Giving Thanks

Years have passed since writing here.  Events have broken me.  Events that I thought I could never overcome. Events that shook me to the core and made me afraid.  Afraid to say something, afraid not to say something, afraid to move forward, and afraid of traveling backwards.

But lately, I don't feel the same.  The events that broke me made me better.  The events that held me back, I barreled through.  Recently, I solved parts of the mystery of this life, and I found that if I do everything from my heart and I don't care what other people think of me, I can be happy and energetic all the time.  What comes from my heart is full-blown love, untarnished by my mind.  How can I go wrong?

In the future, I will be tested, even broken-hearted, but I have promised myself that everything thing I feel --- joy, sadness, love, compassion, happiness -- will come from the heart first, processed by the mind, of course.  But felt in the heart first.

Using this newfound beauty in my life, I've drafted a list of all things for which I am grateful:

1)  I am grateful for the love I saw pass between my parents on the day of my brother's funeral.
2) I am grateful for the love that swelled in my heart for my family on that same day.
3)  I am grateful for the marriage I had because it created the two most beautiful people I know.
4) I am grateful for the divorce -- and the pain I felt because of it.  It made me a great mom and an even better person.
5)  I am grateful for the fear that has held me back for nearly a decade.  Fuck that, I'm not grateful for that.  It's because of the fear that I couldn't recognize all the good.
6) I am grateful that I had the nerve to email LOML and ask him on a date.
7) I am grateful that we took things slow with introducing our kids to each other, and that they are now good friends.
8) I am grateful for the hawk that graces me with his presence every morning on my way into work.
9)  I am grateful for every coincidence.
10) I am grateful for every note in the End Credits of the Braveheart soundtrack.

I am grateful.  I am joyous.  I am hopeful. I am hearing, feeling and acting with my heart, and my mind is clear.

It's crazy how good I feel.  Thank you.

Life Will never Be The Same

There is so much beauty in this life if you listen for it, if you open your eyes to see it, touch it, taste and smell it. When your soul is awakened and fresh, and your mind is clear of the lies you told yourself in that voice you think was your own, that beauty is available for every sensory receptor you have.

Your skin tingles, and your heart expands — infinitely — and touches others without words.

I can walk now, and live! I can invest my love — for more love and joy, more passion and kindness. I intend to, no, I MUST, live my life with an ever-attracting soul that will give and give and give the good it attracts.

By showing my weaknesses, I gain my freedom. By annihilating the voice I’ve been tricked to believe is my own, I gain control. A control that allows me to be bold and carefree, goofy and brave, sexy and comfortable.

By showing my hatred and banishing it from my soul forever, I find love and forgiveness.  No more anger, just righteousness for what is right and just; a righteousness for MY voice to be heard. MY voice must be heard — it has nothing but good to expel.

My awakened soul is roaring! Roaring with kindness and compassion. I may now live my life as I choose. I may now live my life with control and intention. I may now live my life with clear direction.

I may now live my life with tears of joy for all those things unnoticed because I sat in the darkness of a voice I labeled as my own. I may now live with tears from anger for injustices, as I grow stronger and move forward to fix it; as I witness the sadness in others; as I witness love too... I may now live my life loving strangers.

Grateful is too small a word. Blessed is too small a word. Love. Joyous.  Yes!

Life will never be the same.

My Friend

A good friend of mine passed away this week.  He was 46 years old.  We met about six years ago and became fast friends.  I didn't realize it at the time we met, but he was part of a pack of friends that I was also friends with.

Our pack lost another friend last year to cancer.  She was also 46.

When we heard of the news about the most recent death, we all met up in a restaurant and told some stories.  We made some toasts, we shared pictures, we cried a little.

It's never a good time to lose a good friend.

I turned 46 years old in March of this year.  It was one of the more difficult birthdays for me.  Maybe it was because I was closer to 50 years old than 40 years old; closer to 60 years old than 30 years old; closer to old age and death and all that.

My brother died at 38 years old.  He was closer to 30 years old than 50 years old.

The number doesn't matter.  It simply doesn't matter.

The day I heard the news about my friend, I was talking with a co-worker, asked her what she did over the Labor Day Weekend, and she said, "Oh, I went to a funeral for my 50 year old cousin."

"I'm sorry, how did she die?"

"Honestly, she drank herself to death."

My eyes teared up, so did hers.

"It's so sad to me how many lonely people there are."  I said, and she agreed.

I haven't had much loneliness in my life since meeting LOML, and solidifying a good relationship with my kids, but I remember the days.  It's a bit easier when the loneliness is at bay.  But I do spend a lot of time alone.  I spent a lot of time traveling this week, alone in the car, driving and listening to music.

I cried for my friend.  I cried for the pack.

Sadness doesn't stay away.  It can't, because life is filled with love.  And when someone dies, their absence magnifies the love, and it magnifies the loss.

I try to spend my days feeling grateful.  Grateful for the friends I have and the friends I've lost; grateful for the times I've cried and the times I've laughed.

The other night, I cried.  As I cried, I felt the pain of sadness, but as I cried I remembered our times together and I smiled. I cried with happiness for having had the time I had with him, and her, and my brother.  I cried with sadness, I cried with joy, I cried with sadness and I cried with joy.

It's life.  The ride has ups, it has downs.

I'm down this week, but no one who has loved me and died before me would want that.  I wouldn't want that for any of my loved ones.  Never.

My sadness is not a sign of weakness or a badge of loneliness --- it is a testament to the joy that my loved ones brought me, so I say thank them.

It's all I can do.

Dummy

It’s been a while since I last wrote.  It wasn’t because I didn’t have anything to write about, it was because I had swarms of things to write about and I couldn’t choose a topic.

I spent five days in my hometown, visiting the family and some friends from high school.  It is always nice when I can show off my children to the family --- let them see how much they have grown and grown up.  The kids now have unique personalities, with unique and surprising senses of humor.  I saw the look of shock a few times on my brothers’ faces as Paige or Tony threw out a one-liner.  It was great to share them with the family because they’re great kids, and real comfortable with my mom and my siblings.

Spending time with my girlfriends from high school was also a good time.   There were many years where I hid from interacting with them when I visited home.  I was embarrassed and ashamed, and completely insecure because of the divorce. I felt like a burden if I complained, and I felt like I failed in their eyes because I couldn’t keep the façade of perfection going.   Not that I was ever perfect, but I was good at acting like things were perfect.  All in all, it was a great experience because my awesomely beautiful friend said, “Finally!  Carrie is BACK!”  It made me feel great, and I hope they know how much I love them.

During this stay, I of course, visited memories and previous haunts.  It’s hard growing up.  Even at 46 years old, I sometimes feel like the insecure teenage girl, or the insecure college student, or the insecure law school grad, or the insecure wife or the insecure parent. . .  Do you see the theme?  It was during this visit that I finally ripped that band-aid off and dug deep to see why I was still insecure about everything. 

I never figured out the root of it.  What I did figure out is that the root of it doesn’t really matter.  The insecurity comes from whatever stories I’ve been subconsciously telling myself over the years.  The setting and the characters change in these stories, but the theme seems to be the same.  In my eyes, I’m never good enough for any of the people I love.  

I shouldn’t say never.  

There are times when I feel like a rock star, unstoppable and full of love --- which I often chime, “conquers all.”  Yet, for some reason, when I sit in my old bedroom, I am visited by the old ghosts that I’ve allowed to disrupt my “Carrie-ness.” 

I doubt I can change any of it overnight, but recognizing it seems to be a move in the right direction.

I write about this because I have friends and family members who feel the exact same way!  I read about it in the self-help books, and I hear about it when I listen to motivational speakers on a podcast.  The old “haunts” of the younger days.  Maybe not insecurity, but some form of fear haunts all of us --- fear of failure, fear of success, fear of imperfection, fear of past mistakes. . . on an on they go.

And it’s stupid.  You’re stupid for letting fear take over.  I’m stupid for letting fear take over.  We’re all stupid.

So, on this trip, despite the beauty I saw, I also saw the ugliness that clings to me sometimes; and upon seeing it, I kept telling myself to stop being stupid.

It didn’t work, and the stupidity clung to me until today --- nearly four days since my return to my normal life.  So, that’s why I didn’t write.  Couldn’t get over my own stupidity but knew that taking it into the weekend was a mistake too. 

So good-bye stupid girl, welcome back mildly insecure woman.

Dad

On some Sunday mornings, I wake up and swear I can smell the onions and garlic sautéing in the olive oil.  On those mornings, I spend a few extra minutes in bed and think about the first memory I have of cooking the sauce.  My dad cut up the onions for me and taught me how to chop the garlic and how much olive oil to pour into the pan.  He stood beside me as I grabbed a handful of the chopped onions and dropped them into the hot oil, scooped up the garlic and brushed it off my fingers into the onions, and then stirred the pot with a wooden spoon. 

“That’s it. Stir ‘em up until the onions become clear.”

That first time, I made the whole meal with him.  Cutting the onions into rings for the salad, saying “I like the onions round.”

Him laughing and saying “I’ve never seen a square one.”

I made the meatballs, and watched them cook.

When they were done, he handed me a bowl with two of them in it, covered in the sauce.

“You have to try them, so you know what you’re serving.”

I buttered the bread, and shook out the garlic salt on it, put it in the oven, watched it bake.  We set the table together, and then called everyone to eat.

It was a good day, and it’s a very vivid memory.

These are the kinds of memories I like to visit when I start missing him.  I don’t like to think about how he died, or that he left us all so suddenly.  I don’t like to think about any of that because I did that for many years, and it doesn’t relieve any of the pain, or answer any of the questions.  Thinking about why and how and when only emphasizes the pain.  And he never wanted that for any of his children when he was alive, so I don’t want to do it when he is dead.

When he was alive, he was warm and funny, biting and stern, dancing like a chicken or singing like Sinatra.  When he was alive, he called me all the time, and wrote me letters. He even sent me an email once.  I think it was his first and only email.

Every time I came home, he would tell me the same joke:  Two women are on a boat and they want to get their picture taken.  They ask a man to take the picture.  He picks up the camera and points it toward them, but it takes a while, and the one woman asks the other woman, “What’s he doing?”  And the woman answers, “He’s going to focus.” And the first woman asks, “Both of us?”

A couple weeks ago, I had a dream about him.  In the dream, we were laughing and hugging and smiling and talking.  In the moment before waking fully, I thought “What a great dream.  I have to call dad and tell him.”  And I was so excited to tell him, and I was smiling.  Then I remembered I couldn’t call him.  The realization of it sent a wave of sorrow.  I cried instantly. It happened to be a Sunday morning.  So I got up and started chopping the onions. . .

It’s been eight years since he died.  Eight years too many. . .

Living

I'm coming off another weekend feeling exhausted and exhilarated.  I was able to spend every minute of it with a smile on my face.  Yes, even when I was sleeping (I think!).

Paige and Tony were with their dad, which makes it a little more difficult for me to find that smile.  But a few Facetime videos, texts and picture-sharing always helps to ease the sadness that our distance brings.

I spent Friday evening with LOML, catching up on the last couple of weeks.  Our relationship is long-distance, but it's a long, long-distance relationship, and after six years together, we're still smiling and happy to see each other.  It's all I ever wanted in a relationship.

Saturday was a whirlwind of craziness, which is always the case when there is an event with all my Maryland cousins.  The laughter comes easy, the love is immense and generous.  The food got eaten, the drinks got poured, and the hours passed like minutes.

Though I am 46 years old, I summoned my 20 year old self for the night, and found myself in a diner at 2:30am sipping water and scarfing bacon, home fries and toast, all the while smiling and laughing.

Thank God for work on Monday!

I need the time to recuperate for The Great Fuzz Frenzy in Buffalo that starts on Wednesday.  I haven't had a vacation in quite awhile, and I save my time off for this week in August, where I will try to win the stuffed hot pepper contest, try to compete with the one-liners, try not to spit whatever I'm drinking onto the person sitting across from me, try to stop the sadness from erupting when I contemplate the absence of the wholeness of the family, and try to get together with all my girlfriends from high school.

But most of all, I will try to find the love, give the love, be the love and make the love a greater part of myself.

There is so much energy when life is exhausting and exhilarating!

Love Dares You

After categorically excluding my best friend Bruce from the running, I have determined that the song "Under Pressure" by Queen is my favorite song.  Certainly, Freddie Mercury's voice is one of the best ever - - - if you don't believe me, just listen to "Somebody to Love".  Outstanding.  His life was cut short, and it still saddens me because he was also one of the greatest live performances I've seen --- if you don't believe me, watch a YouTube video of him performing at Live Aid.

Putting these things aside, the song "Under Pressure" works well with my psyche.  There are a lot of times at work where I have to put my head down and just get things done in a matter of hours.  This song drives me through it because it has a great beat, great harmony and great lyrics.  It's also great for walking or running.

Putting these things aside, it is a song that stands the test of time.  Here's how I know:

I love to take walks.  Sometimes I will walk 6-7 miles at a time.  I do it for the exercise and the vitamin D, but I also do it because it clears my head and helps me to really find gratitude.  When I fail to do it for more than 3 days, I am sluggish and annoyed with myself --- always berating myself and my body.  So, I opt not to do that.  I also like to walk because I can smile at people and pet dogs and see the beautiful sky.  Connection with nature, pets and people.

Whatever my mood, I am kind to people.  I smile, I say hello, nod my head, whatever.  I acknowledge the existence of others.  Generally, people are also kind.  Yet there are some who will not even look my way.  I pass them and they are less than two feet away and they stare straight ahead, not even glancing my way.  I say hello or hi, and I get nothing in return, not even a look of disdain.

I started to check their faces and posture.  Jaws clenched, arms dropped, no headphones (that's in 95% of the cases), no dog and just unanimated.  Without causing an uproar, I can (and will) stereotype the person --- generally, the person who stares straight ahead is between 30 and 40 years old.  The person is white --- both male and female alike.

I surmise that pressure is pressing down on them.  Pressure from work and pressure with family --- and the lack of wisdom that comes from age.  I was probably a lot like this when I was completely stressed and heartbroken and overworked.  But then again, I didn't take walks.  So they beat me there.

Back to my "test of time" point.  I also notice that the song reflects present day America --- pressure bringing a building down, splitting families in two, putting people on the streets, praying that tomorrow gets us higher, these are the days it never rains but it pours. . . It's the terror of knowing what this world is about.

These are all lines in the song.

Feel the pressure building?  How do we get out of it?

"Keep coming up with love but it's so slashed and torn."

What a phenomenal line, and it creates the crescendo which brings the song more alive!

"Why - why - why?
Love, love, love, love, love,
Insanity laughs under pressure, we're breaking."

See what I mean?

"Can't we give ourselves one more chance?
Why can't we give love that one more chance?
Why can't we give love, give love, give love, give love
give love, give love, give love, give love, give love. . .?"

When I hear it while I'm walking, it takes all I have not to scream it out because I need the answer and I know it's the truth.   But wait it gets better because he answers the question and makes you want to really give love so you can escape the pressure (at least that's how I interpret it).

"'Cause love's such an old fashioned word
And love dares you to care for (people in the streets) the people on the edge of the night
And love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves.
This is our last dance
This is our last dance
This is ourselves
Under pressure
Under pressure
Pressure"

Give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love,give love, give love, give love, give love, give love. . . 

Let Your Sins Be Your Own

I am struggling this afternoon. Struggling to swallow back the lump in my throat as I empathize with a fifteen year old girl, who late yesterday afternoon called my daughter crying, and asking if she and her dog could stay at my house for a while.

I said yes, of course, especially after finding out that her mother had been arrested for beating on her and her brother.

When I pulled up to her house, she stood outside with her brother and the dog, "Rose".  She hugged her brother and then got into the car and just let the tears go, hugging Paige, and sobbing.  Rose was delighted to be going for a car ride, and so it eased a bit of the tension.  I held back tears, Paige held back tears, and when I glanced over at Tony, I saw him swallow a lump in his throat.

After some time, allowing them to have space, "Mabel" came downstairs and I asked her what happened.  She said it started as an argument over who ate what food.  Her mom had bought food, and was mad because someone else in the house ate it.  Denial from Mabel, anger from mom, pushing, shoving, breaking up the fight by Mabel's brother, blood, police, arrest, Rose and Mabel at my house.

As sad as I am for her, I am also so grateful that I can help, that my children and I are very close, and that we can offer some stability and sense of family to her and Rose.

Paige has a small band of friends --- 4 or 5 girls that are all pretty smart, funny and kind --- last night, two more of Mabel's friends showed up at my house.  They all hugged and offered support and love and kindness.  I was privileged to witness it.

Today has been difficult.  This girl has parents that aren't really parents.  They are stuck in the muck of their own personal drama, and their children are suffering for it.  Neither child wants to go back to live with the mom, Mabel doesn't want to live with her father.  Both of her parents, now divorced, are physically abusive.

What the hell?  I am so very concerned, and I can only imagine how overwhelmingly emotional all of it is for Mabel.

I want to turn out the lights, slip under the covers again, and cry.  But I won't.  I'll support her, I'll offer help, and I'll feed her whatever the hell she wants, even if it's "my" food.

That argument over whose eating whose food? A flipping excuse to be abusive.

People are fucked up.

How are you sleeping?

Stress.  Not many people realize it's happening, and that it thrives on a restless mind.  They don't think about how your body is controlled by your mind and emotions; how your body longs for relaxation of the brain; how your body needs you to just stop thinking for a minute.

Stress kills people!  That's how powerful the mind is.  It can physically deplete you and destroy you.

It causes insomnia, gray hair, hair loss, cardiac arrest, cancer.

Sure we need stress to grow.  That is a fact.  If you're stressed at work, you either live with it until it destroys you, or you take a step toward the door.  If you're stressed in your marriage, same scenario, except you can also try to fix the marriage by putting your spouse first and actively loving him or her.  But that's advice for a different post.

The way I see it, there are a handful of reasons for stress:  sucky job, sucky relationship, sucky teenagers, sucky siblings/immediate family, sucky finances.

I'm not stressed these days.  Work is tricky and pushes me to the limit sometimes, but I'm not losing sleep over it.  Other than that, the factors noted above are not affecting my well-being.

But I see it happening all around me. People are so stuck in their own muck of things that accidents, overdoses, and murders are happening.

Some time ago, when I was first going through the divorce, I went to see a therapist and I was lamenting and angry and stressed beyond belief, and she listened for a while, waited for me to pause and said, "you're causing all of this pain yourself!"  She went on to say that the only things that I could truly control are what I put in my mouth, what I say to others, and how I treat my body and my mind.

Fear is the bitch here.  It's always the bitch that causes stress.  But what is there to be afraid of?  You lose your job?  Okay.  You lose your money? Your marriage? Your friendships?  Okay, okay, okay.  All these losses suck, but sometimes what you focus on causes the problems; and sometimes what you fail to focus on causes the problems.

Example:  You take your teenagers out to dinner and look at your phone - - - work emails, facebook, texts from friends - - - then complain that the kids don't want to hang out with you.  Focus on them, then they will focus on you.

I'm not perfect at all.  I wallow in my losses sometimes, grab on to the melancholy and ride it around for a while, look in the mirror and see nothing good.  It's sucky when I do that, and I find myself beating myself up for feeling the way I'm feeling.  Then I think about how I might be entirely different if I didn't fall into those moods sometimes.  The moods make us grow, I think.

Yet long periods of those moods?  Not good.

When you find yourself focused on just one thing, or waking several times a night, maybe it's time to give your body a rest from your mind.

Less accidents, overdoses and murders. . .

Don't Let Your Fears Decide Your Fate

If y'all are hip and savvy like me, you know that the title of this blog comes from a song called "Kill Your Heroes" by Awolnation.

I like it.  It's a good lesson.

But alas, I often let my fears decide my fate, or a more truthful statement might be that because of my fears, I self-sabotage and the things I fear become self-fulfilling prophecies.  A prophet.  But not in a good way.

I'm an idiot a lot of the times.  I sit back and worry that my friends will think I'm fat or unkept (unkempt? I think that's a word), or that my family judges the job that I have, that good things happening to those I love mean that they'll see me in a different light, and believe that I am the fraud I often think I am.

It's all a crazy eight that I spin around, high around the circle, then a plummet, then high again, and oh look, I'm where I was two weeks ago!  Fortunately, now that I'm older, I can control the spinning before it becomes a seemingly endless loop.  I hear a song by Awolnation and they say "don't let your fear decide your fate" and I'm like,  "Yeah, I can't do that!"

I recognize that kindness to others helps me with my fears.  When I'm kind to others --- smile at a stranger, write a love note, make a phone call or send a text, I don't have that fear.  I just do it because I know it will make the other person feel better somehow.

I've spouted off in my younger years, righteous and pompous and a know-it-all.  It stemmed from fear.  I'm better, your worse, I feel better because I made you feel worse.

Now that I'm older, I try not to do that.  Yet, there are still millennials in the world, so it's a battle.

Ever since my children could understand words (or recognize that I was saying words, even if they didn't know what the words meant), I've been telling them to be self-aware.

Be self-aware.

Show your kindness, it comes back to you.  If you're spouting and pompous, check yourself.  If you're walking through a grocery store and you're on a call, and it's on speakerphone, and someone gives you a dirty look because they just don't care what color the salon painted your nails and how you told them that it wasn't the color you picked but they said it was and you said you wouldn't pay and they said you had to pay. . . pay attention!  Hang up the phone and call when you're not surrounded by groceries and angry women. Or an angry woman.  Or me.

I guess if you're kind and self-aware, the fear doesn't get in as easily.

The crazy eight spin --- I think I just wrote myself off that ride before it even started.

It's nice to be able to do that now that I'm older with hip and savvy music tastes.

Sometimes the World Hurts

There have been many times I've heard the phrase, "The world doesn't revolve around you!"  This might come from a parent telling the child for the 100th time, "Because I said so," as an answer to the 100th, "Why?"  In a last ditch effort, the parent might say in aggravation, "Because the world doesn't revolve around you!"

Two teens might say it to each other.  Siblings might yell it at one another.

"The world doesn't revolve around you!"

But it does.

The world revolves around you.  The world revolves around me.

And sometimes the world hurts.

If you've ever had the great fortune to hear the song Jungleland by my best friend Bruce, he is able to articulate this feeling in the lyrics and magical orchestration of the song.  The story he conveys is one of hope, despair, connectivity, excitement, anxiety, and love.  The solo by Clarence carries with it such emotion that the listener might close his eyes and feel the pang of it in his chest.

That's what I mean when I say the world hurts.  We have our own lives that convey hope, despair, connectivity, excitement, anxiety and love. It keeps us up at night and knocks us out of bed early in the morning, with stomach pains, a faster heartbeat, and some nervous pacing.

We are the center of everything spinning around us:  a stressful job, a divorce, selling a house, buying a car, a car accident, an accidental pregnancy, a pregnancy lost, a lost cat, a sick relative, a new marriage, a new car, a lotto win, laughter with friends and cousins at a restaurant that serves the best crab cakes with someone you know is the love of your life and it takes you back to when you were a child and the world that spun was one of glee, and excitement.

I call this the inner world.

Throw into that mix, everything that is not directly connected to you (the outer world) and that world offers an even greater field for hope, despair, connectivity, excitement, anxiety, and love.

I have a bad habit and it's messing my world up.

I read the news stories every day upon waking.  Every day there are stories of someone getting shot, every day there are stories of child abuse, tragic accidents and new strains of disease.

And my heart hurts because I think that there are people where the shootings, the child abuse, the disease, the accidents have become part of their inner world.  That inner world, where the intimate relationships are touched by the massive actions of the outer world.

And it happens to every one of us.

The only possible redemption from the collision of these two worlds is that when the matter settles, the affected person may have learned something from it --- maybe they learned to love harder, to live with more gratitude, to listen more closely, and be kinder.

I am writing this now, and I hear my best friend Bruce shouting lyrics in my ear:

I've done my best to live the right way
I get up every morning and go to work each day
But your eyes go blind and your blood runs cold
Sometimes I feel so weak I just want to explode
Explode and tear this whole town apart
Take a knife and cut this pain from my heart
Find somebody itching for something to start

I imagine this is how people feel and how the pain from their inner world drives them to affect the outer world in some way.  The lack of control in the inner world --- the focus on the pain rather than the gratitude --- causes the turmoil, weakens the control and pushes the pain into the lives of others.

It's such a sad dynamic in this world --- especially given the polarization that has occurred in politics, religion and varying lifestyles.  

We are all one, yet we are all alone.  

I want to end today with a sense of hope.  Yet I know that tomorrow morning I will wake, I will read and I will be saddened yet again.

Maybe my best friend Bruce's solution to the pain would work if everyone in this world truly followed his solution.  Maybe the solution will come if, in our despair, we screamed these words:

Well there's a dark cloud rising from the desert floor
I packed my bags and I'm heading straight into the storm
Gonna be a twister to blow everything down
That ain't got the faith to stand its ground
Blow away the dreams that tear you apart
Blow away the dreams that break your heart
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing but lost and brokenhearted

I distinctly remember hearing these words for the first time.  By hearing, I mean allowing them to sink into my soul.  It was shortly after the decimation of my marriage and my inner world was a shitty mess.  I heard these words and they became my mantra.

I came out on the other side of them with appreciation for myself and those I loved.

Sometimes the world does indeed hurt --- most of the time --- so that's why gratitude for even the smallest things helps.  I read the news every day on a computer I purchased without thought, using the internet access I pay for monthly, reading words that are allowed by the free speech rights of the Constitution in my democratic country.  

Our politics may be shit and polarizing and in a sad state today but I'm sipping coffee and listening to head phones and trying, trying to blow away the lies that leave me lost and brokenhearted.

Seventeen Years Later

We went from reading books and talking about them every month, to reading wine labels and talking about everything.  We started back in 2001, when book clubs were a thing.  In the seventeen years we've been together we've witnessed babies being born, divorce, death of a loved one, remarriage, more babies, toddlers, pre-teens and now teenagers.

And we still laugh like we did way back when we were still so young!

I am up late for a Tuesday evening, but that's because I had this Tuesday commitment.  I often feel tired and uninspired when I leave for book club, but after five minutes of being with these women, I am just fine.  We've been doing this the first or second Tuesday of every month for seventeen years!  There are no plans to stop it, either.

Not much else to write about today.  I awoke, read the news stories, got a little sad/disheartened/scared from all the news (fake or not fake, it still sucks), worked my ass off all day, made dinner, went to book club.

Sleepy time. . .

Teenagers, Um. . .

They're cool.  They're not millennials, for sure.

I am sitting with the head phones on, playing Thunder Road to drown out the giggling teenage girls that are scarfing up Hamburger Helper, and giggling.  They're sipping root beer, swiping on their phones and giggling.

They're yelling to get my attention, but I won't look over at them.  I act like I'm engrossed.  I like writing, sure, but I'm not quite engrossed.  I'm ignoring them because I need a break from the giggling.

I asked them for some words that they use.  Half the time, they talk to each other and I don't know what the eff they're saying.

They will ask each other "Do you want to make prank calls?" and I will hear the response, "Bet."

Bet = Okay/deal/sure

They make the prank phone call, giggling they will hang up and say, "that was "Lit" or "Bruh" or "Bluff".

Lit = fun/cool

Bruh= you're an idiot

Bluff = you're a liar

If they're not eating my food or giggling, they will call a friend and say, "Come through" or "WTM".

Come through = come to my house
WTM= what's the move/what's the plan

What else?  They taught me "other" words/phrases too.  Sadly, alcohol and drugs still exist with teenagers.  I haven't witnessed any of them partaking, especially Paige (Tony has no interest in anything but XBOX), but I know how I was as a teenager so I am not a moron.  Weirdly, there are no phrases or words for drinking.  There are only phrases for pot.

Here are some:

Who's good = who has weed
I'm good = I have weed
Boufin = you smell (this could also be used for stinky feet or armpits)
420 = weed
Gas = weed

Ironically, "dope" means "that's cool".  Like, I think it's dope that you don't smoke pot.  They might also say "I can't fade" meaning, "I'm not going to do it."  And someone might say, "Sice", meaning, "that's a great plan."

Dope = that's cool
Sice = exaggerated happiness, that's a great plan
I can't fade = I'm not going to do it

They have party lingo too.  Like, this party is "turnt" and the food "smacks" or "strikes".  They might say, that girl has "tea" or "beef" because she's full of drama and yelled at me and someone might say "you can't go like that!"; or in the instance that the party was a bust, an attendee might say, "that party sucked, I "took an L".

Smacks/smacked = the food is good
Strikes = smacks
Taking an L = it's a loss
Turnt = in the moment fun/party  This party is turnt.

Beef/tea = drama

I can't fade = I'm not going to do it

Can't go like that = you have to get them back (instigate)

And finally, you ask them to clean their room and the response, if they're nice, is "ard" or if they're not nice, "that's beat".

Ard = okay/allright
Beat = that sucks

They're cool.  They're not millennials.

"For sure".

For sure = for sure, but they say it differently. 

The Weekend Six

Inevitably, on Monday morning, someone me will ask me how my weekend was and I answer, “Every weekend I have is great.  How was yours?”  For the most part, over the past seven years, what I say is a true statement. I’m either spending the weekend with the kids, or spending the weekend with LOML.

In the current teenage world in which I reside, some weekends are better than others. Those are the weekends when I get a couple hours of quality time with Paige and Tony —- not chauffeuring, without an endless stream of friends, and without competing with their devices. I reserve the “great” part for Sunday evening and by Monday morning I am able to answer honestly.

On the weekends I don’t have the kids, LOML and I are out on adventures —- walks, bike rides, motorcycling, drinking, eating and laughing. Always laughing. So “every weekend is great” just rolls off the tongue.

Yet, over the past seven years, I have also had “awesome” weekends.

This weekend was one of those.

When LOML and I met, our kids were all under 10 years old. Now, they are all teenagers. Each one of them is very unique, with very unique humor, personalities, insecurities and tastes. We started introducing them to each other every once in awhile —- testing the waters to see if the personalities would meld together, but not forcing it on them. LOML and I agreed that this was how we wanted it. And we prayed (well, I did) that even if they didn’t get along, they would tolerate each other and respect our relationship.

We did well. LOML’s son is 16, and works double shifts at a restaurant. So, our expectations in seeing him were low. Yet, in between shifts he stopped over. The kids put down their devices and the six of us hung out together —-laughing and telling stories. No one wanted it to end, so prior to the start of the second shift, we decided we’d have s’mores and junk food around the fire pit when the shift was over. We asked each kid if that was what they wanted and each kid said, “hell, yes!”

I am so grateful for the love all six of us have for one another. Our children love our relationship, and dare I say it, they love each other.   I have a vision from this weekend that will forever be engrained in my memory. After the s’mores, and some of the laughter had died down —-when it was dark enough to see the stars as clearly as we could —- Tony laid down on the ground and looked up.

He called out to me first, “Come here, mom.  Look up.”  So I laid down next to him. Then Paige came over and laid down, then LOML and his son and his daughter. The six of us laid next to each other and looked at the stars.

Let me rephrase that. Four teenagers on a Saturday night with social lives and other friendships, stayed home and hung out with their parents —- willingly. And then these teenagers looked up at the stars with us.

I teared up while we lay there, telling each other to shut up, and lobbing insults back and forth.   This morning, my eyes watered with thankfulness and love.

Yes,  our children are products of split families, but what a wonderful alternate family we’re creating. We may not get another moment or weekend like this again —ever—- so it falls under the category of one of the best weekends of all time, filled with laughter, lots of swearing and an immense amount of respect and love between all six of us.

Yay us!

Two Wheels, and One Extra

Technically, it is not a motorcycle, but I need a motorcycle license to ride it.  And I wear a helmet and gloves, and a leather jacket and I feel like Pinkie Tuscadaro when I ride.

It's not a scooter or a snow-mobile either.  It's a CanAm Spyder and I bought it for myself.

Two summers ago, I was riding my bicycle and I got my speed up to about, oh, 3 miles per hour on a straight, paved path, and crashed.  Seriously.  I fell over and smacked my head on the pavement.  No, I wasn't wearing a helmet.  Bad move.  But also, I was only going 3 miles per hour on a straight, paved path.

I ended up with a concussion.

I am no Lance Armstrong, in a nutshell.

Fortunately, the part of my brain that was concussed did not break the cautious part, and I recognized that if I wanted to ride on a motorized vehicle, it would have to be small, slow and training-wheeled motorcycle (which they don't make, I checked), a snowmobile (which is hard to ride in the summer, I checked) or a three-wheeled motorcycle.

I settled on this:

I don't think I will end up with a concussion.  And it sort of does have training wheels.  And I can shift gears like a pro now (sort of).   I have been told, on many occasions by motorcycle riders that this is not a motorcycle.  I have been spit on by motorcycle riders (not really) because this is not a motorcycle, and many motorcycle riders yell at me (not really) because this is not a motorcycle.  I know!  But it's fast, and it keeps up and I am out on the open roads, and I am singing in my helmet, and I am happy.  Given my skills on a bicycle, and the doctor's urging that I never ride one again (not true), this is the perfect vehicle.

Time to ride.  

The Sneetches

How long ago do you think Dr. Seuss wrote his story of the Sneetches, portraying the star-bellied sneetches as racist pigs against the plain-bellied sneetches who shared the island and resources, and political/religious/social climate with those racists?

That's right, it was 1961.  Dr. Seuss wrote it as a lesson for children.  He envisioned that the children who read it would grow up with an inkling of non-discrimination, that the polarization for being different might become a thing of the past.

Fast forward to now.

Every day there is a headline that details discrimination--- the drunk dude harassing a woman in the park for wearing a shirt with the Puerto Rican flag on it--- telling her to go back to her country (hmmmm. . .).   A woman in Staten Island being harassed for wearing a scarf, and being told she is no good because she, she, she...

Because she didn't have a star on her belly?

As simplistic as the story is--- it was written for children!--- the lesson is still being taught.

I often try to simplify things, compartmentalize them, and envision them on a smaller scale.  Back in the day there was always a Wednesday in March where I would head to church and get ashes on my forehead to start the Lenten season in the Catholic Church.

There were many times I would walk into the office, and someone would inevitably say, "Hey, you got dirt on your head."  I'd say, "Yeah, went to church."  Some would get it and say, "Oh, I forgot about Ash Wednesday", and others would ask about it and maybe learn something about my religion.

Could you imagine if they spit in my face?  Pushed me down?  Yelled at me?

With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they'd snort.  "We'll have nothing to do with the plain-belly sort!"  And whenever they met some, when they were out walking, they'd hike right on past them without even talking.

It wouldn't be tolerated in the work place.

Imagine the day the company/store/government facility hired a new boss and the boss was all about segregation.  "Blacks?  They have to sit behind this wall because they're taking all our jobs and they weren't here when this company started.  The Jewish people go there, the pregnant women go there, the pregnant, non-white women go over there, the non-married blue-eyed blondes go in my office... and I'm hiring my friends, my son, my father, my uncle, cousin--- none of them are experienced, but it doesn't matter, they're white. . ."

Then one day, seems... while the plain-belly sneetches were moping and doping alone on the beaches, just sitting there wishing their bellies had stars. . .

I don't have the ending as it plays out in modern-day.

Maybe, like the children's book, Sylvester McMonkey McBean will show up with a star removal machine and will talk all the money from both sides, thereby uniting them against the machine, and peace will reside.

Maybe not.

I am not big on quoting atheists but with a little italicized tweaking, Joseph Lewis' quote on inhumanity is fitting (and true).

Man's inhumanity to man will continue as long as man loves God [atheism, money, self, race, religion, things] more than he loves his fellow man.

Harassing someone for the clothes they wear, the God they pray to, the color of their skin. . . it's inhumane.

Love.

That's the rule that parents and leaders and children must be teaching and be taught.

That's it.

Catch Up Time

It wasn't long after the sale of the big house that I gave into the fear and became someone that I didn't recognize.  It was the fear.  It's always the fear.

At the time, I had the children all the time, minus the every other weekend gig at their dads.  I was watching the job that I loved fade into the dust after the sale of the company, and I was caught up in the whirlwind of change and uncertainty.  Not a good combination when you're already afraid.  Three years prior, I met LOML and really wanted to meld my life with his since my kids adore him and his kids adore me and they all adore each other.  I had fought through the fear of a remarriage and that was mainly because I recognized how flipping self-aware LOML and I both were.

It was then that I decided to move closer to him.  It was then that the kids' father wanted more time with them, wanted to keep them in the same school district, wanted no changes.  We went to court - still too painful to recite - and I gave in.  No moving - not even out of the school district.

 While in court, I was finally able to get an offer on the house.  Yet, I was still in flux and in court and I needed to keep the kids stable.   My job ended, so I was unemployed and desperately looking at the time. I rented a townhome in the school district.  We stayed there for six months.  After four months of unemployment, I found a job at a law firm as an associate.  Those four months were like a vortex of despair, and depression, fear and uncertainty.  I was not in a good state of mind, and I was desperate to escape it.

Court came.  The judge was looking at apartments and on Google during the trial, rolling her eyes whenever I spoke.  She started the trial by saying, "it's highly unlikely I am going to side with you."  A judge that pre-judged me before I even spoke.  That's another blog altogether, so I will save it for later.

I quickly found a nicer house to rent in the school district, took a job that better suited my lifestyle, and started to save money for a home I could afford in the fucking school district, in a state that is, I think, the second most expensive state in the country.

Time passed, pain came and go, and I worked really hard on myself and on my psyche.  I held onto the disappointment much longer than I should have, and I think back to that time and I still feel the hurt - - - physically feel it.

I bought a condo that I could afford.  Decorated it with beautiful furniture and made it our home.  The kids love it.  I love it.  All is well.

Now we're all caught up.  I jumped forward through a lot of emotions right there!  Phew.

What I have learned through it all is that my problems are tiny, miniscule, such first world problems!  It took years of self-reflection, years of empathy, and years of longing to get me here.

I am in love with writing.  I missed it and I am now embarking on a rekindling of the love affair.

The writing will get better going forward.  I just had to get through this one blog to move beyond it, to get y'all caught up.  You there?  Good.

More to come tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, and on and on and on. . .

Six Years

It has been over six years since I've felt this inspired to write.  Six years!

Six years ago, Paige was 9 and Tony was 7.  Six years ago, I was living in the house I had shared with my ex.  Six years ago, I had two dogs, two guinea pigs and a job that I loved.

None of that is true now.  You can figure out the ages of Paige & Tony.  The two dogs are no longer my own.  One is with a friend of mine, who loves dogs and could take on the little bastard, Enzo, after he bit Tony in the face and I declared, "enough!".  My Gracie-girl passed away in January of this year.  I miss her every single day.  The guinea pigs packed their cages and now fornicate elsewhere.

And the job, eh?  It was a job.  I made a lot of friends.  I made a special friend while working there --- we'll refer to him as LOML; and now I have a new job that drives me crazy but also pays the bills and keeps my mind moving.

I moved out of the big house, and like The Jefferson's, I moved on up to a deluxe condo in the sky.  I stand on my tiny deck and I feel like I'm at the ocean, endless views and a beautiful breeze.  When I walk into the condo, I am invited by beautiful furniture and art and a feeling of home.

Everything is different, but it's also the same.

But the writing. . .  that's been gone for some time.  Well, not the writing exactly, but the inspiration for writing, the inclination to write, the energy from writing, the smile from writing. . . that's been gone. Far, far too long.

In six years, I discovered Paulo Nutini.  He is an Italian-Scottish singer with a voice that makes me close my eyes, sway my head back and forth and just listen.  I discovered Brandi Carlile.  Another amazing voice.  I discovered Sofi Tukker, and Awolnation and Cage The Elephants. In essence, I discovered music beyond Bruce!  LOML said early on, "Even Bruce listens to more than Bruce. . ."  I rolled my eyes, but then held onto the statement.  He's right.  And I've benefited from it.

In these six years, I stopped going to church. It wasn't because I stopped believing in God.  It wasn't because I was mad at God.  It was because of all the Catholic priests that were highlighted in Spotlight and Keepers on Netflix.  Then I saw the Pope on 60 minutes --- he gave a preview of his documentary --- and his indignance over the pedophilia matched mine!  His love for God, and his belief that love conquers all--- same as mine.  Pretty awesome.

Through the six years, I started some stories.  I started a couple with Paige.  She's creatively astounding.  Maybe it's her youth, maybe it's her upbringing, but I mostly think it's her essence --- her soul---her perfection.   She's fifteen with a 200 year old soul...

She started her own writing, and when I read it, I am enamored and proud.  She pushed me to write, so much so that she wrote her own stuff - - - and it's good!  It's so good that I cherish it, and I realized that by ignoring my innate desire to write, I am burdening her in a weird way.  She likes my writing, applauds my writing, wants my writing, yet I don't do it.  Not fair.

So, six years later and because my daughter is another LOML, I write.  Don't thank me.  Thank her. 

I am truly back to writing.  I have made up my mind that I will write regularly - - -barring some craziness.  I haven't and won't advertise the blog for some time, but when I do, y'all might be surprised.  If not, no biggie.  I write for myself now.  

That's a great, six year old, leap.  

I write for myself.

Any Age

Farrah Fawcett was 62 years old. She was gorgeous. She was in love with Ryan O'Neal and had a stint with Lee Majors (the six million dollar man! Oh...) and I interrupted a meeting at work yesterday to announce the news. We all talked about it a little, and one of my coworkers even said, "I think we should cancel this meeting. I am too distraught." He got laughs all around, but I was really kinda sad. She was a huge part of my childhood and every once in awhile I blow dry my hair into the "Farrah". I haven't seen her act in anything in years, but if I close my eyes, I can see her face clearly, and the insecure-about-my-body part of my mind, can see her posing in that red bikini, on a poster pasted to my brothers' wall.

And MJ. Michael Jackson! Whaaa? The Thriller album was the first album I owned. Granted, Michael Jackson was a wee bit eccentric, but he was an icon in his own right. All the radio stations were playing his music yesterday (as they should have) and I heard songs, again, that I grew up with. I don't much care for the negative propoganda surrounding his life. I didn't know him. Who am I to judge? He made music, he had heavy paparazzi on him, and his tastes in fashion, young children and face transplants were open for all the world to see. There are thousands of people in this world with the same (somewhat unfortunate) eccentricities that we don't see because they haven't an ounce of talent - and haven't been discovered by the bullshit reality tv networks.

It was a sad day in Hollywood, that's all I'm saying. Two people that in one way or another touched my life have died at a really young age.

I heard a man (albeit very drunk man) in the convenience store say, "I'll miss Farrah, but screw Michael Jackson - I'm glad he's dead."

Really? Glad?

(Ah, who am I to judge this man? Although I heartily agree with the statement that Jon and Kate should be responsible for their life, their children and the path they are on. That situation is so depressing, isn't it?)

A death at any age is not something for us to celebrate,although I am sure that all those souls whom we'll eventually reconnect with on the other side, are tipping their glasses of immaculate champagne, and smiling, smiling, smiling...

Believe

"In the ocean of life, Faith is the anchor of the soul."

My mother bought me a bookmark with this saying on it, oh, about 15 years ago. It has hung from the rearview mirror of my cars since then, and it is subtle reminder about what it means to believe. Throughout the years, reading it has brought me to tears, and in some instances I rose a triumphant fist in the air as I gratefully thought I had it all figured out.

Paige and Tony started Vacation Bible School yesterday morning. This "camp" is known as "awesome!", "excellent!", a "blast!" from the kids who have attended it, and so last summer I knew that they'd be going this summer. In the two days they have been there, I have heard the word "sin" and "Jesus" and "snake" and "faith" from their mouths more than ever before.

As we drove home from school today, Tony asked a magnificent question.

"Was Jesus a boy or a girl, or a boy-girl?" I kind of laughed, but then I saw his face in the rearview mirror and discovered that he had offered a legitimate question.

"He was a boy. Why do you ask?"

"Well, because he had a beard and moustache, but he had long hair and wore a dress."

Hmmmm... I told him that was the fashion back then, and then we got in a discussion about what fashion meant... but that's a different blog post.

It was quiet for a few seconds and Paige, being the astute reader that she is, said: "In the ocean of life, Faith is the anchor of the soul." I glanced back at her and said, "Did you learn that at school today," completely blanking on the bookmark that has been my companion in the car for all these years. And she pointed to the bookmark. I smiled.

"Can I have it?"

"What?"

"The thing hanging from your mirror."

I said no and went on to explain to her that it would be in every car I drive for the rest of my life, along with my guardian angel and a cut of one of Grandpa Schryver's flannel shirts. And she started to cry.

"Why are you crying?" I asked.

"Because I want to copy it down on a piece of paper."

"Oh, I'll write it on a piece of paper when we get in the house."

It was quiet until we got home. She walked into the house, dug through stray papers and handed me a post-it that my sister had made up after Jeff's funeral. It has a head-shot of Jeff with the words: Jeff would have appreciated your generosity. Paige handed the paper to me along with a pen.

"Write it down."

I sat at the kitchen table with tears running down my cheeks and I wrote beneath the picture of my beloved brother: "In the ocean of life, Faith is the anchor of the soul."

Paige copied it onto her own piece of paper that said, "To Mommy. Love, Paige" with a picture of a heart surrounding it. She folded it up and handed it to me, asking, "What does it mean exactly?" And I gave her a huge hug and said, "It means believe, Paige. Believe that God is always present even when you think He's not."

And with all the faith of the world, she said, "Okay."

And I raised a triumphant fist into the air and said a silent "thanks."

Reflections

The moon cast its light on the ocean late into the evening – just as it does nearly every night. In the dark and cloudy skies over the water, the glimmer of the moon was promising; peeking through a wispy spotlight directly above me. The company of the resilient water, the soft sand, the harsh and repetitive sounds and the silence of my companion offered exceptional opportunities to ruminate, manifest and reflect upon the effects of living this everyday existence.

What is it that reverberates off of me? Am I, like the moon, echoing the beauty of the One who made me? Does the cleanliness of my soul bare a reflection of greater understanding, the way the light of the moon shines upon the powerful waves in that ocean – revealing, concealing, revealing, concealing, as the order and disorder of the universe compels a change unlike the change before – just as the waves uniquely kiss the shore time after time?

“Be careful with your heart and what you love, make sure that it was sent from above.” (John Mellencamp, Peaceful World)

I miss my brother. Sometimes I sit quietly and feel the tender ache of having lost him cast off of me – “staring off alone into the night with eyes of one who aches for just being born.” (Bruce) That is a feeling you can only understand if you’ve felt it before and it is a level of grief that makes it hard to wake up and get moving again.

Last night as the moon cast its light on the water, I was able feel that tender ache of losing, and I was able to feel the tender ache of loving ferociously too. I was afforded the opportunity to recall several moments throughout my lifetime where I thought my heart would burst with love – so filled with peace and comfort that it swelled like a balloon, threatening that terrible break yet incredible in its immaculate innocence of authenticity. There is nothing like that feeling – a risk of losing all the love against the backdrop of feeling it. In that sliver of where they meet, hope sits and faith stews and love smiles in a boastful glee. And the risk of losing it all is a worthy wager for those silent seconds, precious moments of feeling it.

My heart swelled with love for him thousands of times throughout his lifetime, and I am one of the most fortunate people in the world for having had the opportunity to love so viciously, so strongly, and so spotlessly. And now, as I write, seeing the reflection of all these thoughts on the water that sits before me, I feel it again – over and over as the water glistens in the warm sunlight of the day. I feel it for my parents, my remaining siblings and Jeff’s best friends – the way their eyes once reflected the love – the unmatched, unpolluted, innocent – shimmer of a love so deep, so incredibly loyal and fierce, and my heart swells and breaks, swells and breaks, swells and breaks because the whole order of our lives has been hurled into a pool of mayhem and disorder – threatened by a fear of maybe, perhaps having to face the loss again, and again throughout our lifetime.

My prayer today is that I see it in their eyes again, void of that fear. My prayer is that the pain of losing a person so important makes them want to love harder, hold on tighter and give love, give love, give love – meeting the shore in powerful waves of it, over and over. My prayer today is that the sorrow of losing compels us to begin hoarding the precious moments of love that are sent from above, and reflecting it like a spotlight on deep, dark waters.

I Was 37 Years Old at the Time

Last year in March, I turned 37 years old. Of course, there wasn't much of a celebration going on because I spent the entire day in the funeral home, greeting people as they came in for my brother's wake. And the next day, we buried him. Although turning 37 was a big deal to me at the start of the new year last year, it didn't seem like much of a big deal when it came down to the day. Yet, had the events of last year not happened, I would have posted the following Erma Bombeck column on my blog.

Today, although nearly a year and a lifetime older, I am still 37, and I am still touched by this column, and I hope to have it be the influence I've needed for all these months. Enjoy it because Erma was one phenomenal writer.

"I Was 37 Years Old at the Time." - August, 1976

For years, you've watched everyone else do it.
The children who sat on the curb eating their lunches while waiting for their bus.
The husband you put through school who drank coffee standing up and slept with his hand on the alarm.
And you've envied them and said, "Maybe next year I'll go back to school." And the years went by and this morning you looked into the mirror and said, "You blew it. You're too old to pick it up and start a new career."
This column is for you.

Margaret Mitchell won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for Gone With the Wind in 1937. She was 37 years old at the time.
Margaret Chase Smith was elected to the Senate for the first time in 1948 at the age of 49.
Ruth Gordon picked up her first Oscar in 1968 for Rosemary's Baby. She was 72 years old.
Billie Jean King took the battle of women's worth to a tennis court in Houston's Astrodome to outplay Bobby Riggs. She was 31 years of age.
Grandma Moses began a painting career at the age of 76.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh followed in the shadow of her husband until she began to question the meaning of existence for individual women. She published her thoughts in Gift from the Sea in 1955, at 49.
Shirley Temple Black was Ambassador to Ghana at the age of 47.
Golda Meir in 1969 was elected prime minister of Israel. She had just turned 71.
This summer Barbara Jordan was given official duties as a speaker at the Democratic National Convention. She is 40 years old.

You can tell yourself these people started out as exceptional. You can tell yourself they had influence before they started. You can tell yourself the conditions under which they achieved were different from yours.

Or you can be like a woman I knew who sat at her kitchen window year after year and watched everyone else do it and then said to herself, "It's my turn."

I was 37 years old at the time.

True Story

F--k zombies.  The Walking Dead portrays millions of them walking around.  Eating people and such.  It's all fiction.

Yet, the world is being invaded.  Fact: the world is full of d-bag a-holes. . . millions of them walking around.  Effing with serenity now.

Here's the story of one:  The car rental agent who argued with me about the car model I'd been driving around in for a week for work.

"It's a cherry red minivan."

"No, it's not.  It's a gray GMC Acadia."

She rolls her eyes.  "It's a minivan."  She looks down at her computer screen and points, "Says it right here."

"Yeah, but it's right there, and it's a gray Acadia I'm returning, and I need an exchange since it needs an oil change."  I point to it.  It's less than 10 feet away.

"But the computer says it's a minivan."  She looks back at me.

"The computer is wrong, obviously.  It's right there."

"I need to call my manager.  I can't return the Acadia when you rented a minivan, which means I can't give you an exchange."

"I didn't rent a minivan."

"It says here you did."

"But, I didn't."

She sighs heavily.  "I can't process the return. You'll have to wait until the manager comes down. I'm going to take care of the customers behind you."

"Did you call your manager?"  She hadn't picked up the telephone or used the computer.

"Yes."

"Did you do it telepathically?"

"No.  He'll be down in a minute."  She gestures to the man behind me, "Sir, I can take you next."

I stand there.  Okay, the manager will be down, all will be fine.  I can exchange the vehicle and be on my way.

She waits on a customer.  Then another.  Before she gets to the third one, I say, "Can you call your manager again?  I'd like to get the exchange car so I can get to work."

"He'll be down in a minute."  At this point, her dismissiveness gets under my skin, and I pick up the phone to call the guy that rented the car to me in the first place.

"Hey, I'm at the counter trying to exchange the Acadia and your computer says it's a minivan and the woman won't do the exchange."

He says, "No worries, I'll take care of it while we're on the phone."

Relief.

"Tell her I need the license plate of the new vehicle."

"Okay, as soon as she's finished with her customer."  I wait patiently while she argues with yet another customer about who can and cannot drive the rented vehicle with a woman who spoke broken German.

"Only your spouse can drive the vehicle."

The woman is confused.

"Can I drive it?"  She asks.

"I said your spouse can drive it."  The woman looks at me, and then back at the agent.

"Can I drive it too?"  She asks, because clearly the agent isn't making sense.

The agent actually raises her voice and speaks more slowly while leaning in, "Your spouse can drive it."

I touch the woman's arm, "I think she's trying to say that both you and your spouse may drive it."

I look at the agent, "Correct?"  The agent nods.

"Great, so you sign here on the computer and she'll give you the rental agreement and keys and you'll be on your way."  I smile, and the woman smiles back.

Once she leaves, I said, "I have the other agent who rented the vehicle to me on the line.  He just needs the tag number of the new vehicle and he can process the exchange."

"I told you that we cannot process the exchange, it's says it's a minivan."  She looks past me to the next customer.  I step directly in front of her.

"Yes, but he's resolved it on his end.  He just needs the new tag number."  She shakes her head.

"The manager will be down in a minute."

"Will he?  If he's not down here in two minutes, I'm going to lose my shit."  At this point, I've been waiting for nearly an hour.

The guy on my phone said, "Ask her if she'll please talk to me.  I will talk her through it."  So, I do, and she says no and to wait for the manager.

He says, "I'll call her.  She'll have to talk to me."

So, I'm on the line while he dials and I hear it ringing through my phone and behind me.  She ignores it.  So he calls back.  Again, ignored.  Then again and once more.  Finally! She answers.

I hear him explain exactly what she needs to do, and she says, "Hold on, I have a customer."

She puts the phone down.  She waits on another customer, and there are three more in tow.  The other agent is happily waiting on customers, they're laughing and smiling.

I want the nice agent!

I look at her and smile.  She smiles back.  I said, "Can you help me out here?"  I gesture with the phone.

"You just need to talk to this guy. . ."  She smiles, so kindly, and whispers, "I can't."  Then she turns around and walks into the next room.

Finally, I'm done.  I interrupt the original agent mid-sentence and say, "Please call your manager now. I've been here for an hour and a half.  If he's not available, I can come behind the counter and show you how to complete the transaction."

My voice is so loud that several people in line look up.  The man she is waiting on actually smiles at me and steps back, gesturing for me to go ahead.

Drama hog.

Another woman from the other rental agency comes over.

"Miss, you don't understand, we have a certain protocol."

"Oh, no you don't."  I said.  "Please listen to me for ten seconds and I will explain what happened."

So she listened, she played with the computer, up comes a new contract, I sign it and walk out.

The original agent looks at me with a blank face, no apology, nothing.

D-Bag.

A-hole.

Zombies are cooler.
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