Look What I Got!

For the last 8 years when it comes time to pack away the holiday decorations I always take a moment to wonder where I will be the following year. 

I suppose I have been thinking about moving out of this house for that long. 

This year we all know it is our final holiday in this house.  The last time we will spend putting up the decorations in the usual places they have taken over for ten years.  When I pack them away this year I will do a better and more careful job as I know they will not just be sitting in the attic for a year. 

Like the rest of us, they will be packed up and moved to a new location.  Next year the decorations will have a new home and be put in unfamiliar places.

This morning as the "children" gathered and opened gifts and laughed and talked I sat back and watched.

I saw a daughter who has been living on her own for quite some time now happily talking with her boyfriend.  I saw a son who has recently moved in to his own apartment kiss his girlfriend with affection.

A daughter who will soon be moving to Europe, with no known return date.

A daughter finishing high school and packing up for college.

A daughter who no longer crawls into my lap, but rather rebuffs my affection, for the comforts of text messaging her friends.


I saw myself, moving on with a career I love, a peacefulness in solitude, and where there was once an empty hole in my heart I saw a fullness.  No one has filled that space, but with time it has closed.  With patience it has healed.  With hopefulness it waits to open again someday.  With contentment my heart is peaceful now.

I looked at a family that has grown.  Children who in spite of me have become amazing adults.  I looked for a moment and saw them as the children they once were.  The chubby cheeks, their beliefs in a magical person that brought toys and treats to them.  I saw myself and Eric sitting there with coffee watching as they screamed in delight and rushed over to show us what Santa had brought them.

Today they turned their appreciation and gratitude to me.  They know.  They may not believe in Santa, but they believe in family and in love.

The older children who have moved out took their own ornaments off the tree to bring to their new houses, as was the plan from the very first ornament they each received.  We spoke briefly about each of them coming to take what they want from the house, as I will not be taking much.

I will pack away the ornaments, the decorations, the memories.  I do not feel sad.  We have all grown up, myself included.

We are all ready to move, to a new houses, new jobs, new schools, new countries, new loves.

It has taken us 8 years to get to this point, and now that it is here, it feels good.


It took me forty four years, and the last eight to come into my own. 

It took me letting go, so that I can continue to grow.  Letting go of a house, ornaments, grown children, and a lost love so that I can truly be with my family as we all are now, and will be in the future.


I will still have moments where I look at my children and see the faces of their youth, but I wont linger there, I wont cling to visages of the past.  I will see them for who they are now.  I will do the same when I look in the mirror.

I am very excited to see my reflection in my new surroundings. 

It is time.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

"Someday Amy that mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble."  These words were uttered by my mother, starting at about the time I was five I believe. 

I have a tendency to say things bluntly at times.  This has tempered in the years that I have lived in Texas and I have adapted a more Southern way.  The Southern way is just as blunt, but somehow sugar coated.

Instead of saying, "Wow that coat looks like shit on you."  The Southern way would be, "Fabulous coat Honey! I think it is ready to be passed down to your daughter.  OOH! This means shopping for us!"


I currently and for the last few days have not really been able to speak.  My voice is shot.  This usually happens after a long weekend of working, smoking too much, lack of sleep, or just my karma telling me it is time to keep my mouth shut.

A funny thing happens when you literally can not speak.  You are forced to listen.  At first it is frustrating because you want to put your own ego or agenda in the mix of a conversation.  A very annoying feeling, especially if you are in a conversation where you believe yourself to be correct and the person talking to be incorrect.

I have no voice.  I am now in a position to listen.  To really hear what someone else has to say.  To put my own thoughts aside and take in their point of view.

About 12 years ago when Eric was really sick during the holidays I called in his family to come celebrate with us, seeing that it might be the last holiday we would all be together.  I developed laryngitis.  I felt fine, just could not at all speak.

This allowed for Eric and his siblings to bond without interruption from me.  This allowed me to not get pissed off at his brother and just let things slide.  Still that year I managed to put my foot in my mostly quite mouth.  A discussion of photography came up, a topic I am greatly interested and opinionated in.  I managed to muster out a few words of how I dislike one particular photographer.  Sure enough come Christmas morning I open a gift from Eric's brother and it is a calendar of photos from the one photographer I publicly declared in half whisper that I loathed.

Even with no voice I was still able to be arrogant, ashamed, and left with no room to back peddle at all.

Right now what little voice I have is being used for work.  Arranging a model for a photo shoot, talking to my mom, and calling back clients. Reassuring all that I do not have consumption, bronchitis, or mesothelioma.  I just have a sore throat most likely from talking too much and not listening enough.

If I did not have a cell phone where I could text all the words my mouth can't utter I would be 100% in the listening zone.

I think I need to spend more time in that zone.  It is good that I can not speak.  I only benefit from listening more and actually choosing my words more wisely.


I have a friend who challenges me always to think more.  No matter how I may beg for her advice or tutelage, she will usually come back with, "Think about it."


You can talk to me.  I will listen.  I will take the time to put my ego aside and hear what you are saying.  I will think about it.

Sometimes all we need is someone to just listen.  No more.  When my voice is back I will make more of an effort to check my words, Southern or  not,  and take a moment to listen.

Yes I Can't Do That

After eight full hours of prepping twelve models along with a team of at least fifteen people it was time to watch the runway show that would last about three minutes.

It was one of the most unusal shows I have worked on.  My part was all in the prep for the main stylist.  Hand bobby pins, curl hair, wrap hair around a long tube, apply makeup.

Around me were body painters, models in various stages of readiness, crew getting the lighting, music and red carpet ready.  The entire venue was filled and sectioned off in  areas of makeup, hair, body paint, costumes, and blisfully an area that had hot chocolate.

The cast of characters were unique, talented, funny, and creative.  Some of us have worked together before.  Some I just met for the first time but have wanted to work with.  We exchanged tips, knowledge, and business cards.

Minutes before the show when my last and final job of making sure the models all had lipgloss was over, I sat down.

A conversation was struck up with the woman next to me about her work as a body painter/artist.  We have worked together before.

She leaned over and said, "So how did you get on this gig?"

"Well, I got the call two nights ago that they needed extra help and..."

"You are a "Yes Whore", yeah, me too."

A Yes Whore.  I laughed.  I had never heard the term but I knew exactly what she meant.

"Can you do this shoot?" Yes

"Will you give up your day off to come in for this client?" Yes

"Do you know how to make hair look like _________?" Yes

"Can you pick me and my friends up from the mall and take us to the movies?" Yes

I have always known that I have problems with setting boundaries, and I tend to become over enthusiastic with projects, commitments, and scheduling.

I had always thought my problem was my inability to say "No."  It is in fact my eagerness to say "yes" that causes me to feel an internal pulling of a hundred different directions.

This is not to say that every time the word exists my mouth I do not mean it.  By being a "yes whore" I have learned to do some great things in my field. I have been given opportunities I would not otherwise have, and I have met very interesting people.

I have also over booked myself.

I do not want the invites to stop.  I will  continue being a "yes whore" for a while, until I feel confident enough in my field to say, "I wish I could."

The hours of prepping, observing, socializing, networking, and even burning my finger on a curling iron paid off for me in the eye opening way of discovering I am a "yes whore."

Knowing when to say "yes" and saying "no" are very different things.

Yes, I know the difference now.

I've Been Here Before

Before falling asleep last night I did something I do not normally do.  I switched my phone to silent mode. 

Normally I sleep with a fan on the floor for ambient noise, and since we have no heat in the house currently, I have had the sound of the small space heater.  Last night all I had was silence.

I lay on my side and looked at the small Christmas tree in my room and thought about how small my room feels.

Curious that my room felt larger when I shared it with someone than it does now when I am alone.  It occurred to me that the entire house felt smaller.  Almost stifling. 

I woke up in a dream that had started without me.  There she was waiting for me, as if she knew I was moments away from sleep and closer to her in a dream.  She took my hand and said she had something to show me.

We were in a familiar place and I laughed, delighted at where we were.  I made a comment that I needed to to take pictures so I could show some people where I was.  I grabbed for my phone to find it did not work.

She laughed and held me closer to her as we sat on the cold ground looking up.

The woman in my dreams showed me the stars in my dream.  A sky uninhabited by anything but beauty.  More constellations than I had ever seen in my waking life.

She showed me and expansion of my view to the world, and took me out of the smallness of my actual room and actual life.

She kissed me with the intention of love and made me laugh with the  unrestraint of a child.

Within her arms I felt safe to look further, be larger than my small little room, and live with a certain amount of spontaneity I would not feel untethered.

I walked barefoot in the cold grass just to feel the place where I had once spent so much time, a place that has become mythical in my mind, and brought back in my dream.

She left me in a room that I had begged her to take me to.  She sat me down on a small bed and told me to sleep while she was away.

She let go of my hand, my own arm remained outstretched waiting for her return until I was too tired to wait any longer.  I closed my eyes and fell asleep in that little room.

I woke up from my sleeping dream to find my arm stretched out on the empty side of the bed.  A smile as I could still see the sky the dream woman had shown me.  An image I wish I could share.  My feet still felt cold and wet from the grass of my dreams.

A room is just a room.  A house is just a place to hold our stuff.  My room grows smaller because I am growing larger in my thoughts, in my desires and in my possibilities.  I have filled this one space for too long.  It is time to let go of it.  Time to move.  Time to walk in the grass on a cold night on a familiar mountain and stretch my hand out in hopes it will be grasped by the right person.

I have become more than this small room.

It took turning off the world, and opening my eyes to a dream to see where I am and where I am headed.

Limbo

I received an email from f someone I knew in another lifetime.  A life time called, "high school."  Through the various ways of connecting with people now, and reconnecting he and I have reconnected.  I always liked him and thought he was a good guy, so I was surprised to hear that he had had the opportunity to apologize to an old flame of his.  He made amends for his behavior, a side of him I did not know.

I congratulated him on  this achievement as we do not always get the chance to step in to the past and  say, "Hey, I was a real shit, and I am sorry."  Wasn't everyone a real shit at some point or another?

I am also fairly certain that I spent a few hours with this guy sitting in his brother's car listening to music and making out until the battery died.  Should I apologize to his bother for killing the battery or to my friend who I am not entirely sure it was him I am remembering?

Along with apologizing comes, we hope, forgiveness.  When is the right time to actually forgive?
For me I find it much easier to forgive but never forget.  Then I have others who I choose never to forgive, and their crimes are hardly worth the punishment.

Does a young child forgive her father for turning his back when she announces that she is gay?  She is a grown woman now, accomplished, talented and a good friend.  She seems at peace with what happened to her.  I am more angry for her.  But has she forgiven her father?  Or has she placed him in this weird limbo area where we tend to put people who hurt us the most.  The place where we can not forgive, will not forget, but still want to keep in our hearts in some way.

I want to yank him out of limbo for her and scream in his face.  I want to barge in to his office (in dramatic fashion of course) and get in his face and ask how dare he turn his back on his own flesh?  As a parent I do not understand it.

My other friend felt peace at being able to put an issue to rest and fully release it from Limbo and throw it in the past where it belongs.

How many people am I keeping in Limbo?  Holding them captive for the wrongs they did me, or I did them?

I can feel anger for my friend and her direct it at her father, but he is not in my Limbo.  He is in hers.  I like to leave my Limbo alone.  Let them be. 

Does it matter if the crime committed was over 30 years ago?  The crime of not remembering loving someone.  The crime of not loving someone enough.  The crime of being young and stupid.  Does it hurt to know that I loved someone and they have no memory of it at all?  Yes.  I could lie and say it doesn't matter. but in truth it stings that I meant so little that not one moment was remembered on their behalf.

Now I wonder who I have stung.  One person I know and I have been working at making amends.  But, truly, does it matter? 

I know you for you are right now.  The memories are faded and the person you are in my life right now is all that matters.  I hope that I am not in someones Limbo, or that if I am they release me.  We do not need to harbor all that.

Open the door, release the pain, accept the childhood errors, forgive the folly of youth, choose to remember it, but lighten your heart and let it go.

Might Could

In Texas there is a phrase that people use that, as a writer, annoys the crap out of me.  "might could."

"Y'all wanna go get something to eat?"

"Yeah, we might could do that."

I am sitting here in the comfort of my bed, door slightly open to let the cold air in, and I just want to sit here.  I have resisted the urge to fully embark upon snuggling under the comforter and going back to sleep.

I made my favorite kind of coffee and have been listening to random music.

In other words I have been slacking the morning away.

I need to pay bills.  I need to look for a house to move in to.  I need to do dishes.  I need to go grocery shopping.  I need to contact a few clients.  I even need to shower.

Instead I am sitting here doing nothing but playing around on the computer and thinking.  Thinking about yesterday and what an amazing day it was.

I took the children to get our Christmas tree.  We go to the same Christmas Tree farm every year where we sit on barrels of hay in the back of tractor pull and are let out in the fields of trees.  The children have been doing this since they were actually young enough to be called children.

Now my car is stuffed with the ever growing teenagers, children who are adults, and of course two dogs.  From the moment we got in the car the average age level dropped.  Christmas music was played on the stereo, giggles emitting from the back seat.

In the field of trees my mostly grown children, ran, laughed, and even leapt over what will be next years crop of trees.  They wanted hot chocolate, and to run through the maze made of hay.

It was cold and the wind biting.  They all huddled together to keep each other warm like a pack of puppies in sleep.

As always I had my camera on hand to capture as much of it as I could.  There is no way to capture the feeling I felt watching them play.  Seeing them just enjoy the moment.

Yes I have bills to pay, clients to call, a shower to take, and numerous other items on my never ending list.

Or. I might could sit here with my coffee and the memory  of a cold morning spent with my adult children running around a Christmas Tree farm all of us "acting a fool."

Love Colored Glasses

A number of years ago I began a writing project with a friend of mine.  We called it "Narcissus and Goldmund."  Each choosing the persona that suited us the most.  At that time I was Goldmund.  In the book by Herman Hesse, Goldmund is the artist while Narcissus is the thinker.

Goldmund leaves the confines of the monastery to search the world for answers, while his Teacher, Narcissus stays behind.

The writing project with my friend fizzled out.  Lack of time, interest, or desire is possibly the cause.  I went back and read what we had written and was amused at much of it.

My friend's monastery has since burnt down and she has had to take up new residence.  I am moving from my own for an uncharted destination.

I have done many things since that writing project began.  I have shed many tears both good and bad. I have seen and welcomed people in to my life only to watch them move away, grow apart, die, or just move on.

Although I have had a few relationships none have been right.  None have stuck.  For this I blame myself.  I know I have made great strides in my grief and in my acceptance of who I am. But every now and then an unexpected curve ball gets thrown my way.  Just when I believe I am truly ready to open my heart, I discover I have chosen the wrong person to receive it.

I have already admitted that I now know I am capable of saying horrible things with the intention of hurting.  I am still shocked when I do this and seem unable to control it. Even if it stems as a verbal self defense to what has been said to me, I should still be able to refrain from it.

I have tried in vain to move away from the negativity that has been brought to me.  I have had to give up even my own personal name as it was taken from me.  I will soon be giving up the name of this blog as that too has been taken from me.

I have been accused of being a narcissist, and using my writing as "a pathetic cry for attention."  I am guilty of allowing the pain to continue.

Now it must stop. Removing myself is only one step.  Reclaiming myself comes next.


Thirty-four years ago I began my writing career with these simple words, "Dear Diary."  I have not stopped writing since.

I am still Goldmund wandering around in search of art, knowledge, understanding and above all; love.

 The best attention I can get is from myself.

I will now pick up, dust off, and put on my "love colored glasses" and look once again at the world and myself in a more independent yet open manner.  For that, I need no name.


http://narcissusandgoldmund.blogspot.com/

With This List, I Do Shop

I will be leaving for work in a few minutes off to some location to turn a young girl into a bride.  She and her friends will talk while I work.

They will talk about the dress, flowers, rings, honeymoon, and possibly some inside family gossip.  I will ooh and ahh when I see the dress, as I do every single time I help prepare a bride for her big day.

Her big day.  Weddings are considered to be the big day for the woman.  It is assumes she has dreamt of this day her entire life.  I have heard clients, friends, and coworkers describe their wedding down to the detail long before they even have met a partner to marry.

I had my own wedding dress picked out in high school, and years later when I did get married that was the dress I wanted.  I walked in the store with the picture I had ripped out of a magazine during high school and handed it over.  It was the only dress I tried on.

I was told recently by someone that I need to make a list of everything I want in a partner.  Down to the smallest of details of what kind of books do they like to read.  Then this same friend said, "Or make a list of everything you do not want in a partner."  I found it interesting that she said "Or"  and not "and".

Last night a friend of mine went out with her best friend to cheer her up after a failed attempt at a relationship.  My friend told me that she does not understand why her friend keeps picking the wrong person, or why they people she chooses do not immediately fall for her.  Her friend is smart, funny, cute, hard working, and would be "a total catch."

Maybe she needs to make a list as well?  Maybe we all need to make lists?  Would it help to meet someone and be able to mentally cross things off the list, or check them as you got to know them?

There would have to be room in the list for flexibility.  Bargaining of sorts.  Yeah, okay so they don't like dogs, but they really love their parents.  That has to count more than the dog factor.

I think the idea of making a list of what you want from a partner is smarter than making a list of which guests will be invited to the wedding.  Eventually it will not matter if your dress cost five thousand dollars or seventy five dollars. What will matter is how excited you are each day to see that person.
When you are laying in bed with the flu you will not care what flowers you held on your wedding day, you will care more that your partner is sitting lovingly next to you rubbing your back.

Make a list.  Make many lists.  Just know that lists are made to be changed.  When you have met your "one" you will throw that list away faster than the rice is being tossed as you walk down the aisle.

My friend of a friend may not have met the perfect person yet, but I can tell her with certainty that there is someone somewhere with a list that describes her and only her.

Which Way to the Exit?

I had the opportunity to attend a seminar entitled "Get Motivated!"  I was looking forward to a few of the speakers and had no idea who some of the other ones were.

I missed the first half of the day due to a work obligation, in which I was part of a fashion shoot for a magazine.  Not the comfortable part of making everyone else look good for the camera, but I too was in the shoot and therefore in front of the camera along with an amazing group of my peers. 

Squeezed into a dress which left me breathless with its beauty and binding, I helped others get ready and ran about in my usual frenzy hunting down lip gloss, bobby pins, and desperately trying to keep my breasts from falling out.

All the while I was dealing with a personal issue that could not wait.  I was in the midst of a heated conversation with a friend via text messaging.  There are times when I turn my phone off, and other times I need to leave it on in case clients call.  I had my phone on and the little beeping sound of incoming messages was near relentless.

I excused myself for a moment to go outside and quickly message back to my friend that now was not the time and we could talk later on during the night.

After the photo shoot there was a quick change of clothes in to very informal apparel and a dash to the seminar, with fake eyelashes still intact.  A nice mixture of glam and slacker.

My conversation with my friend continued as I watched the battery on my phone slowly die.  Seated with my coworkers the first speaker was just starting. 

I was ready to Get Motivated!!!  However I was being weighed down by my personal life.  No amount of "Just Do It" or "Be Your Own Boss" was going to help.

I had no idea what the speaker was talking about as I sat lost in my own despair.  So many questions running through my head.

"When did I become this person that can be so mean and hateful to another human?"

"Why is this happening?"

"Am I all these things I am being accused of?  I know what I am spewing forth is not the truth, but maybe I am guilty."

It was then that I realized I was guilty.  Not guilty of any of the actual things I was being accused of, but guilty non the less.

I was guilty of not being in control.  I was guilty of not removing myself from the situation.

I have stayed in situations that were not the best for me, be it jobs, friendships, relationships, even houses.  I have stayed out of fear of change.  I have enabled my own bad behavior, thus allowing others to do the same.

While people around me were shouting and applauding in agreement to whatever was being said on stage I took control and said, "No more."

I will no longer be the person I was behaving like.  I will no longer use hateful words in retaliation.  I was the one who needed to remove myself.

At that moment I felt mentally free.  I removed myself and my negative thoughts and words.  I no longer wanted to use my mentality to cause pain for myself or anyone else.

It did  not matter who was right, who was wrong, what the facts were,  I needed to remove myself to free myself and anyone who has been on the receiving end of my negativity.

I have witnessed two friends argue and end their friendship.  One knew when it was time to remove herself from the situation.  This is not a selfish act as it also allows the other person to also be removed and free.

I have in my life spent hours trapped inside my own guilt, my own hatred, my own self loathing, and when I finally turned the phone off and looked up, I felt motivated.  Motivated to release myself and my captures from the same guilt, pain and hatred.

By removing myself I became motivated to become the person I want to be, and believe resides within me. 

I Need a Sharpie

Thanksgiving is over and all the leftovers are in the fridge neatly packed away.  We sat around the table, an odd group as always, filling my table that can safely seat 10 but we managed to fit 14.

Everyone went around and said what they were thankful for, under the caveat that they could not say "friends or family."  The answers varried from, "Pie, Our Lord Jesus Christ, a pug, Justin Bieber, High Diving, and Education."  My answer?

"I am thankful for having ten great Thanksgivngs in this house." 

This was our last Thankgiving in the house that I have spent more hours in than in any other house in my life.  We will be leaving it soon.  As expected I feel ambivilent about it.  On the one hand I am more than ready, and on the other I fear change.

When I leave this house I will be leaving behind memories, both heartbreaking and joyful.  My youngest only knows this house as she has grown up in it. 

When I leave this house I will leave  behind the bad memories as I refuse to carry them with me.  This may include friendships that were formed while living there.  This will include plumbing that has not worked in years,  once loved and now burried pets in the  back yard.

I feel my heart closing in and retreating back to the place where it has been most comfortable.  My heart can sustain  my family and my job.  I tried to open it up to love and new friendships, but ultimately I can see now that I am not ready to do either.

I stated before that I stand alone.  Indeed I stand alone, with the love of my family and a few select friends that seem like family.

I am tired today.  I am tired at the thought of packing.  I am tired at the pain I feel from realizing friendships have not been reciprocated.  I am tired of trying to love only to discover I just do  not feel it.  I do not feel it in the place I need to feel it the most.  My heart.

Things I thought I wanted resided only in my head and never quite made it to my heart.  I thought and hoped I was ready for that.

 I am not ready for that. 

Maybe there is only so much room in my heart and the Inn is full?

I can give my heart and think of myself as a good friend to people.  I just can not let others in to my heart.  A great injustice.

When I move I will leave behind the past.   I will bring with me the memories but I know that I will be leaving behind more than I can carry with me.  Emotionally and otherwise.
I will continue to work on myself in ways to be a better person to those I love.  I will keep asking my heart if it is now open and receptive to letting someone in, friendship or more.  I will listen to its beating and try to detect the smallest of changes.

I can pack up belongings collected over the years, and I can throw some away.

How long will I keep the box marked "My Heart" taped and shut and in storage?

The Reintroduction

One question I get a lot is, "Have you ever thought of getting back together with your first husband?"

The answer is, "no." 

He and I are still very much together in almost every aspect.  Not a day goes by that I do not see him, in part because he is living with me at the moment.  I  have said before that he is my best friend.  He is more than that.  He is family. 

He grew up as an only child and had both of his parents die at an early age.  I was able to give him a gift he never had.  I gave him a family.  A place where he belongs.  Yes we are divorced and have been for many years.  We knew shortly after the marriage that "marriage" was not how we were supposed to be together.

We figured it out and moved in to the comfortable and happy place of friendship.  This place also meant that we were no longer privy to the intimacies of each others bodies.

There was a time while Eric was alive that the three of us would attend school functions together.  This confused people.  Eventually a woman at school passed around the rumor that my ex was gay and that was how we were able to get along so well.  (Oh the irony of that)

John took to the rumor and began to introduce himself as , "Amy's gay ex husband."

In truth when we decide it is no longer time, or the right thing to be with someone, we give up intimacies that we had become accustomed to.  We give up being the person to make sure they got home okay.  We let go of knowing their tastes in food, movies, and books.  We say goodbye to their habits, both irritating and endearing. 

If we are lucky we keep these people still in our hearts and sometimes in our lives.  I know one person who told me whenever she breaks up with someone she hates them.  She tells herself enough times that she hates them until it becomes true and then the person holds no place in her life at all.

I like to keep people I have loved in my life.  It does not feel right to throw someone away just because we did not work out as a couple.  I may not worry about their day to day activities any longer.  I may for a while shortly after the breakup wonder what they are doing, or have to sit on my hands to prevent myself from calling them.

If enough time passes, and the planets are all aligned I hope for friendship.

There is an awkward time if the ex has moved on and you see them with a new person.  I always think, "Does she know she hates shellfish?  Has she heard the story about her grandmother's dog yet?  Has she found that mole  on her thigh that is oddly shaped like California and we once laughed about in bed?"

When we greet is hugging acceptable?  A kiss on the cheek when I know what her mouth tastes like and tongue feels like?  How do you let go of all of this?

The answer is time. 

No I have no desire to get back with my ex.  I love him.  I will always love him.  I hug him, I kiss him on the cheek or on his bald head.  We have joked that he and I are like Bert and Ernie, or the Odd Couple. 

When a person leaves my heart but not my life there is a time when I have to let go of, or pretend not to know, certain things about them.  It becomes unacceptable to touch them in a certain way.  This is all part of the letting go process.

If I am lucky our eyes will meet for a moment and I will convey that I still know, that I still remember, that I still hold you in my heart, but no longer my arms.

What's Your Number?

My daughter and I both have a celebrity crush, on the same celebrity.  This morning while taking her to school I asked if she would seriously date him if he ever in "real life" asked.  She said, "No way, he is too old."  I tossed out equally handsome celebrity names (that happen to be roughly my age) at her and she said no to all.

She told me she would not date anyone even a year older than she is.

  I reminded my daughter that her father and I were eleven years apart and I was in my twenties when we met.  This she blew off as being okay. 

To someone her age there is a time when all people just fall in to the category of "old". 

Being someone that has primarily dated older than my own age, it has never once occurred to me date younger.


I have in the last few months, gone out to a bar with a friend of mine who I think of as being "my age".  At the bar that thought does change as I see her engage in behavior I gave up long ago.  I am reminded of the fact that I am the older person, and usually I feel out of place even being there.

Then I have friends who are young enough to be my children (almost) and we have connected on such a deep level that I feel no time separates us at all. 

When I see someone who is young and attractive I do not immediately wish I was younger so I could go after them.  I am more likely to compare them to how I was at their age.

I am about to turn forty-four.  To some that is young, to others it is old. 

When comparing ages I have discovered that some ages I have never been. 

I have never been the same age as my friend.  I have never been the thirty-one year old that she is.  At thirty-one I had five children under the age of 10. My youngest was born when I was thirty-one. My husband was diagnosed with cancer when I was thirty-one.  I was taking care of my entire family and timing trips to the grocery store on when the baby had last nursed and my husband had last taken his medications.

I did not go to one single club when I was thirty-one.  I would have laughed or cried at the thought.  My clubbing days were long over by then.

I have never been a single woman without children since college.  I do not know what it is like to only have to care for myself, or entertain the thought of bringing anyone home to my bed at any time. 

I do wonder what it is like to be her age.  She will also never know my age.

A young woman in her twenties was able to bring me to tears with her powerful words spoken on a stage.  I did not see her outer casing, I saw her mind and was in awe of it.  Immediately I fell for her, but it is her mind I love.  The fact that she is attractive is superfluous to the emotions evoked by her thoughts.  This is a crush of sorts, but not one I would ever entertain because she is so young in numbers.

My thirty-one year old friend can sit with me and discuss with intelligence the world, our careers, and the follies of others that we both know.  In those moments I think of us as being the same age.

I do not really have many friends that are exactly the same age as I am.  I have some that are ten to twenty years older, and some that are ten to twenty  years my junior.

I wonder why I would not entertain dating someone younger than I am?  A fear of sexual immaturity?  Not being of equal intelligence?  That was proven wrong by my poet friend.  She surpasses me in that category. Not being financially established?  My thirty-one year old friend is more focused career wise than I was at her age.  I had no career outside of wife and mother.

Would I feel the things I desire to feel in someones arms who is younger than I am?  I have no idea, I have always chosen close to or older.

At what point does age actually matter?  I was once told that it was embarrassing how I was laughing with a coworker who was young enough (again, almost) to be my daughter.  The person saying this to me added, "You are my peer not hers."  She herself was older than I was.  And now, years later it is the younger one I remain close to.  The younger one who chose me to be with her when she delivered her first child.

I refer to all of my friends as "my age".  If there is a commonality that bonds us together, than age is of no importance.

She is thirty-one and makes me laugh.  She is fifty-two and let's me cry.  He would have been fifty-four and stole my heart.  She is twenty-two and I bow to her visions.  She is twenty-five and feels like my twin.  She is in her sixties and we are kindred souls.

If you want to peel off the sheets, turn on the lights and examine the age of the body you will lose the connection of the heart.

At some point we are all more than our numbers.  We are all simply; people.

Here's Where I Stand

In sickness and in health I took the hand of a love and said yes, I will stay.  I will stay to raise our children, I will stay to bare another child.  In sickness and in health I said yes. 

There was more sickness  than there was health.  But I stayed.  I became part of someone.  By definition a wife, caretaker, mother, friend.

Then when I begged God to let him stay, the answer was no.  And I stood alone.

Alone in my pain, alone in my parenting, alone in my bed. 

Alone in my failures, and now ultimately alone in my successes.

Overtime, friendships have been forged.  My heart has healed, and I have now said yes to other things.  I have said yes to a career.  I have said yes to a new part of my life.  A part that some of my closest friends have no idea about it.

I have said yes to standing alone.  It was not until last night that the fullness of standing alone encompassed my being.

I have been standing alone as a hallow shell, relying on people to help me fill that.  Expecting others to fill a void and help be my foundation.

Foundations built on expectations are unstable.  Foundation can only be built from within.  The rest are just support beams, and when they fall away the foundation should be able to stand alone.

Last night I stood alone.  I cried alone.  I laughed alone.  I called upon my support beams for reinforcement and even though I was given that, I still stood alone.

There was a pivotal point where I was literally standing alone.  Awaiting results to say if I had won, or lost.  I stood and realized that no matter what the result there was no one next to me to hug me in congratulations, or offer their arms in consolation.

Yes I stayed.  Yes I stood alone.  Yes I was lost for a moment in self pity, anger and hurt.  The longer I stood, the more I filled up my own  being, causing me to stand taller.

Yes I stayed.  Yes I congratulated myself not on a win, but on the pride I took from my work. 

When sickness took my love away I did not know how to stand.  Had my love stayed I would not have stood there last night, in the cold, alone and feeling complete just being me.

He said, "Just Stay"  and I did.  I continue to stay.  I stay for my children, I stay for my work, I stay for the art I create that needs no approval from anyone but me.

When he begged me to stay and I said I would I had no idea I would be staying for me.  He helped me start the foundation, but I am the one who has carried the rocks, poured the concrete and built it up.  I am the one who celebrates my successes and accepts my failures.

I stand alone. 

I stand alone with a straight back and head high knowing that at one time I said yes to someone else, which ultimately lead me to saying yes to myself.

"Take my hand, take my whole life too...for I can't help falling in love with you."

Now that Fall has settled in (in Texas) I am seeing a number of spring and summer relationships come to an end.

Some friends are breaking up with their partners of a few short months, while others are trying to gain footing on breakups from years long commitments.  Neither are easy to do or watch.

I keep hearing the lyrics, "Breaking up is hard to do" replay in my mind, but even that seems too sugary and understated.

For the relationships that lasted only a few months there was not much of a middle ground.  There was no time spent deciding not to go out and just be home alone with a bad movie and not caring about how each other looked.  Maybe these are the best kind of breakups.

The beginning is filled with butterflies and hours of endless talking, every song having meaning.  The end is filled with nausea, endless talking (to friends) and every song holds meaning.

Where are the love songs about, "Sorry the meatloaf burned but you forgot to take out the trash."?  I missed the greatest hit of, "You maxed out the credit card and now I will have to work two extra shifts."
The B Side to that being, "So, you wanna fool around?"

The middle part of relationships for me are the best part.  Butterflies may be wonderful but they dissipate.  Songs can still hold meaning, but are not played as often.  The middle part of a couple's story is filled with secrets and intimacies that are completely hidden in the beginning of the story.

Prince Charming does not ride up to find the Princess cutting her toenails.  Rather he finds a perfectly pedicured foot to slip his slipper upon.

I think that the reason I spent so many years pining away for my lost love was because we did not have enough of the middle part.  There should have been more years to learn and love all the nuances of each others habits and quirks.

Breakups can be one sided, as in when one partner dies.  Or they can be messy and filled with lawyers, complicated words, and division of assets.  How do you decide the net worth of your broken heart?  Is you any more broken than the other persons?

I have always believed in clean and easy breakups.  I joke with my first husband that I divorced him a long time ago and I still can't get rid of him.  The truth is, I have no desire to get rid of him.  I no longer love him the way I once did, or thought I did. But I still smile when I hear, "When A Man Loves A Woman" on the radio and recall how that was our first dance at our wedding.  I remember when we split up and were moving to separate houses we sat and divided up our CD's.  We laughed over who would get A Chorus Line Soundtrack.  I have no idea who did end up with it, as most likely we shared it in just the same manner we shared our children, our habits, and our finances.

A close friend of mine is going through the equivalent of a divorce.  She is feeling the pain and loss from a bad breakup.  Since I do not know her former partner I am inclined to take her side of the story, knowing there is always two sides.  My loyalty lies with her, but when you walk in to her apartment the very first thing you see is a table full of photos of her previous life.  Snapshots of a happy family, all in beautiful frames.  I wondered to myself why she would want to come home everyday and have this be the first thing that greets her.

I understand now.

  It was a life of middles.  They had the time together to settle in to a routine and learn each others habits.  They probably knew what was going to made for dinner on any given night.  Roles were assigned, who would pick up their child from whatever activity, who would go to the store, who would make the first move during sex.  It may not be the romantic time of a relationship but it is the time that solidifies one.

I would want to come home to memories of that too, especially if I now resided in a foreign place without my "Middle" comforts to ground me.  Her divorce is messy and there is lack of communication, but my friend still gains pleasure from at least seeing proof of the good years spent together.

"Let's Get It On" moves to "Baby Try Not Fart In Bed" and for some will end with "Breaking Up Is Hard To Do".

I have managed to remain friends with just about every ex I have ever had.  Some have moved to the occasional email, three have moved to the grave, and one or two have become my dearest friends.  All are kept close in memory and I choose to look at the middle times we had together, even if they were brief.

The middle time may consist of just a moment.  An hour on a dock, a conversation about birds, listening to bat Out Of Hell while driving to the mountains.  Middle times may be years long and blur into traditions.  Holidays spent cooking the same meals, establishing ownership of one side of the bed, and yes even laughing about farts.

I have taken down most of the photographs of Eric in my house.  I feel no need to hold on to a shrine.  We broke up.  Not by mutual choice, or argument, but by some sort of fate.

There may be heartbreak and pain when first going through a breakup.  There may be attempts at a last minute stay of execution out of habit, desperation, stubbornness or love.

If you are lucky and have the person in your life for long enough the anger may fade and be replaced with a friendship.  What better friend is someone who once held your heart in their hands?





"And it's hard to say goodbye my love, hard to see you cry my love,  hard to open up that door when you're not sure what you're going for." ~ Dreamgirls

I Plead the Fifth

I had an interesting conversation with an old friend last night.  He currently resides in my old hometown in New Jersey and was inquiring about my brief visit.

Having missed the reunion, he filled me in on some of the highlights of the event.  I have seen pictures, and most people I have reconnected with via social network sites.

What I missed were the diners, the stroll through my hometown, and the face to face flustered feeling I would have had not remembering who someone was, or worse thinking, "You were in my grade?"  

My perceptions of who I was seem to change with each person I talk to.

While playing a silly game I had to answer some seemingly harmless questions about when I was eighteen years old.  Who my best friends were, what I wanted to be, what were my fears, who I was dating.  All easy enough questions taken at face value.  I ended up not being completely honest about the answers.

I was afraid of a lot of things when I was eighteen.  I was afraid of dying.  I was afraid I was not going to get in to the college of my choice.  I was dating a woman at the start of my eighteenth year and guy at the end of it.  I was doing a lot of drugs.  Or at least a lot of one drug that wiped out my entire inheritance from my father.

Eighteen was spent in every club imaginable in New York.  Driving my camarao packed with friends in to the city to go clubbing all night long only to walk out into the stinging surprise of reality.  Wearily trying to find my car, many times having to roll a drunken homeless man away so I did not run him over.

Eighteen I made out with my girlfriend at a concert in front of the Spanish teacher from my high school and did not even notice who he was.  To my credit I did take french.

Eighteen I fell in love with a teacher and learned how to really read a book, and which books to read.  My grades improved and I was accepted to the college of my choice.

Eighteen I went off to college in Boston only to have a nervous breakdown and end up weighing almost 100 pounds and in a hospital for three weeks,

Eighteen I quit drinking, and all drugs.

Eighteen I dated a boy from my home town, who preferred the company of my brother than to me.  But he always made up for it with sweet words and gestures.  He made me laugh.  He made everyone laugh. Shortly after eighteen he was in a coma from a car accident and died six years later.

But that was nineteen.

For most of my eighteenth year I lived fast and foolishly.  I was afraid of death because I tempted it too many times and knew what I was doing.  I had my last hangover at eighteen.  My last high school football game where I froze cheering in the snow wearing saddle shoes.  At eighteen I graduated high school. 

At eighteen I had the owner of a nightclub want to throw me a party.  He printed out cards and invitations and the night was to be dedicated to me.  

The party never happened.

At eighteen I demanded second looks from strangers and made my presence known when I walked in to a room.

Eighteen started off with arrogance, some confidence, and ended in near death and complete breakdown of belief in myself.

Some years should I would like to forget, some I would like to relive.  I would not like to relive being eighteen.  

Being the mother to two eighteen year olds I can understand the stresses they are going through.  The changes in friends, habits, and questions of their future.  One is worried to the core about her college applications.  One seems to have no future goals and lives in a more day to day existence.  They both possess qualities and fears I had when I was that age.

I can look back and feel some anxiety as I recall that year.  I can not say I am proud of everything that occurred that year, but I can say I am proud I survived it.  I am proud that in the end I made better choices and stopped doing activities that made me dance closer to death.

I am proud of who I am now.  Who I am now is a result in part of my eighteenth year.

My friend chose wisely and I am sure purposefully when she asked about that year.  It does stand out.  It is not hard to pull up the memories from that year.  Had she said nine, or even forty-two it may have taken me some time to figure out the pivotal points from those years.

Eighteen was full of them.

When I went away for four days one of my own eighteen year old children begged me not to go.  There were tears, and vitriolic messages sent back and forth.  Much of my trip was spent either worrying or being angry.  I could not understand why it was so important for me to stay.

I was not as close to my mother when I was eighteen.  I loved her, and adored her, but parents were not the same as they are now.  My mother barely knew what colleges I was applying to, much less who I was dating or what I was doing in the city every weekend night.

My eighteen year olds have their secrets, but they also share with me.  They talk with me.  They laugh with me.  We are close.  

Upon reflection of my own time spent at that age I understand why I was begged not to go away, if even for a few days.  A few days to me is a lifetime for someone eighteen.  

We both survived.  I survived going back to a place that haunts me, and holds my memories of being eighteen, and my own child survived being eighteen without me.

Both of us learned something, about ourselves and each other.  Both of us survived.

For one moment we were both eighteen together. 

Can I Wear a Tiara With This?

Do clothes really define a person?

By freak accident I left my suitcase at home in Texas and boarded the plane with only the clothes I was wearing.  Fortunately I had my makeup in my purse, and jewelry on me. 

Slightly daunting knowing I would be wearing the same outfit for four days, in weather I have not been in for years, my friend has graciously offered me some of her clothes. 

When I was married and the children were little I had a uniform of sorts.  I was in the role of young wife and mother.  My uniform reflected more of a youthful arrogance.  I was a runner, thin, and  proud of my body.  I wore my hair long and natural, and little to no makeup. 

My clothing consisted of overalls with a crop top underneath, or jean shorts bought in the men's section  worn around my waist.  black leather belt and a tight tank top.  My shoes were Birkenstock.

At that time in my life I do not recall owning any skirts or dresses.  I did not care about shoes or jewelry.  My $35 wedding ring was plenty and I adored it.

At some point after my husband died and I gained weight my uniform began to change.  I started wearing skirts all the time, or dresses.  Light cotton clothing that felt feminine and pretty to me.  I still clung on to my tank tops a I can not stand tee shirts. 

Was I over compensating with my clothing to feel better about myself having been uncomfortable in my body?  Did wearing more feminine clothing make me feel prettier since I did not have that natural confidence I used to have?

One night not too long ago out at a bar a girl and I switched persona's.  Simply by switching what we had on our heads.  I donned an elaborate black feather clip and she had her knitted cap on.

Almost immediately she began to adapt a feminine attitude, flipping her hair, and gesturing with her hands.  I, on the other hand sat differently, knees apart and leaned on one.  Someone took a picture of us and I am throwing some sort of pseudo gang sign and she is posing like a starlet.

Here I am in New Jersey, not in my clothes, wearing for the first time in over ten years jean shorts around my waist and a loose tank top.  It feels foreign and familiar all at once. 

Do I feel any less feminine?  Maybe.  But I also feel a sense of confidence I have not felt in a long time as well.  Brings me back to a time where I did not doubt my body image.  A time when I felt there was no need to prove to anyone that I am a woman.  I could wear what I wanted to and feel secure.

My overalls are still hanging in my closet at home and waiting for me to shed the outer weight so I might wear them again.

My career dictates a certain amount of style that overalls would not be part of.  My closet holds a myriad of personalities.

Which one is really me?  All of them?  None of them?

I sit here in jeans feeling slightly cocky, I must admit I am longing to go in to New York and shop for some clothes that fit the me who I am now.  The more feminine me, the one who likes the feel of a skirt around my legs when the wind blows.

My outer wear reflects how I am feeling inside.  In truth when the clothing is shed and I am left without the security I have no idea who I am.  Even then I hide beneath the blankets and protect myself.

Home Where My Thoughts Escape Me

I have often spoken about where my home is and where I feel like I belong. Anyone who knows me well will say I have no true home.  That I belong no where and everywhere at the same time.

I have held a fondness for New Jersey, that being the place where I grew up and had all my first experiences in life.  Asked if I would ever return the answer is an immediate "no". 

I have no family in New Jersey, but I do have close friends.  I have no family in Texas either, except for the one I created.  Texas is the home for my children.

New Jersey holds my youth, from excited snow days spent ice skating on a frozen lake to my first job at the mall selling cookies for my father's company.  New Jersey holds many firsts and lasts for me.  The first time I spent hours walking along train tracks until the sun went down.  The first snow fight, or jumping in a pile of colorful raked up leaves.  The first cigarette I smoked in the woods by the YMCA with a friend. 

Texas holds firsts as well.  The first time I gave birth.  The first time I noticed I replaced, "You guys"  with "y'all".  The first time I ate chicken fried steak (and I am still not entirely sure what that is).

Both places hold loves and heartbreaks for me.  Both places hold memories of good and bad.  In one I was a child in the other I became an adult. 

As I write this I am in New Jersey visiting a friend for a few days.  Talking a break from my Texas life, I have come back.  Before coming here I thought of the friends I want to see and the things I would like to do.  Places to revisit.  Those places no longer belong to me.

New Jersey holds my past like the ghosts of Christmas's  past.  I could walk in to my favorite diner where I spent so many hours and all I would see is the booth where my friends and I sat and  split a plate of cheese fries.  I would see our ghosts as if they are all still sitting there frozen in time.

The hill where I went sledding is now built up and no longer a hill.  Things have changed without me knowing about it, life has moved on and I did not move along with them.  I moved on.

Texas keeps my life now, and my adulthood.  Texas is where I have a career, my children, and friends.  Even gone for a few days I notice that I miss them.  Examining why I miss them I understand that it is in contrast to being here, in New Jersey, in my past.

If I was sitting on a beach somewhere I would most likely not be missing anything or anyone.  Being here I am missing the youth I once had, and the present I now have that is not here.

I can enjoy this visit and make new memories here but they will be short lived, and over shadowed by what once was.  I no longer know the highways and short cuts.  I am no longer acclimated to the weather.  It feels as if every gust of wind is saying, "This is not where you belong anymore."

My house in Texas may be selling shortly and I will move away from it.  It is the house where I have lived the longest in my entire life, yet even it too has been telling me it is time to move on and that I no longer belong there.

I sit here, outside, looking at trees with leaves that have changed with the season.  Vibrant colors I do not see in Texas, but took for granted when growing up with them.  I know now that my work and my life here in New Jersey is done.  I can visit friends, visit old haunts, but the wind will always be telling me I no longer belong.

When I return to Texas in a few days I will be going home.  Back to the place where my life is.  Where my present is. 

Where, for now, I belong.

Children Get Older, I'm Getting Older Too

Once upon a time ago I  was a good housekeeper, wife, and mother.  I was very proud of being those three things and took my job seriously.

I had an organized linen closet, a sock drawer (with actual matching socks for all five children).  Dishes were always done, and dinner was on the table every night at 6:00pm.

I even regularly cleaned out the mini van.  Yes I said Mini Van.

My husband usually woke up before me and would wake me up by bringing me coffee in bed.  After my 3 mile run, I would return home and make breakfast for all the children prior to getting them ready for school.

All that while nursing a newborn.

Life was a fairytale.  The toothfairy existed and never fell asleep before the child thus missing the window of opportunity to fly in.  Santa Claus came like clockwork, and even the Easter Bunny left paw prints that suspiciously looked like one of my cats had been forced to walk across the table in flour.

I made playdough at home.  Not because we could not afford it, but rather it was more fun to make with the children and they seemed to take pride in their creations.  The Christmas tree to this day has homemade playdough ornaments.

Like a conveyor belt pieces of bread were laid out with snacks and juice boxes as we made lunches everynight so they would be ready in the morning.  The children were bathed, clothes picked out  and shoes with backpacks were placed by the front door.

I would tuck the children in to bed and either read to them or tell them a story using different accents.  Every night ended with kisses all around and a multitude of "I love you" being said to their soft faces.

For the children that were still in preschool, there was a regular nap time, and pre arrannged play dates at parks, or coffee houses with large outdoor spaces so they could run around.

These were the "Playdough Years".

Now, my sink is broken on one side, you can shower upstairs, but have to use the toilet downstairs, My linen closet has been replaced with various bottles of hair color, curlers, and random micelaneous items thatt get put in there when the table is cleaned off.

If I am cleaning my house my first rule is to turn on music, (most likely a Broadway Musical) and take my top off.  Yes I clean in my bra.  I could wear an apron, but that is just one more thing I would have to wash, and a bra is much simpler. That and I do not always know where my apron is at any given moment.

Now the children no longer ask "What;s for dinner?" but instead ask, "Are we having dinner?"  If the answer is yes, then dinner will be on the table anywhere between 7 and 10 pm.  It would depend on how late I am working, and which child has which rehersal, practice, or job to be at.

My children do not come to me with Boo Boo's that I can kiss away.  Instead they come to me with worries about college applications, fears of never having a boyfriend, confessions of drinking too much at a party, or being caught smoking pot.

Now my children ask for rides, money, unconditional love, and advice.  Usually I am able to offer at least two of these requests, and always I am able to offer one.

Our life is vastly different than it once was.  Is it worse?  Better?  Or simply different?

I still love them.  I still clean without a top on (when I clean),  I am still here to tell them stories.  Only now we tell storied about when they were young.  Usually we sit on my bed and go in to fits of laughter of their childhood follies.

They have gone from sharing toys to sharing clothes, and talking about celebrity crushes.

I am missing out on more of their lives now as I have to be all things.  I can not just be the mom, housekeeper and wife.

My children have grown, and I have been forced to change and grow as well.  I am no longer the parent that knows every teacher's name, or even what classes they are all taking.  I no longer sit and try to sillicit funds for the PTA, or sew patches on to vests and stand by while they sell cookies or wrapping paper.

I drive them to the mall when I have been worn down with begging, and yell after them, "Do you have your phone?"

Is life worse than it once was?  In some ways yes.  As my children lack their father and feel their absence as much as I do.  We work around broken sinks, slow plumbing, doors that don't always close all the way, and having one car.

I can not say that we are all worse off as a unit.  Our trials have brought us closer and I regularly witness other children who are not as close to their parents as my children are to me

The laundry may pile up to Guiness levels, but I am sought out for hugs, love, and advice.

One thing you will always hear in my falling down house filled with dirty dishes is laughter.  Through it all my children have grown thick skins, and an amazing ability to be able to laugh through adversity.

It is common to hear, "Do you know where a towel is?" once upon a time ago I could have replied, "In the linen closet."  Now I am more likely to say, 'Not a clue, check your sisters room, but don't tell her I said so."

I no longer need to arrange play dates, which has freed up my time to arrange my own play dates.  I have discovered that it is okay for me to have a life outside of work, outside of my house, and even outside of my comfort zone.

One day my  house will be quiet.  I will be alone, and I imagine I will have matching white towels that are folded neatly in a linen closet.  I may have to get up and make my own coffee, but it will still taste as sweet.

I look forward to leaving this house behind, and ending yet another chapter.

The actual house may be falling apart, but the family unit is intact.

Let Me Get Back to You

Yesterday I had two very interesting things happen to me.  One; I slept more than four hours.  Two; I was asked if I have Attention Deficit Disorder.

I had never previously been asked that before, and although my immediate reaction was, "Huh, never thought about it." I thought I would look in to it when I had the time.

Working later than usual, I did not arrive home until almost 10:00 pm.  At that point the house was its usual bustling self.  kids talking. Dogs needing to go out, laundry needing to be done, and the back ground sound of some TV show filled with teen angst. 

Curious about the ADD thing since I have managed to survive this long and never hear that before I wanted to see more about it.

In between helping my daughter with her college application, answering emails, getting in to an argument with a friend, and arguing with my son, I googled "Adult ADD Symptoms".

I scrolled down the page not being able to decide in the brief half sentence descriptions which test would be best for me to take.

I finally settled upon one and began answering the questions.  My choices of answers ranged from never to always.  Why is there never a "It Depends" option?  I could see a scenario for each question that "It Depends" would have been my answer.

Twenty questions in, I had to stop to take a call.  The call was about an upcoming photo shoot that I am doing the  makeup for. 

Where was I?  "Is easily distracted."  Hmmm I clicked, "Often".

My daughter brought me in her dog to feel a lump on the dog's stomach.  I told her we would take her to the vet and I am pretty sure it is not cancer, and not to worry until we have gone to the doctor and see what he says.

"Loses temper frequently."  No, I am a fucking saint.  Again, it depends.  But I had to choose what was offered, so that one got, "Occassionally."

My ex husband walked in and needed to show me something that he has been working on.  Being escited for him, I looked away from the computer screen and directly at him, giving him my full attention.

I followed him downstairs to continue talking, leaving my test  page open.  I had my phone in my hand and answered a few text messages that came in.

While downstairs I grabbed my laundry, let the dogs out, went to the rest room, let the dogs back in, and congratulated my ex on his upcoming success.

Once upstairs I made some tuna fish and went back to my room and the computer. 

Having let my cigarette burn out, I lit another one and again turned my focus to the test. 

YOU HAVE TIMED OUT.  YOU ONLY HAVE FIVE MINUTES IN WHICH TO ANSWER ALL OF THE QUESTIONS.  PLEASE CLICK HERE TO START TIME OVER.

Uhh. seriously?  Now I am getting short tempered.  They could have at least told me that before I started the damn test. 

Back to the begining.  This time I read the instructions.  "You will only have five minutes in which to answer all the questions."

Oops.  I guess I could have read it after all.

More text messages, an email and a child crisis later I finish the test and wait for the cyber Doctor to diagnose.

YOU ARE LIKELY TO HAVE ADD

PLEASE ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS TO SEE WHAT SUB CATEGORIES YOU FIT.

Oh hell no.  But my daughter was there and she encouraged me to answer on.  I did and apparently I have some sort of thing called "Ring of Fire ADD"  uhhh, what the hell does that mean?

Back to Google.  A quick scan of Ring of Fire, which is not just a Jonny Cash song, but now of course was all I was able to sing.

I lost interest in the idea that I may or may not have ADD, but if drinking coffee right before I go to sleep enables me to actually stay asleep then count me in!

Here is what I see: In the time it took me to write this blog, I fed the cats, let the dogs out, took my daughter to school and discussed her schedule for the day.  I looked at my own schedule and made notes of things I need to do before I go to work.  I skyped with a friend of mine, found my favorite sweatshirt, and answered two pressing emails.  I also thought about the various fashion shows, sang obnoxioulsy loud in my car and offered the woman at Exxon advice on how to get her baby who is curently breach to turn.

I am a single mother with a lot of kids, and a full schedule.  I prefer being busy and somewhat distracted then the alternative of having nothing to stimulate my mind.

Am I ADD?

It depends.

Dia de los Muertos

Every year when Halloween decorations are taken out to be put up we all marvel at the sweet home made ones.  The ones made back when the children were little and I had time to clean out and soak baby food jars to make into candle pumpkin holders.

Back when I got all the magazines that had on every cover a way to lose weight  and a photo of something that would only make you gain weight.

Our decorations also include photographs that were glues on to plates and decorated.  Each year these are brought out and hung on our mantle.

Today is Dia de los Muertos.  A day to celebrate and pray for the dead people in our lives.  When these plates were made Eric was still alive so there is not one for him.  My father, My grandparents, The biological mother of two of my children, and a photo I had taken years ago of the Twin Towers.

That is all we really do as a family to celebrate this day.  We do not pray for or put out food for our beloved lost members of out intimate tribe.  We make no elaborate alters, except for the decorated plates.

I like the idea of celebrating the dead, and doing so over a two day period and then moving on.  It would be nice if grief did work like this.  If it could be large, and colorful and public.

Then put away.

Can we just put everything we grieve into this one day?  Grieve lost pets, lost relationships, dead careers, bad choices, and any regrets held on to?

How would a decorated paper plate look for a regret?  Do I want such a thing hanging on my mantel?  It is somewhat  hard enough that I have a photo of my dead husbands dead first wife, as she and I were not exactly the best of friends when she was alive.  I respect the photo  of her, because in her death she gave me the greatest gift, her children, which are my children.

Death is so much of a prevalent theme that even my daughter wrote one of her college essays on it.  In her essay death is named, given shape and referred to not as a depressing creature, rather one that has challenged her.  Her version of death has shaped her in to being her own force of life.

She is much wiser than I am in many ways, (of course I will deny every saying that.)  She took the deaths that befell her and embraced life.

I on the other hand have dwelled among the dead.  I am the keeper of the dead.

At least I have been.  I have been guilty of letting the dead define me.  If I was no longer a wife, then I was a widow.  Not too long ago I changed my relationship status online from "widow" to "single".  I had many congratulatory comments.

No one really knew what they were congratulating, and I suspect it was more of a solidarity from fellow single middle aged women.  A cyber, "You go girl!" type of thing.

For me it was letting go of another label in my life that just does not seem to fit me anymore.

I look at my life now, and I am so much more than a Widow.  I am me.  I am alive.  I am tired of being the keeper of the dead.  They are after all dead, let them keep to themselves.  This includes the regrets, bad choices, and just about all four of my high school years.

Tomorrow or the next day the decorations will be taken down and we will have a few short weeks until they have been replaced with other odd mixtures of pagan and christian decorations.  The plates will be replaced with stockings (hung with care naturally), and the ghouls will vanish to make room for idyllic snow villages that none of my children have actually ever witnessed.

They have witnessed death, and they have chosen life.

I have witnessed death and chose to let part of myself die.

I no longer feel that way.  I haven't in quite some time.  I have been more alive and happier in the last few months than I have been in the last eight years.

I feel alive again.

My heart does not feel empty anymore.  I have filled it with the joys of my children, my job, each sunrise I witness,  song I blast in my car, photograph I take, laugh I release.  I have filled that empty spot with life.

If I tried I am sure I could hear the faint applause of my dead and a few saying, "It's about damn time!"

I am no longer trying to hear my dead speak.  Fill my ears with the sounds of life.

Until there is a picture of me on a paper plate hanging on someones mantel, I will take my place among the living, where I belong.

She Said WHAT?

(the following is as seen through the eyes of one of my clients...or so I imagine)

I am relatively new to Austin, and have been thru three hairstyists, in search of one that fits.  My boyfriend purchased a coupon deal for highlites and cut with Amy Evers.  I googled her and read her reviews.  It was actually a comfort to see a mix of reviews as I am wary when there is never anything negative written.  I mean come on, no one makes everyone happy.

I pulled up the quaint old house and did not realize just how big and rambling it was.  After wandering around a bit, I found my way downstairs where Amy has her station and sat waiting on the long church pew.

A church pew?  In a salon?

Sitting with me were a few elderly ladies, some in hair rollers, some taking their own rollers out waiting for their stylist, to whip out his magic comb and shape their tresses into works of art.

I had no idea ladies still got roller sets, and is that what Amy is going to do to me?  Just as I was about to rethink this entire adventure, the back door opens and in walks a woman wearing heels, fishnet stockings, a black dress, and an apron with pink cupcakes all over it.  She is carrying a tray of cupcakes as well.

As soon as she is in the room she very loudly says in a thick Southern accent, "Good mornin y'all!  Why I have been up all night baking my heart out to bring you cupcakes!"

Various hoots, laughs and hellos she greets everyone and makes her way over to me and says (not in an accent), "Hi I'm Amy, I'm sorry I am a few minutes late, I was running from Round Rock, come on over and let's talk."

We get down to business and discuss what I am hoping will get done.  Amy seems relaxed and ready to take on my thick head of hair.

While foiling my hair we talk.  This is not an easy task as the downstairs now is overflowing with little old ladies, they all know each other and they all talk very loudly.  Amy tells me that this is what it is like every Saturday morning.  Same crowd.  None of them are her client's but they all know her and ask her questions about her life.

She talks with the ladies and even makes one or two slighty risque jokes which has them all in fits of laughter.

Every time a new person walks in through the back door everyone turns to yell a greeting.  I can't tell if I am on the set of Cheers or Steel Magnolias.

Occassionally Amy leans down to whisper the details or gossipy parts about some of the clients that are in the room.  She also tells me that in the afternoon there is a shift change and the clientele is very different.

Just as I am finishing up her next clients walk in.  Two young women that appear to be deeply in love and happy.  Amy pauses with me to greet them both with hugs and smiles, and gestures for them to take a seat on the pew.

I am starting to think the pew is actually a bit of a confessional as I have heard many secrets, and even found myself divulging a few of my own.

After I have finished I sit and wait for my boyfriend to come retrieve me.  Amy takes one of the other women to her chair and they begin to talk.  I can not tell if these women are her friends or just clients as she refers to everyone as "One of my friends."

Part of me feels like she has become my friend in the brief two hours I spent there.  And even though she reassures me that if I make an appointment in the afternoon it wont be as chaotic, I am not sure I want to.

I want to be part of the Saturday crowd and sit on the pew with the ladies talking about cruise ships.

One woman said rather loudly (since she took her hearing aids out), "So my doctor told me..."

Amy immediately said, "If I had a dollar for every time I have heard that said on a Saturday morning!"

She threatens to turn her ipod to Frank Sinatra to get the women in curlers really going but keeps it on Billy Joel for me.

When her new clients come in she asks them what they want to hear and one said, "Eighties".  With a few clicks, we were back in the Eighties and I was wondering just how many songs she held on her ancient ipod.

My boyfriend eventually arrives, and part of me is sad to go. I kind of wanted to stay and talk more with everyone.   Amy stops with her client/friend and gives me a genuine hug.

I can't tell if her clients revovle around her, or she revolves around them.  But I can say for sure if I ever return I will be sure to make my appointment on Saturday morning.  I have to find out how the cruise went for Ethel, or see if Amy's friend liked what she did to her hair.

Maybe I could just come with some coffee and sit on the pew waiting for my time at the confessional.

I have an odd feeling I would be welcome, even if nothing was being done to my hair.

I am not sure if I have found "my" stylist, but I know I have found a story I will be telling.  I have found a place where little old ladies still get roller sets and sit and mingle without judgement of anyone who walks through those doors.

Maybe someday they will all stop and yell greetings to me a I come in the door, to the odd place where they may not remember my name, but "Darlin" fits just as well, and they will all move over to make room for me on the pew.

Have you Prepared a Monologue ?

After yesterday's blog I received a few phone calls.  One was from one of my exes and she simply and jokingly said, "OMG YOU ARE GAY?!"  We laughed.

One person sent me an email offering to help me change my mind.  He went on in great detail about how there are churches and programs out there that could help me find my way back to the "straight and narrow" (sic).

And one call that when I saw the name pop up on my caller ID I was already laughing.  I answered, and all she said was, "So I was your first love huh?"

Having been at work with a client processing, it was not the time or place to have any kind of serious conversation, so I laughed and said, "You are not supposed to throw my writing back at me!"

I changed the subject to talk about my current personal romantic life, and then inquired to hers.

Ultimately she wanted to go back to me admitting she was my first love.  I think she felt a modicum of guilt over it being a love not returned, or even recalled.

I tried to in a hurried manner assuage her fears that it was really not about her at all.  It was my story.  That she played a character and didn't know, she as never given my edit of the script. It is not her fault.  Someday when I have time, and the kids are not around, and I have cell service I may call her and tell her the whole story from my point of view.  But most likely I wont. As that play has ended with no curtain calls.

I know as an adult what it feels like to be confronted with that same thing.  I too was someone's first love, and I too did not return it, in the way that she deserved.  I feel badly about it, but I also acknowledge that I was a kid.

That does not stop the guilt.  I am guilty of being young at one time.  I am guilty of being selfish.  I am guilty of not really knowing how I felt, or knowing but not ready to accept it.

We have worked through it to some degree and are able to now maintain a wonderful and unique friendship.

If I loved someone and they did not know it, or ignored it, it is not their fault.  Nor is it mine.  It is just my story and not theirs.  

I have witnessed one of my children feel this same emotion.  A love from afar knowing it may never come to fruition.   I have seen the longing in her eyes and felt the heaviness in her heart as she comes to her own terms in dealing with it.  Some day she may write about her first love that was not returned.

As a parent it is not easy to witness, and being powerless over the situation does not help either.  I want to call the object of her affection and say, "Ummm excuse me, do you not see what is right in front of you?"


I was unable to see what had been given to me, and my first love was unable to see what I was offering her as well.

Again, I must emphasize we were all young.  Kids really.  Just figuring things out, and full of irrational hormones that drove most of our thinking.  There is no blame to be had on anyone's account.

What I have learned now, is to open my eyes and see what is being offered to me.  A new friend who has taken interest in my life.  A new love that is offering me all that she possibly can, even though I know ultimately it wont be enough for me.  My children offering me their confusion and questions.  Even a stranger I have never met asking for advice on something as simple as her hair.

Non of these I take for granted.  If they have chosen me to be part of their stories, than I will be a full participant for them.

If someone takes the time to ask me questions and include me I will do my best to find the answer.  If one of my children wants to talk I will listen. If someone offers me love, I will accept it with gratitude even if I may not be able to return it in the way they would like.

If I have been cast in someone's story I want to know.

I may sit here in my bed alone, in a house that is filled with ghosts of my past, but that does not mean I need to dwell among them.  I can not alter with integrity the actions of my youth, but I can make sure I am here in the present.

I will not steal the scene, if I am cast as just a walk on character that will be forgotten, then I will do that.

If my new friend has cast me as a bit player, than I am happy to even have been given the role.  If my first love chooses to become friends with me as I am now, then I will be there as a devout friend.

If my love interest is saying here is all I have to offer, I will accept graciously until it becomes not enough for either of us.

If all my children ask of me is to be here and sit with them while they tell tales of unrequited love, I will bite my Mama Bear tongue and open up my heart to ache along with them.

I do not want to take for granted anyone that comes in to my own story.  From every person something is gained.  From every client, stranger, lover, child there is a soliloquy worth hearing.

If you have been cast in someone's personal story take a moment to be present for them.  You may be an unnamed character or you may play the leading role.  If it is a role you can not accept, let the person know, so that they might be able to move on and make the proper rewrites.

Do you even know how many roles you play in someone else's personal story?

Did you willingly audition or just find yourself in a moment of time being there for another person in the way they need?

Once you have accepted the part, they in turn become part of your story, which results in a collaborative effort.

Take an active part in your story, but keep a keen eye for those that have put you in theirs.

As for the person offering to put me in their story and help me find the path of the straight and narrow, I respectfully decline.  I have been cast in that role before.

I will no longer be typecast.  Hand me the script, or let me know if this is improve, either way I am here.

Feels So Right, Can't Be Wrong...Those Happy Days

When I was twelve my mother became a photographer.  She went to school in the city every day (New York) and came home late in the evening.

She spent hours in her darkroom that was built by a friend of hers in our basement.  She gained success and was in a number of shows and press.  She had the "eye'.

When I was twelve I was suddenly in a house with two teenage brothers who did not care much for a pesky little sister.  I was left to my own devices, which on most days meant walking home after school and finding something to eat while I watched TV.

When I was twelve I gained weight and during the summer was shipped off to a fat farm for the summer.

When I was twelve my father died.

There are times when I look back and I can see my life in sections.  Before my father died, after my father died.

Before my husband died, after my husband died.

When I was twelve I started seeking out attention.  Particularly male attention, and naturally older male attention.

When I was twelve I became very uncertain of who I was because of the events in my life that I had no control of.

My brothers had their friends and lives as any teenager would.  My mother for the first time since becoming a mother had her own life and passion to follow.

I had Bugs Bunny, Little House on the Prairie, and Happy Days.

My neighbor at the time took me under her wing and I was allowed to follow her around like a puppy.  She  had long straight blond hair and she would let me brush it for hours.  In exchange I could sit with her and just be in awe of her.

When I was twelve I became confused.

Although my father was gay, I was not privy to this information until long after he died.  During a time of mental upheaval for me I was finally let in on the family "secret".  I was told of how he went to therapy to try and change.  How he married my mother and had children in hopes that would make him different than what he really was.

It was only in the last few years of his life that he was able to live in the way he wanted to and for the most part be himself.

All I heard when I found out my father was gay was how tragic it was.  Not because he was gay, but because he had to hide it, because he felt he needed to take years away from my Mother who had no idea.  How my mother believed he died of a broken and tired heart.

As I matured in age and sexuality I had both male and female lovers.  I chose to marry, not once but twice.  Both husbands I loved, one in a much different way than the other.

If ever asked about my sexuality I have always said, "I date a person, not a gender."  I am a loving person and capable of falling in love with the right person.

Some people who see me assume I am heterosexual because I have such a large family and have been married and speak of my husbands with fondness.

I have grieved the loss of my husband until I almost felt as though I had died along with him.  There were moments when I wished I did.

Knowing that he was going to die allowed us to have many conversations about what my life would look like after he was gone.  We joked around who I would end up settling down with, and without hesitation he said it would be a woman.

He got serious and said, "It's who you are.  You love me, but let's face it, I am damn near close to being a lesbian."  I had to agree as this was a man who loved women and did not at all understand men.

Not too long ago I stepped back and looked at the qualities I find appealing in men.  Then I looked at the women I have been with and for the most part, they all  have those qualities.

I sent my friend a text and said, "I do believe I am gay."  She pretty much responded with , "Duh I have known this about you for 30 years."  She went on to further elaborate that in my history I have been with men, but I have loved women.

Why did no one tell me this?

I was asked if my sexual identity defines who I am.  No, that alone does not define who I am.  I am a mother, a widow, sister, daughter, cousin, writer, photographer, hairstylist, friend, lover, dork, reader, and many other things.  Most people see me with a Diet Coke in hand, I could just as easily be defined by the one who smokes cigarettes and always drinks Diet Coke.


Does it matter how people see me?  Is it easier to put me in a box if I tell you I am gay?  Maybe.  But that is up to you and not me.

I know who I am.

I have a twelve year old daughter.  I am working in a career I love that is also taking time away from her.  Just like my mother I am finding my passion and I am happy.

Just like my father I am gay.

Now I need to open my eyes and make time for my daughter so that she knows that whatever path she goes down I am there to support her.

I will not die of a broken heart because I can not live the way I am supposed to live.  I will not deny who I am to make someone else feel more comfortable in their own skin.   I will continue to teach my children tolerance of all people.

I have never in my life felt the need to "come out" to anyone.  If I was dating a woman, I was dating a woman, if it was man, it was a man.

My children know who I am and who I have loved.  They know I loved their father in the truest sense.

My husband knew before I did what is really in my heart and yes genetics.  My friend knew before I did.

I wonder why it has taken me so long to know something I felt when I was twelve?

This comes as no surprise to many and yet somewhat of a surprise to myself.  In the journey to love myself as I am, I have had to really look at what that means, and yes put a few labels on me along the way.

I feel lighter in my body and spirit having said this to a few select people.  For the first time in a very long time, I feel honest.

And I would like to take a moment now to say that Joanie was way hotter than Chachi.

Let Me Get Your Number

Love.

Are there rules when it comes to love?  I actually do have a few rules for when it comes to saying "I love you."  They may be silly, they may not always hold true, but as a basic guideline for an emotion that possesses no set rules in its very nature, I have added a few.

If you are saying "I love you" for the first time, it wont count if it is said during or immediately after sex.
Never say it for the first time over a text message.
If you mean it, say it.  Do not cheapen it with abbreviations.  "I luv u"  or worse, "Luv ya!"

The love I am talking about is the romantic kind.  Not the love we have for our children, families, or friends.  I have friends that I love immensely.  I may not talk to them on a daily basis, or even monthly but the love remains, and it is uncomplicated and pure.

Romantic love is messy.  Not all messes are bad things.

When I was married the first time I loved my husband, but we mistook our love for more than it really was.  I have no regrets.  One of the reasons I wanted to leave that marriage was I felt I wasn't loved enough.  I wanted more.  I felt I deserved more.  I wanted to be the world to someone, so that when we were together nothing else mattered.

The precursor to love is the fun stuff.  The butterflies, the lingering phone calls of "no you hang up first", the songs dedicated to each other. (funny how during this stage every song has at least one lyric that is suitable.)

 This is the time where our personal hygiene is improved tenfold, and attention to detail is key.  We want to know everything about the other person.  Just to linger in their thoughts.  Discover our common interests and if you are a woman, start thinking things like, "Well I guess I could go to a _______ (football game, symphony, bowling match...whatever is something they like and you may  not.)

How a love begins is not a true representation of how a love will continue or how it may end.  Eventually you will leave the room when the game is on, you will opt to stay home with a good book and miss the symphony.  This does not mean you love the person any less.  It simply means you have found the space to still be you within the relationship.

I spoke with an old love of mine not too long ago.  I say she was a love of mine, as I was not her love.  She has found happiness and love again in her life with someone that was her first love.  She commented, "How lucky am I that I had the chance to spend almost 30 years with someone I loved deeply and now I get to finish out the rest of my life with my first love?"  Lucky indeed.

I smiled for her  though she could not see my smile.  I delighted with her, and I made a mental note that I would not be that fortunate as she was my first love, but did not know that.

I have become a master of  unrequited love.  I choose it.  I do not seek it out, but on some level I must be representing myself in such a way that all I attract are unavailable people.

I have fallen in love with women who at one time offered me their souls and I rejected them, only to 30 years later realize what I had missed.  It is easier for me to give my heart to someone when I know it will eventually be broken.

I am a sucker for tragedy.

Having said that, I have had the kind of love that so many people seek for and never find.  I have been loved in such a fierce way and able to return it.  I know what reciprocal love feels like, and how wonderful it is to lay in bed with someone laughing after years of being together.

If the rest of my life is filled with only half loves, and just the beginning part of butterflies and lingering phone calls, then so be it.  I can not complain.

Take my number, take my hand, take my heart, and know that if I say "I love you" I mean it.  In that moment, in that space I am yours.  Hold on to that because it may not last.  When you let go of my hand, lose my number, and fill that space with someone else, a part of me will still hold you dear.

Because I loved you.