesake, my mind wanders back to the bird episode. My only real revelation is that as much as I love nature and encourage it to surround our home, it has it's own demons to battle. I had tried in vain to control my environment in our yard only to have nature remind me that it is at it's core, completely out my control.

The fruit has fallen off the loquat tree now and the birds have moved on to greener pastures. We will be pruning the loquat tree branches down several feet so that the height is equal to our front door. My only hope for the birds is that they haven't heard the saying "when God closes a window, He opens a door." Otherwise, there could be another bird phenomenon next year.

Friday, April 17, 2009

If Cleanliness Is Next to Godliness...Then Houston We Have a Problem

If it's true what they say about cleanliness being next to Godliness then my house is in real trouble. Being Catholic, I am inclined to believe we are only a few steps shy of a full blown exorcism.
Since the start of the publishing process back in January my house keeping skills have deteriorated considerably. I freely admit that while I enjoy the the benefits of a clean house; I am hardly enthusiastic about the process. Over the years I have learned to be kinder to myself about the build up of family things around the house. I try and manage the never ending amount of school papers, keeping my own constant, incoming stream to a minimum. I forgive the animals their inherent need to shed all over the furniture and rugs. I say little to the teenagers who have cups and glasses strewn in every room, as if they were attempting a glass scavenger hunt in the future.

I forgive our indiscretions for messy house behavior. At least until company unexpectedly shows up and then all hell breaks loose. The minute the doorbell rings I begin screaming to anyone who is home to start hiding the mess. I shove paperwork under seat cushions, I vacuum with one hand while dusting frantically with the other. Dishes get crammed under the sink as the dishwasher stands empty. I pitch BoBo on the couch multiple times as a way to fluff pillows. It's total and mass chaos right up until the 3 seconds it takes to open the door. I open the door smiling as I wipe the sweat from my hairline showing my company into the living room excusing the way the house looks, knowing full well it looks better at that moment than it has in weeks.

I mean to clean, but the road to house hell is paved with good house keeping intentions. I never liked cleaning. I never felt the kind of satisfaction from it that some do. I admire women who take such pride in their home as it sparkles, smelling of fresh laundry and disinfectant. I visit those homes and revel in their self discipline and due diligence. I sigh and breathe deeply in the scent of satisfaction, as I gaze longingly with clean house envy. I leave knowing full well no matter my intent, my house will always smell like day old coffee with a hint of wet dog.

Michael didn't marry me for my house keeping skills. Thank God! His disappointment would have been heard around the world. He was 41 years old when we married, so he had no problem with running the sweeper and mopping the floor. Good thing, since the outlook was grim for any expectation of me making it a priority. I often wonder if I didn't work inside the home (locked away for hours in an office,now) if I would be better at it. I tend to think it's doubtful. I'm sure I would have filled up my days doing anything else, just like I did when I was a kid and my parents expected me to clean.

My goal in working is to make enough money to start my own economic stimulus plan and hire someone else to do the cleaning. I plan to be generous with wages and praise. Bonuses will be given at the holidays as incentive pay to keep doing what I don't want to. Pay raises will be frequent and meaningful. Compliments will be lavished on my future employee as I bring her/him ice tea and cookies for a mid morning snack to keep her/his energy up. I haven't quite figured out the vacation idea because I tend to be needy and fear my dependence may be too strong by then. We'll see how it goes. Maybe offer them vacation where they accompany me so I can feel the comfort of their presence, taking in the faint aroma of Mr. Clean, I've requested they dab behind their ears.

In the mean time I am unable to convince the ones I love that chasing the dog hair tumble weed around the dining room is fun. The mob is turning ugly. I know it's time to pick up the mop when the teenagers rooms are the cleanest in the house. Even the cats are giving me dirty looks. Pun totally intended. So today I put down my pen and pick up my broom (the one I sweep with, not to be confused with the one I use as transportation).

You will notice there is no picture of the house. No sense giving the prosecution any more evidence than I already have.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

I Am Living Without The Enemy Within

My family is a large Irish Catholic family,except for Mike who happens to be Polish. He is only Irish on St. patty's Day. We are the very essence of the ethnic family. We cook traditional meals during holidays and are a loud, I do mean really loud bunch.

There is an Irish prayer I learned a long time ago that I just love but haven't memorized so bear with me. I have to paraphrase:
Lord, keep my heart close to yours and keep my enemies far from me.
If you can't keep them far away, please turn their hearts.
If you can't turn their hearts then please turn their ankles so I can see them coming.


I love that prayer and I have to admit I have said it more than once when I was hurt by someone.
For the most part I assume the best of everyone I meet, until I have a good reason not to. It's been a good way to handle things for me. Although, I am conscious of bad things and bad people.
I met this woman who told me she was from the place in Texas where the man was dragged to death by a truck full of racists. I remember feeling sickened by that story. I asked her if she ever went back there. She told me quietly how the victim of that horrific story was her cousin and she still had family up there. "Do you still go to see your family?" I asked dumbstruck.
"Yes, we still go. It is where my family has lived for a long time," she spoke calmly and with a slight smile. I had to ask the one question that haunted me."Are scared to go there after what happened?"
She laughed and looked deep into my eyes, grabbing my hand to ease my fears, "Oh, no, I am not scared, dear. There are hateful people everywhere. You just got to keep living your life." Her smile broadened and suddenly I was the one feeling safer and relieved. Certainly if she could forgive and move on then I should be able to. I loved meeting her. I picture her calm, sweet, serene face smiling at me letting me know everything was going to be alright. The way she looked at me and viewed the world was like getting a really great, warm hug. I felt her to my bones.
She is right, of course, there are hateful people everywhere. Most days God has not turned their ankles and you never know when you are going to be sideswiped by one. I have tried to take her view and adopt it as my own. I am trying not to get caught up in the paranoid fear of what might happen and stick to living my life the best way I know how. I think when we worry and obsess about a projected dangerous future, we begin the process of being our own worst enemy. I think that enemy has much more power than one from the outside. Existing day to day waiting for the other shoe to drop is potentially more dangerous than walking through the inner city at night.
My want is to live in the present moment and not get swept up in unnecessary emotional blackmail by my own paranoia. It is what it is. I am old enough to realize there are real scary issues that is exist. But for me I want to stay in the light. I am trying to be aware of my surroundings in a single moment so I don't worry away the time I have.
If, God forbid, my life comes to a tragic end, then let it be while I am living a full and happy life, feeling loved. I may not see it coming, but I won't have wasted my life looking for it, either.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

The Art of Letting Go

I am currently on my third career. It wasn't so much an active choice to live as a professional vagabond, as a chance meeting with my hopes and dreams.
I had become a nurse in my 20's, mostly as a vehicle to make money until I figured out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I find it curious how we as a society feel the need to force lifetime decisions on an eighteen year old. There are people who at a very early age know exactly what they want to be in their career and profession for the duration of their adulthood, but my experience is they are few and far between. Most of us are clueless, doing what we have to until a better idea comes along. I was a geriatric (old person) nurse for over 20 years. I worked with hospice patients, ventilator dependent quadriplegics, nursing homes and eventually landed in a locked down Alzheimer unit. I know you feel the irony of this with me. Go ahead and laugh. The latter became my favorite work. I loved working with people who no longer had unreasonable expectations and lived truly in the moment of whatever they were feeling. So many feel sorry for the patients, when in reality it is the family members who suffer so much more. The Alzheimer patients I had lived in the moment. Most were pain and obligation free. Most felt love and joy without expectation or attachment. My heart went out those families who brought in photo albums and wanted to reminisce with the patient of days gone by and family members who remained so very attached to their past and present. Most of my patients would throw the books down and walk away bothered by the fact they were forced to sit and listen to such drivel when clearly anyone could see there was pudding in the dining room.
My patients loved me and tortured me. I have been thrown into a brick planter as if I were a rag doll and choked nearly to death with my own stethoscope. I have been hugged and kissed. I have had poop thrown at my head. I would go home covered in feces, blood, urine, apple sauce and Ensure. I was crusty everyday I ended my shift. My hair was usually matted to my head from the sweat that poured out of me from lifting people all day long. My feet ached from 12 hour shifts that never seemed to end. My head hurt from frustration at a system completely broken down. My heart reminded all of the above, that I loved the people I worked with, patients and staff.
I became a massage therapist ten years ago. As a single mother I was being torn between the heavy and constant needs of my patients and the needs of my children. I had also begun to notice that the administration seemed to thrive on hanging my job over my head as a constant reminder that I needed the money. I noticed more and more single mothers coming to work as if they were in a hostage situation. I decided to go back to school and try to find a place in the work force that allowed for my family life. I worked two jobs and went to school for eight hours on my only day off. I graduated after two grueling years and started my own practice as a LMT. I had freedom and no health insurance. We squeaked by the best we could. What we lacked in monetary security we made up for in emotional refuge. It's a terrible choice to make, but in the end I was glad I chose home. The best part was nobody needed an emergency massage on Christmas.
After moving to Texas nearly five years ago, having no job to go to and closing the practice I had built from the ground up; it was time for me to rethink my future. I took a job at a spa here in town and worked four days a week. It was an OK job. Notice the word "job". I clocked in and out. I did my work and tried to come up with marketing ideas and new treatments to keep things fresh for myself. I was married to Mike and no longer had the responsibility of supporting the family alone. For the very first time I had some options. It took the four years working at the spa to figure that piece of information out: I had options.
Every morning when I get up, I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit down at the kitchen table with pen and notebook at the ready. This is the time I write. I write long hand, scribbled, scratched up messes. I write one topic for about 2 hours until my hand cramps or I had to go to work. I have done this now for many years. I have approximately 25 spiral notebooks filled front and back to prove it. I had always wanted to write a book. I had and have ideas pushing their way out of my head. It was a dream of mine to be able to work from home, so I could be there for my loved ones and still keep my professional interests.
Back in July of 2008 I had a diagnosis of carpal tunnel, both hands. This is what every massage therapist fears; it means the end of your career. I went through the stages of denial, grief and panic. If I am not this, then who am I? My adulthood was filled with being a care taker in one form or another. I had been a Nurse's Aid, Nurse and Massage Therapist. I believe in signs, unless I am in strict panic mode and then I temporarily become a fatalist. I am working on keeping that bad girl behavior down to a minimum. When first stricken with a life altering change, I have visions of us living under a bridge, beneath a cardboard box, eating cat food from dented cans. My imagination is most definitely a double edged sword. My husband, the beautiful optimist, offered up the idea that it was time for me to write the book, that was already filling up notebook after notebook. It was a sign. I see that now, but at the time, I must admit,I had to be convinced to do what felt as natural to me as breathing.
So here it is my third career. My other careers didn't pan out monetarily as well as I had hoped. I consoled myself by focusing on the good work I did. This time around I have no idea what will happen. I love what I do. My hope is still focused on the work and reaching out to others, although if I happen to make a boat load of money, then that is OK, too.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Why write the book?

I was asked today why I wrote my book.
I gave a truthful answer about promoting hope and faith. After the conversation I stopped my day long enough to really ponder the question with more critical thinking. Why had I wrote the book? My stories were somewhat interesting and lightening had struck us several times, so to speak, and we, the children and I had not only survived but we had grown closer to each other and to the idea that our tragedies didn't define us. This is all true. What else is true is our story is a story someone can hang on to when they are going through their own misfortune. My book has a message of hope and humor and life long learning. This is all true. I believe if given the chance this book could help someone believe again that they will be and have the right to be happy.

Those are all good answers and true to my heart. But I couldn't help feel like they were not enough.
I opened my manuscript for the thousandth time and stared at the words I had painstakingly typed and retyped. I reread passages that I loved and remembered some of the events as if I were still there. The truth is I love this book. I feel connected to the phrases and verbiage as if it were a young child. It is very much my baby. But I had told my kids and friends the stories contained in the tattered pages for years now, so why write the book? Everybody I knew had heard everything I had written several times. I continued to thumb through the pages of the book absently looking to see if it contained the answer I was looking for. I laid on the bed with the manuscript on my chest, when the reason I wanted to know came upon me like a cloud burst. In that moment I knew exactly why I had to have the book written and published. As much as I have spent my entire life helping the sick and wounded in my careers, this book was written for my children, those born to me and those I have acquired over the years. I desperately wanted to pass on things I have learned and lessons I had stubbornly refused, so that my children would come to know why I am the way I am. I wanted them to see me not just as their mom, but someone who has hopes and dreams and disappointments and love, real love. I want my kids to know it's OK to fail, if you get back up. I want them to know that real love takes bravery and requires risking one's heart. I want them to know any hurt I have suffered was never in vain and I have few regrets. I want them to know that growing up is painful. It stretches your heart, mind and soul to their limits and causes suffering and anguish, but in the end what you are left with is the most amazing, miraculous joy. I want them to know it's O.K. to cry giant buckets of tears and let out the demons that haunt their dreams and paralyze their promise. It's wonderful to dance in public and sing yourself to sleep. I want my kids to know that imperfect is a goal not a failed attempt. I want my children to know I have learned so much more from them than I could have ever possibly taught.

I am who I am because they believed I could be. Long after I had given up and given in they were the ones who reminded me that miracles can come from dust. They believed in love, hope and forgiveness. Their memories were short when it came to my transgressions and long with forgiveness. I wanted them to know I had paid attention to them when they spoke. I saw their hearts and their intentions. Now I wanted them to see mine. I want my children to know that their unyielding love saved my life more than once. I want them to know if not for them I would never have been brave enough to try love and marriage again. I would have missed out on the deeply loving relationship I have with my beloved husband.

I wrote my book to show my children that they raised me well and I am forever grateful for all the hugs and kisses and hand holding they have done since their arrival. I wrote the book because my children will be the first ones to tell you that when you learn an answer to a big equation, you have to show your work.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Suburban Renewal




























We have a "recession garden" this year. We used to just call it a garden, but this year it has a formal name. My beans have sprouted and my peas are pushing through the earth. It is coming along nicely. We had wanted to wait until next year to dig and plant our little patch of peace, but the plants came without our consent. I compost my vegetable table scraps. In the rich compost we placed around our flowers other plants began to grow. Grape tomatoes and sweet red peppers showed up quite uninvited in our front flower beds. The compost had kept them toasty warm and they were trying so hard to add to the landscape. Not being ones to waste anything, we decided it was a sign to put the garden in this year. So we dug our little hearts out for 3 days.

Last September I was bustling around the house, collecting water in every available container, buying bottled water and storing extra water in old milk jugs. Water was one of my many themes for the day. I took in every outside piece of furniture I could. I pulled out lanterns and got camping gear ready. Awnings came down, plants were tied and plywood was screwed over our large plate glass windows making the house dark and eery.
We had only a few days to alter our very existence. We were told to hunker down. Must be a southern thing, but even this Yankee knew what it meant. Hurricane Ike was bearing down hard out in the Gulf and we had to get ready for another devastating storm. Living here in Houston for only 5 years we had already lived through Rita. We had seen all the folks who came from New Orleans, shell shocked and homeless from Katrina. Like it or not, my family members were becoming veterans of hurricane season. Southerners brace themselves or evacuate long before the storm hits. The lucky few who have second homes can migrate for protection from the next blowing beast.
I cursed the weather and the Gulf and myself for moving into harms way. I gathered things at the grocery store I knew we would have to be starving, before we ate. We had a Coleman stove to help me cook. We had an air mattress for the living room floor for all of us to sleep, behind plywood protection from flying debris. During hurricanes we all gather our belongings that feel the most precious and huddle together to wait for the onslaught of the constant wind.
It sounds first like a train, then it howls in a higher pitched way and makes the trees groan. The trees become humanized by their awful sounds of creaking, cracking, and crying. They sound like tortured souls. We jump when we hear the gut wrenching break of a tree and it's limbs. It sounds like a state of the art horror movie. The sounds are unique to the individual storm. When the trees really begin to cry out the fear is something you can taste in the dark and isolated room. Trees that fall can kill the families that are hiding inside. With windows blocked, they never even see it coming.
Ike was a vicious bastard of a storm. He was the size of Texas itself and had the strength to take down the oldest trees without a fight. It seems to me these storms always come at night. At least the two I have lived through did as well as Katrina. As if nature has to make it any scarier than it already is. The storm hit and the TV cut out at 12:17 AM. We sat silent waiting for the sounds of tragedy to kick in. And they did. We all dozed off and on trying to block out the sounds just as we had blocked out the sight. I had fallen asleep late in the night. For reasons unknown to me I sat bolt upright. I didn't just wake up, I jumped up. The air was still and things were quiet. One actually gets used to the loud raging storm as it rips through the landscape. To hear nothing was the most ominous sound I had heard all night. I ran to the radio. All the electric had gone the way of the storm when the TV quit. The eye was directly over us.
I quickly got the dogs and ran them outside screaming, "Pee, damnit, we don't have much time!"
Unphased by the limited access to the outside world we truly had, they stretched and trotted around the still dark yard. I ran around to assess any major damage I could see. It looked so far like we would once again escape any real loss. My son and I stayed outside as long as we could, because we knew we were facing the other side of the storm soon. We would have to go back to our small space and wait for another 8 or so hours before we could emerge from the house that had become our prison. Soon the wind was picking up fast. We headed for the kitchen door and nearly got sucked back into the yard. Slamming the door hard behind us, we went back to wait for the end to come. We listened to the radio as it went in and out with stories of tragic and terrifying sights. We decided maybe it was better not to know and went back to the howling of the wind and crying trees. We waited hour after hour for the storm to move on and away from us. Finally later in the day it stopped.
With great trepidation we peerd outside for signs of the all clear. The rain had subsided after bands of thunder and lightening storms lit up the sky proclaiming the end to Ike. We walked around staring in disbelief at the amount of debris laying around our once pristine neighborhood.
One neighbor had a tree in his garage. All the fences were down. Large monstrous trees laid on their sides as if picked by a giant and tossed aside. I would not go past my neighbors' houses. We all checked on each other and our safety. We gathered together with chainsaws and rakes and shovels to begin the work of digging our way out.
Cell phones were dead. Roads were blocked. Electrical transformers had exploded during the night. There were no sounds except that of the people, neighbors helping neighbors.
Days later we continued to camp in our house with no electric, living on staples we had gathered.
Stories were coming in about the devastation and the rising death toll. Still,I would not venture out past my street.
Days past and it was time to see what stores were open. My land line still worked so my family knew we were safe. I couldn't drive too much because my husband might have needed the gas to get to work. The gas lines were hours and miles long. Kroger's was running on generator power. The store looked as if a bomb had hit it directly in it's belly. We left nearly empty handed because there were no supplies.
Days past and we were still listening to the terror of the deadly storm on the radio. Tom and I ventured back to the store to see if a truck had gotten through. A man stood working in the bread isle unloading loaves of bread. Tom and I ran to the case and grabbed a loaf as if we were thieves. We ran to the milk case and found fresh milk. We had run out days before and celebrated the white, liquid gold. The meat case remained empty and the freezers stood barren, a sign of the patience we still needed.
Days past and our large ice stores had melted and the remainder of our food was about to go bad. Mike and I went in search of a generator. It had been a week since we had electricity and things were getting hard and a little scary. We found one at a tractor supply store. We then searched for gas. Most stations were empty and deserted. The few that were open had armed police stationed at the front and the lines were longer than the amount of gas they had to sell.
We had a generator and no gas.
A day past and Mike had been going to work downtown. Gas stations were back up and running and he would take and fill up a gas can for the generator everyday. We would only run the generator for a few hours due to it's expense. Gas was $4.00 a gallon.
Days past and we were all so exhausted from the stress. We rationed food and gas and batteries. We tried to keep each other entertained and were extra kind to each other. The stories of death, destruction and hopelessness filled the radio airwaves. Stories of hope, help, and kindness filled the opposite hours.
Days past and we had heard rumors that the electric might be turned on. We prayed we might be next on the never ending list of folks getting their power on. That night we went to bed disappointed that the house remained dark.
A day past and we waited for the sign we could cook, and wash our clothes and turn on a light. It was 6:30 PM and there was no sign of power.
An hour and five minutes past and the lights came on. Such a simple thing of a small bulb lighting up the darkness and allowing us the benefit of it's illumination.The kids and I grabbed each other and hugged and danced and laughed until we fell out. Tom screamed from his window "We have lights!" We hadn't had electricity in 12 days.
A month past and we remained reverent about Ike. We were lucky; So many who suffered and died were not.
Spring came and the buds began to open as the memories of Ike began to fade. The time for joy and growth and renewal had come. After months of fixing and rebuilding we were due for signs of new life.
A week passed and my dear friend called me on the phone from Beaumont, Texas a place that was devastated by Rita and hit again by Ike. "Did you hear about the Farmer's Almanac?" he asked. "No what did it have to say?" I asked hopeful this would be a good weather year.
"It said this is the year of the big storm. Should show up in July or August."
"Maybe not", I tried to dismiss the source. "They aren't always right", I added.
"They predicted Ike to the day."My friend stated in a flat, informative and unemotional way."Well, what are you up to today?"he asked.
"I'm going to start buying supplies" was all I could say.

Friday, April 10, 2009

I am just a girl...


I am just a girl...
I am in some ways the very same girl I was a million years ago you see in the picture with the white blouse and plaid jumper. I have naive moments where I am so surprised at the world around me. I get scared sometimes and still need my loves to hold me. I have the same childlike wonder when it comes to perfect weather days, great food and wonderful time spent with ones I love.
I hated the 4th grade picture you are witnessing. I felt ugly. Not ugly duckling ugly, where there was hope that I would turn into the beautiful, graceful swan but rather the kind of ugly referenced in the joke "beauty is only skin deep and ugly is clear to the bone" ugly. I was just a girl. I was just like everybody else who was insecure, scared and worried that I might never get everything I wanted. What if I never found true love? What if I never got friends? What if Henny Penny was right and the sky really was falling and I was the only one out there caught without a helmet?
The other picture happens to be my personal favorite. It's me when I was a single mom out on the town with my manfriend. It was a moment in time when I felt truly beautiful and happy. There is a story behind the red dress in my book. It's about the time I asked my mom to buy me a red dress to bury me in if I didn't live through the delivery of my last child. I dressed in very plain clothes back then. I wore on the outside how I felt on the inside. I looked non-descript. I could have robbed every bank in town without worrying about getting caught. Nobody could have picked me out in a line up.
Back then I was just a girl raisng my kids, trying to keep up with a life that overwhelmed me every morning my feet hit the floor. I was just the same girl who got scared about making bad choices and disappointing my kids, my friends and myself.

I'm softer now. Curvier, with hips wider than my shoulders, I don't just have junk in my trunk; I have an entire yard sale. I'm fuller around my face. Threads of silver glisten in the sun light through my hair. My body is rounder, richer than I was in my 30's. I noticed a shift in my 40's in the way I looked. I also noticed that same shift in the way I approached myself and the world I live in. I wasn't just softer in physical description, I was softer in my heart too. Age refines who you are. As an "older" woman I began realizing how very little certainties I maintained. I felt myself leaving more and more room in my thought process, allowing myself the ability to shift course if I so desired. And that's another thing I notice about me now. I have real burning desires. My passion for food, wine, wind, love, inclusiveness and justice are more rich, decadent, and luscious. Just as my body began it's spherical sweep, so too had my heart and mind begun to round themselves out. I am able to love more deeply now, than when I was younger, still focused on the search for acceptance. I am able to approach a total stranger with my fists unclenched and a soft smile on my lips with little or no pre-judgement. I am more comfortable in my own skin as just a girl still trying to do the very best I can with what I am given. I am finding myself letting go of hurts and disappointments faster; dwelling in the light rather than sitting alone cursing the dark. I forgive myself any indescretions ever so much quicker, without bludgeoning my psyche. I am becoming my own best friend. The trait I have been proudest of was that I loved my friends, not in spite of who they are, but rather because of who they are. My spherical living is allowing me to be as kind to myself as I try to be with others. I am human after all. I had abused my humanity, nearly to the point of exstinction. I have learned to admit when I am scared. I can open myself up, revealing the precious child that lingers in my soul. I hear with my heart instead of my ears. I touch with respectful, kindness instead of swatting away the misunderstood. I ask quietly for information from others so that I may learn and pass on any new ideas or thoughts. I remember what I don't know is so much bigger than what I do.
I am still very much just a girl. When a child seeks my attention and calls me "Mam" I turn, laughing at the very idea that I have grown up into such a mature title. I am reconciling accounts with my insides feeling young and girlish while my outsides look so much more like a mom or mam or worse still, a lady.
When I was in 4th grade I thought 45 years old was ancient. It's too bad I didn't know then I would still feel the best of my girl qualities at the ripe old age of 45. Maybe I would have been less afraid and enjoyed my 4th grade picture more.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Sweet Charity


This is a picture of my daughters. Christy is my oldest child. The tiny girl in pink is my daughter Elizabeth. We call her Betty. She is the youngest of my four children. She is as sweet at 17 years old as she was back then. She is the child I gave birth to in the midst of my medical breakdown. Betty was the reason I was able to pull through. In my upcoming book, Advancing Backwards, I talk about my stint in the Intensive Care Unit, and how my will to live was waning. The nurses brought in pictures of Betty and taped them to my IV pole. She was born three pounds, eleven ounces. I was hooked up to a ventilator, unable to breathe on my own, and my mind, though not totally gone, was not able to retain new information. Seeing pictures of her fight her own battle in the NICU helped me to find a reason to fight for my life.

I want to fast forward to the year 2007 when my precious Betty was 15 years old. She was in high school, running track, cross country and living large as a healthy teenager, or so we thought. The incident I will touch on here is titled "Fifteen Seconds Changes Your Life" in my book. The reason for that title comes from the lecture I give my kids about decision making. I have preached over and over to them about how it only takes 15 seconds to alter your life forever. The idea was to impress upon them how a blink of an eye is all that is required for the very best opportunities to be taken full advantage of and the most horrifying tragedies can happen due to a 15 second decision.
Betty seemed to have energy to burn. I was exhausted watching her run for sports, run around the house and run her life. I was envious of the amount of endless bouncing around she did. I thought she was lucky to be able to do so much in a single day.
One day she came home and did her usual routine of going to her room and playing her stereo, while she did homework. The events that came after that are described in great detail in the book. The reason I can't do it now is not to tease, but rather self preserve. I cried the entire time I wrote that chapter. I shook like a leaf, blinded to the key board of the computer, praying that I was hitting keys that spelled out the episode the first time because I didn't think I had the strength to try and write it again.
Betty tried to commit suicide that day. I found her hanging by an electrical cord tied to her closet door.
We happened to have a family therapist, due to unruly bad boy behavior of my sons. He got us help. Betty was diagnosed with Bipolar disorder. She wasn't overly energetic-she was manic.
What goes up, must indeed come down. Bipolar disorder causes the down to be reminiscent of Hell, itself.
Betty has the doctors she needs to battle her disease. She must fight for herself and monitor her feelings. She is doing great now. I compare bipolar disorder with diabetes. Both are real physical problems that have to be managed.
I researched teen suicide while I was writing the chapter about Betty's attempt. I see in my own kids and their friends how fragile teenagers are and how easy it is to be hopeless. I have worked at trying to reach as many kids as I come in contact with and let them know they are not alone.
Siucide in children and teens has gone up exponentially since the 1970's when I was a child. It is the second leading cause of death in college kids. It is the third leading cause of death in children. I was positively gobsmacked when I read the number of kids effected by this. This is an urgent problem I feel very strongly about.

I wanted to extend my reach as far as I could. I feel like there is so much more than can be done to help our kids. I decided on trying to find a charity that I could donate 10% of the proceeds of my book to in order to expand my territory.
The preface of the book tells the story about how I found the charity. I am a Thursday's child. If you know the nursery rhyme you will know what that means. I have far to go. By divine intervention I found the charity www.thursdayschild.org that helps children and teens with just about every problem you can think of. For me, my connection was they help kids who are suicidal. BINGO! I knew then it was a sign. I wrote a lengthy email to a contact listed on the website. I do mean lengthy. I wanted to assure whoever received my email, that I was sincere in my endeavor to give back to them and extend my reach to kids all over the country and Canada.
I went on and on telling Betty's story and how I wanted to help if I could. I wanted to impress upon them how honored I would be to do this and I was concerned they would think I was some kind of a nut.
I sent the letter and waited for a response. The book was in the editing phase and I was hoping to include a preface talking about the charity. The clock was ticking and I hadn't heard anything back and the book was just about ready to be sent back to me. I began to doubt the sign I was so sure I had witnessed.
One day while checking my email I saw the response from the contact at Thursday's Child. Here's what it said: "Sorry to take so long to get back to you. That would be very nice. Thank you."
I had written an epic novelette to them and they kept things very short and sweet. I laughed at my groveling dog and pony show. It was funny then and I think it's funny now.
I am a firm believer in charities. I try to give whatever I can to assure others that we are in this together. I want people to know I see them. I can't tell you how grateful I am to have the opportunity to give to Thursday's Child.

I am not one to self promote without feeling a little creepy about it. I am neurotic, nervous and insecure. I am woman hear me, not so much roar as, ask politely while staring at the floor... So what I can't always do for me, I can do passionately for others.
Please buy my book, Advancing Backwards, when it comes out and help Thursday's Child, or find them on the web directly at www.thursdayschild.org. Send whatever you can. They are the only 24 hour hot line available to kids and teens here in the U.S. and Canada. They work to bring our children out of the dark.

Soon I will be starting a new blog that will be updated every Friday containing original bedtime stories for young children and the young at heart. Another book in the making? Let's hope, so I can have another way to donate.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

"The Book"---Advancing Backwards


In the beginning there were dozens of spiral notebooks filled end to end with my scribbled, scratched up hieroglyphics of stories I have told or wanted to tell. I have told stories all my life. I have been blessed to have events and conversations that led me to life long learning and the occasional epiphany.
Very early each morning I'd get up, get my coffee and sit down with a cheap, well worn pen and my notebook and begin to try and make sense out of my life and the happenings around me. My love of phraseology and verbiage had me sitting for at least an hour everyday writing what I remembered, what I had learned or what I was feeling. Writing frantically before anyone else was up became my little patch of peace. Some days the ink would flow like water running all over the page in a constant stream of thoughts and feelings and memories. Other days I suffered for my art, feeling as if my brain had run away from home while I had been sleeping.
I have never kept a journal in the traditional sense of having private writings. I wrote everything as a story to be told in order to bring others closer to me. I told stories about events in my life that had others mesmerized at my survival. I had a full medical arrest when I was 28 years old during the birth of my youngest child. I bled to death on an operating room table and was legally gone for 2 1/2 minutes before they were able to revive me. I had lived through a nasty divorce from the man I had loved and the father of my 4 children. I had only wished I were dead during that period. My ex-husband and I began to contemplate reconciliation when he was diagnosed with an aggressive sarcoma and he died 8 months later, leaving me heartbroken once again. I raised my 4 kids as a single mother for 7 years. I was one of the nameless, faceless working poor. Unexpectedly, I was cured of a 3 1/2 pound ovarian tumor that was found by "accident". I found real, true love with my best friend. Marrying Michael has been the single greatest thing I have ever done, barring having my children. These were just some of the things that were happening in my life. These are some of the things in my book Advancing Backwards.
The book is listed as a personal memoir; it's some of my life story. In truth I think it is the story of so many people. I believe that is why I started to write it all out in the first place. My reason for writing was more about reaching out and letting others know they are not alone. It was also to show that I am neither heroic or a martyr. I can't find a cape that doesn't make my butt look big and sack cloth and ashes washes out my complexion. I am merely one woman who has dealt with whatever came in my life the best way I knew how with help and love from my family and friends. I haven't gotten anywhere alone. If not for those precious people in my ridiculous and eventful life I would never have survived anything.
The book is my first. It represents some big changes in my past, present and future. My last chapter talks all about when change happens to you. I am a firm believer in divine interventions and watching for signs that my life is sometimes meant to be bigger than I could have ever possibly dreamed. Advancing Backwards is about making my attitude all about gratitude. Every time I fell down the rabbit hole, I could always find a singular moment to be grateful for, even when it was the last thing I wanted to do.
I have been so lucky, blessed, fortunate, all of the above, to have been invited to this party. I have been even luckier to have been able to write and share some of it. I look back at the pictures of myself when I was 3 and 4 years old when the world was my oyster. I was happy, hopeful and believed anything could happen. Relieved, I am overjoyed to report I feel that way again. It turns out I have been circling back to my authentic self the entire journey. It's wonderful to know I will continue to be Advancing Backwards.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Shock and Ahhh...

My path has been uneven and rocky at times, but it has the most beautiful scenery perseverance can buy.
I have bounced back and forth throughout my life between screaming,"Are you freakin' kidding me?" to sighing,"That's the nicest thing I have ever heard..."
I had spent some time while writing my book really breaking down my life and looking at it as if it were a spectator sport. Ages 14 through 16, I was a drama queen. Everything was a big deal. At least to me it was. I had actively decided to be bad and confrontational. My classmates remember me just yelling at everybody. Every story about me, told to my husband, ended with, "...and then she yelled at me!" I now avoid those folks at the reunions. No sense reliving the past if I am not going to put it in writing. I became a victim from ages 17-20, feeling sorry for myself and always making sure there was plenty of beer and wine at my pity parties. During ages 20-27, I was reticent. I became quieter and quieter trying desperately to disappear into the woodwork. My thought was if I stay still maybe no one will notice. The truly sad thing was, I did stay quiet and no one did. From 28 through 35, I became a victim again. Even though it hadn't worked out for me the first time I was no quitter. Ages 36 to the present date, my current state is my "It is what it is" phase. I am part active participant and part observational humorist. That's not to say I never cry anymore, but unlike my past, I don't sit in my own bucket of tears trying to drown myself.

I have come to terms with my own naivety. I realize that I can now claim it as part of my charm. I am not hand over my car to an inner city "Valet" while shopping at the junkyard naive, but I do have a tendency to sit back gobsmacked at some people's behavior, especially when those people are my kids. Reserving judgment is something I am working on. It's like balancing an egg on a high wire. Some days I can sit straight faced as they talk about their views and actions and acts of survival in high school and college. Other days my face glows like a stop light and I have to take my pulse to check if my heart has exploded yet. As I said before, I am working on this.

I have been the fool to rush in, taking in stray animals, outcasts or adult runaways only to find out they stole my purse and/or the last shred of my pride. I have opened myself up to those who seemingly needed help and found myself completely and utterly shocked at the way some live without a conscience. I am a product of the Walt Disney years, so I have always had that nosy little cricket's voice in my head. I was stymied, wondering how they did it and if they would teach me. Living for only yourself seemed a whole lot easier than the path I had chosen.

I have been the angel who feared to tread. I have rolled up my sidewalks and pulled my blinds, shutting the outside world completely out, as if there were bombs dropping from the sky. I had had my ass handed to me enough times that staying out of the fray seemed my only option. I lived for weeks with no visible signs of life coming from my house except to go to work or take kids somewhere. Once, our neighbors thought we had moved. That was fine by me, until I realized they were stealing my mail. All they got were bills I couldn't pay, so they eventually came to the door and handed them over, opened and read, and said they got delivered by mistake. The joke was on them. I thought about stealing their mail, when it occurred to me that damn cricket was still yapping in my brain. Eventually, I would come out of hiding and poke my head out the front door. If I didn't see anyone else's shadow I would emerge.

My "It is what it is" phase is coming along nicely. I am honing my "whatever" skills. I am getting too old to deal with high school barbie drama. I had put a stop to paying attention when I was in high school, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, and just can't bear it now. I wait to feel sorry for someone until I know the whole story. If there is real tragedy and sympathy to be had I will gladly give it hand delivered with a homemade pie. If someone has left their car door open with the keys in the ignition and their car gets stolen, then I say nothing. It is what it is. My deal is, I don't want to deprive someone of their life's experience. My life in it's totality , so far, has taught me things either by personal experience or by watching others. The lessons are invaluable. Most of my schooling has cost zero dollars and little blood, a little tears and lots of sweat. If sweat equity were currency I would be the richest cat in town.

I still own a pendulum to swing from, occasionally going from OMG to TTUL. I am not in the market for complete control just yet.
I like the rare emotional outburst now and zen.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Twitter, Facebook, Bebo oh my!

I spent my day taking care of my paraplegic dog and building another profile page. This time it's on bebo. I find this whole process fascinating and frustrating at the same time. I love the connection and yet I feel like an antique while I am building my page. I have such a hard time finding things other people seem to know about. This is all so new to me. It's like traveling to a whole new world where I not only don't know the language but I'm not even sure where to go to listen to it.

It's all good. I have had the best education the Internet has to offer. While I am waiting for the book to come out I have little money. But I have loads of time. That is what is required for the Internet to truly educate is time. It's sort of like when I was a kid and we would go into some body's house early in the day and play in the basement. There were no windows so we never knew what time it was. The next thing I knew it was dark and time for me to go home. Amazed, shaking my head i walked home felling woozy from lack of light and food. Those were the best days. I always wanted my job to feel like that. I wanted a job where time flew and I was so entrenched I wouldn't notice I hadn't eaten in seven hours.

I have that job now. I feel positively giddy when I have worked for five or six hours and I look up and the day has flown by. It's magical for me. I have preached to my kids to do what they love and the money will come. This was my attempt at putting my money where my mouth was.
So far I still believe.
I must warn you, I enjoy being slightly gullible.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

It's Just Another Panic Sunday

It's Sunday and the clock is ticking for the weekend. Mike is actually back at work today and the house is quiet because the teenagers are sleeping in. The only sound is that of the dogs and cats quietly tiptoeing around the house.
I was sipping my coffee and watching the geckos climb the outside of the house trying to come up with a brilliant blog. The results never magically appeared. I had bupkis to write about today. What's a writer to do when no good stories magically appear to inspire? I realized that it was time to do rather than to write.
For today I will go out into the garden and dig. I will play in the dirt and watch the birds and fiercely fight off the wild squirrels who are currently eyeballing my tender plants. I will lay in the grass and stare at the clouds imaging what animals they look like. I will swing on the wooden swing in the back yard my husband made for me a few years ago for my birthday. I will swing back and forth enjoying the sunshine and using it a s a form of self-hypnosis.
Today is the day to live rather than writing about life. It's a day to relish the idea that those that can, do. While I am living, I will try to pay attention so I may have wonderful adventures to write about tomorrow. It's been my experience that the most unexpected little miracles happen when I least expect it and am busy doing something else.
Happy Sunday.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

I Love My Country


I love my country.
I appreciate, as a woman especially, how much freedom I enjoy everyday. Even with all our economic woes, I can feel how fortunate I am to live in the most generous country in the world. I am proud, so very proud to call myself an American.
I understand how lucky, we all are, having the ability to question our government without imprisonment, torture or exile. No one will throw my sorry butt in jail as I tirade against greed and corruption. I can walk down my street without the fear of retribution or condemnation if I oppose our president or congress. I remember to pray a small prayer of gratitude for all the endless opportunities that are unique to being born under the American flag. It is the symbol we, as Americans, can wrap ourselves in that protects the rights we readily enjoy and utilize daily without a single thought.
I love my son.
I have prayed daily for his safety, health and happiness since the day he was born-eighteen long years ago. I have watched him grow into an honorable man, who believes in our constitution and the inalienable rights we have since the day this country was formed. He is good to his bones. He is the type of man whose future is so bright it lights up a room. He is the one of my four children who has the innate ability to gather us together when we begin to drift apart. My son has pure joy in his heart. His passions about right and wrong have been with him always. He has worked to protect our world by planting trees. He has cared for animals that were hurt or abandoned. He has cared for friends who were hurt and abandoned, as well. He has grown up so much bigger and better than I could have meagerly dreamed for him.
April 15, 2009 my life will change.
I am so aware of tax day. As an American, who used to be considered middle class, I am wholly alert to the inequities of our broken tax system. The quagmire that is the IRS, is in dire need of reform. Every year I hear reports of people making ten times the national average, not paying their taxes, it galls me to the point of near stroke. This year we handed our taxes to our accountant weak willed and unresolved said,"Do what you will."
This year I can barely muster the strength to give a damn what the federal government does with our hard earned money. This year, on April 15, 2009, My only concern will be for my youngest son, as he signs a contract with the United States Army. This will be the tax day when my payment will be the life of my son.
I raised my children to be proud Americans. I lectured them in voting booths about personal responsibility in voting. I spoke of suffrage and how voting and being actively involved in our country was their civic duty. I have repeated my mantra of "We the people" ad nauseum. I believed what I said. They believed it too, and now Tom will be doing exactly what I asked of them as small children. On the 15th I will watch my son dedicate himself to serve and protect the country he and I both love. Tom is not signing as a last resort. He has wanted to serve in the army since he was a small child. He has college money. He has his brilliance and joy and honor. He could do anything. What he wants to do is join the military. My plan is to take the camera and thoroughly embarrass him. I will proudly take pictures and shake hands after I watch him take his oath and sign away the next 6 years of his life. Tom is brave. He doesn't dwell on what if's, he thinks about what needs to be done in the immediate. Tom loves structure and the idea of living a life of sacrifice for the greater good. He is a much better and braver person than the mother who raised him.
For the next few months I will be spending every minute I can with Tom. This will be obnoxious and he will tell me several times to back off. I will burst into tears and tell him I love him so very much. I will sit quietly watching him and ask God to protect this boy, my boy. I will console myself with other military families and their stories of survival. I will question if this is a good decision until Tom reminds me he knows what he wants. I will sing the national anthem even louder (I always sing) everytime it is played. The flag will hold new meaning for me. It will represent my son living thousands of miles away fighting for peace.
On April 15, 1009 I will say a mantra of "I love my country" over and over and over until the time comes for me to pull myself together and remember to celebrate the freedom Tom has in making this choice. And when it's time for Tom to go off on his great adventure,I will pray for the strength and courage to endeavor to deserve the son who has made me smile a million times.