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.
.