The Unaccompanied Chapter

A while back I got this great idea that I could write a novel, become a famous author, and never worry about finding a job again...so I started writing. The following is not an excerpt, it's the whole shebang. I forgot about it until today, and since I'll probably never end up doing anything with it, I've decided to turn it into a blog post. I hope you enjoy it. Re-reading it made me realize that I should leave novel writing to others. I'll just keep reading them.


“Why is it that in books and movies, even the people with crappy jobs, no skills and a serious lack of cash live in apartments that in the real world would cost approximately $1500 a month?” Hanna asked her best friend Jade; fully expecting Jade would simply roll her eyes and act as if Hanna had asked a rhetorical question.

“Because a movie that takes place in a complete shit hole isn’t entertainment” was Jade’s flippant response.

“Yeah, but doesn’t it tick you off? I mean don’t people want some reality in the story, a dose of camaraderie?”

“No, people want to be entertained, and to imagine that the life they see in the movies is one they can attain. They don’t want to pay $8 to see someone living their life. They want glamour, glitz, a dream, and all that happy horseshit.”

Jade always had a colorful way of viewing things. Her carefully placed expletives made even the most mundane conversations more engaging. These were some of the reasons Hanna had dragged Jade to their favorite coffee shop for some lattes, or coffee flavored milk syrup as Hanna’s dad referred to them. She hadn’t been feeling like herself for several months now, and knew that if she continued to sit in her drab apartment longing for summer weather and a million dollars to fall into her lap she may never make it into the light of day again. Trivial conversations with Jade had seemed just the thing she needed to climb out of her funk, if even just for a couple of hours.

“You know what else bothers me? The fact that stories are always about beginnings and endings. You know what I mean? The beginning of a romance, the end of a marriage and beginning of a life in some romantic land, why doesn’t anyone write a story about the middle years? The part where you’re working your butt off, and can’t pay any bills, and your debt is slowly strangling you, and the light at the end of the tunnel is so far away that you can’t even see it-it’s just a long dark pathway. And who gives a crap about Mr. Right, who the hell has the time?”

“Are you okay?” Jade seemed finally to be catching on that Hanna was not in the best of moods, and the latte didn’t seem to be helping as much as usual.

“No…yes… I have no idea.” Hanna really didn’t. She didn’t know what to attribute her awful mood to, and nothing she had attempted so far had any effect. She had stopped listening to any music that wasn’t upbeat, she limited her movie viewing to anything with a happy ending and her casual reading was reduced to chick lit, or any book that was written for pure enjoyment-no biographies, and anything political was entirely off limits. She did however, refuse to give up sugar. If nothing else made her happy, chocolate was the one friend she had that would never let her down. Each bite was like ambrosia, and it lasted until the very last morsel had been consumed. It was a wonder she didn’t weigh 300 pounds.

“What’s eating you?”

“Good Question. Wish I new the answer.”

Wisdom of a Starry Night-Take 2

For what are you grateful?

I can't possibly list everything. I have a whole lot to be grateful for; like the fact that I live in this country (which in turn comes with lots of specific thanks), I'm healthy, I'm happy, I'm surrounded by loving and supportive friends and family, I have a roof over my head (and always have), I have food on the table, someone once upon a time discovered the magical substance we call chocolate...but I digress.

The other day The Good Guy and I attended an event (the details are irrelevant) where his daughter took the stage. She stood in front of a room full of people (many of them family and friends) and as she stood there and I watched her glowing with comfort in the love of her family, my heart grew ten sizes. Is this what it's like to be a parent? Does being a parent mean that your heart swells inside of your chest and you feel like it is going to explode inside of you with love for this little person? I was teary, it was like an epiphany...not that I love this little girl (because that's nothing new), but that its so damn powerful. I had to stop looking at her because I would have been blubbering in front of lots of people (who would have thought it was for totally different reasons).

The Good Guy and I have discussed on many occasions what my role is in the lives of his children. He refers to me as a parent, and I have been uncomfortable with that term. I have always treaded lightly in that arena, as I don't want anyone to get the impression that I am trying to replace the children's mother. Though I'm not a big fan of many of her choices, I respect that the she does indeed love her children very much, and I don't want anyone to feel that I have a desire to threaten that bond-I truly do not. When Mother's Day rolled around this year, J (who is a mother of 2) sent me a text message wishing me a happy Mother's Day. When I responded that I'm not a mother, she said that there isn't a day honoring "daddy's girlfriend who holds my hair when I'm throwing up, and loves me and takes great care of me" so Mother's day is for me too. (Isn't she great? Talk about supportive friends and family!)

As I sat in that room, holding back tears, wanting to run up and wrap that beautiful little girl in my arms, tell her how much I love and support her, I made a decision...The Good Guy can call me a parent. My being termed 'parent' to that little girl (and her brother) threatens nobody. I am one more person who loves and cares about both of those kids unconditionally, and that shouldn't be threatening to anyone. They come to me when they're upset and need comfort, they share with me when they're excited, they learn ways to annoy their sibling from me, I hold hair and rub backs when stomach bugs attack, I know how they like their waffles, they want me to attend their important events, they give me random hugs and kisses, they know I'll do my darndest to make them happy...if that's not parenting, then what is?

I am grateful for the opportunity to share in the lives of those kids. I am grateful that I am capable of giving and receiving so much love. I am grateful that I have been influenced by a variety of people who have demonstrated how to love by loving me.

I am grateful that angry and venomous anonymous comments have no bearing in reality, and simply validate the lunacy and irrelevance of the person writing them ;-) yes, I know you stop by, and it matters not.

Creative Minds Unite!

Ok, not a lot of people read my blog, but I am familiar with the written work of the few who do, and I know that you all have exceptionally imaginative and poetic minds...I need your creative help.

This is a pencil drawing that I'm working on. The image of the girl is my rendition of a beautiful photograph I found on a greeting card. However, the background on the greeting card isn't something I want to recreate.

The problem: My creative juices seem to have run dry. I can't for the life of me decide what this little girl in her nightgown is witnessing/heading towards/gawking at. I considered laundry hung to dry and raspberry bushes, but both seemed so...dull.

So, my request of my loyal and ever helpful readers, is: "What is this little girl standing in front of?" Be creative! Have fun with it! Help me PLEASE!

The Wisdom of a Starry Night-Take 1

With whom would you like to reconnect?

Several Posts ago I mentioned purchasing a book entitled, "The Wisdom of a Starry Night", a book that combines works of art with introspective questions. This is the painting shown with the question, it is titled, "Postcard" and the artist's name is Fernand Leger.

The answer to the above question is the first I would like to unearth.

My father's second wife was the woman I called step-mother for the majority of my childhood. Her name was/is Michele, but she always went by the nickname Mickey. My father is currently on his third marriage (and I hope for him that the third time's a charm).

My relationship with Mickey was complex. My mother is a good woman, but she was bitter for many years towards both my father and my step-mother. It was no secret to me that my mother loathed them both. I loved and respected both of my parents, but I suffered the same struggle that I believe many children with step-parents experience; I didn't know how to love someone that my parent despised without feeling as though I was betraying my loyalty.

Mickey was an interesting woman, and very unlike my mother. My current capacity as pseudo-parent (possibly future step-parent) to The Good Guy's children has left me on many occasions ruminating about my relationship with Mickey. I've considered what she offered me, I wonder where she is now, and I regret that she isn't around any longer. I am remorseful that when she and my father divorced I wasn't receptive to her attempts at maintaining a relationship with me. I can't change the past, but perhaps I can pay homage to a woman who had a significant influence in my becoming the person I am today. Only now, as an adult, can I fully appreciate all that she offered, how hard she tried, and the difficult road she traveled prior to becoming my step-mother.

Mickey and her two sisters spent their childhood being bounced around in foster care. I don't recall the circumstances that lead them to this fate, perhaps she never told me, as it was too awful to share with a child. She shared with me the following story and it haunted me for years. It gave me a sense of how far she had come, and how many obstacles she had conquered. I fear that this experience was one of many, and one of the few G-rated enough to share with a child. As she explained, there wasn't much regulation in place to protect foster kids when she was a child. Many foster parents took on their foster charges simply for the small monetary stipend. One such man allowed Mickey and her sisters to use one lone square of toilet paper each time they used the restroom. He would stand outside of the bathroom door, and they weren't permitted to flush until he determined that only one square had been consumed.

As an adult Mickey maintained a close relationship with one sister, the other I believe was lost to her within the child welfare system.

Mickey had a husband prior to marrying my father. She also had children, but her ex-husband gained custody of the children, and kept her from seeing them. My mother commented that a mother had to be REALLY bad to lose custody of her children in the day and age when Mickey did so. I was never privy to the particulars, but I can't help but wonder how on earth Mickey could have been a good parent, as she never truly experienced a loving dependable attachment to a parent.

Despite all of this, Mickey was a classy lady. She was creative, articulate, confident, and dependable. She was an excellent cook. To this day her twice-baked potatoes, macaroni salad, and blueberry pie have been unmatched by any others I have tasted. She loved to garden, and her backyard was always landscaped elegantly. Her Christmas wrapping and decorating were things of beauty, and to this day I strive to match her expertise. She kept a near immaculate home, and I don't ever recall hearing her complain about housework. I am well aware that she did the gift shopping for my birthdays and for Christmas. Though I hated her fashion sense (and the 'girly' clothes she insisted on purchasing for her tomboy step-daughter), I realized that she had done all of the work in choosing and wrapping the gifts labeled: From Dad and Mickey.

From Mickey I learned how to decorate a home, how to make a home homey, how to appreciate art, how to relax and enjoy a good book, that I like James Taylor, how to make faces in the sand at the beach, that a dog should be well trained, that confidence is attractive, and that a step-mother isn't always personified by Cinderella's step-monster.

I believe I was about fourteen years of age when my father sat down with his parents and myself to inform us that he and Mickey were divorcing. I remember being furious that he didn't tell me in private. I also recall that I couldn't name any single emotion amongst those whirling within the funnel cloud of confusion. I hadn't had the slightest indication that this had been coming, and was caught totally unaware.

Mickey tried to maintain communication with me, but I was a teenager and even my mother (with whom I resided) had a difficult time fitting into my social calendar. Splitting time between friends and two parents was tricky enough, so Mickey and I lost contact.

I am truly sorry for this. I could sure use her expertise in the step-parenting arena. Advice from someone who has been in the trenches would be extremely helpful on some days. However, I think the most resounding reason that I regret not maintaining contact is that I think she deserves thanks; a thanks she never received from me because I was too young to understand all that she offered. Now, I'm not delusional, or idealistic, the woman wasn't perfect (who is?) But at the very least, she should know that I now recognize all that she did, and all she attempted to do. I have no doubt that she cared about me, that she helped make my second home as important as my first, and that she made my childhood more full just by being around, and offering me a bit of herself.

Just.Don't.Think.About.It!

The weather in my little corner of the country has been total crap lately, but today we had a reprieve. The sun was out, and the temperature and humidity were both tolerable (a rarity this time of year in my neck of the woods) . It was a good day to be outside, which worked out well since I assisted my aunt in weeding and spreading mulch for several hours this morning and afternoon.

She has started her own gardening business, and I help out once in a while when she needs an extra pair of hands. I'll spare you the details, but the woman is ALWAYS late. The circumstances are unforseen every time, but you can count on 3 things in life, death, taxes, and my aunt will always be later than she counted on. Today we started a mere hour and a half later than originally planned.

Whatever...that's not the reason for this post, it simply had to be mentioned.

Here's the reason for this post:

The house we worked on today is approximately 30 minutes away from my apartment. I had to depart earlier than my aunt so that I could drive home and shower the stink off in order to wait tables.

I drove the thirty minutes back to my town, stopped at the drug store, and then went home. When I got home I went into the bathroom. (I'm sure that at this point you're wondering why you're getting a blow-by-blow account of my day, but hang in there, I think it's worth it). I started taking my clothes off and putting them in a pile on the floor (they were filthy, I was going to take a shower, and no-this isn't going where you think it's going!).

As I was getting ready to hop into the shower I noticed something emerging out of the pile of clothes.

Something BIG.

It was a cricket! Not just a baby cricket, we're talking a full grown (freight train sized) adult cricket-came out of my clothes! I had a stow-away cricket in my drawers for at LEAST 40 minutes.

Just to re-cap: A CRICKET was in my pants and I was oblivious!

I hate bugs. I also hate to kill them (or anything for that matter). So I spent the next several minutes dancing around the bathroom (half naked) trying not to think about where the cricket had been for the last hour, and cogitating on how I was going to remove it from the bathroom. I was afraid that if I left the room, it would hide, and then I would never find it-ohmyGOD! So I ran to the kitchen, grabbed one of the kid's cups (it has a lid) and ran back to the bathroom. I caught the savage beast, but the top didn't fit (I grabbed the wrong lid), therefore, I couldn't set the cup down for fear I would lose my prey.

I then held the cup in one hand, contemplated my next move (I had the cricket but I was still half-naked), then proceeded to dress, one-handed (into CLEAN clothes), and went outside to set the cricket free into the wild.

Happy ending?

Yeah, as long as I don't spend too much time pondering where exactly that big-ass bug was hiding all that time. If I think about the fact that a HUMUNGOUS bug was on me for all that time, I can't help but wonder how many small insects (like SPIDERS AAARGH!) found their way into my clothing. If I think about that, I am left wondering...where are they NOW? What about the bugs I didn't notice crawling out of my clothes because I was focused on the cricket?! Are they in my BED now?

If I keep thinking like this...I will never leave the house again. It's a dangerous, bug infested world out there, and I don't have what it takes to stay sane while I am COVERED in insects.

So, I've resigned to just.not.think.about.it.

When This Expensive Education Pays Off.

Today I was grocery shopping, pinching pennies, counting the monetary value of items in my basket, going over my list and deciding which items I can do without this week in order to stay within my tight budget, when I walked by Regina Something-Or-Other. Regina and I graduated in the same high school class (class of 1995 *gasp*). I didn't really like her. She was somewhat snobby, clearly from a family that had money, and couldn't be bothered with classmates who didn't fit into her social and scholarly clique (the one with all of the wealthy honors students, the privileged few who could concentrate on their school work because they didn't have to work after school instead of concentrating on homework). However, in her defense, she wasn't ever awful either. She was just, well…snobby blah.

Neither of us acknowledged that we recognized the other, even when we ran into each other for the second time in the parking lot. Our cars were parked next to each other, and apparently we departed at the same time (what are the friggin' odds?).

Her car- A brand new black Volkswagen Jetta.

My car- A 1997 two door Toyota Tercel with a garbage bag on the driver's seat to catch the rain seeping through the leaky moon-roof (I've never had enough spare change to have it repaired). My car was sold long before keyless entry was standard (I have to use the KEY) and in order to get the window up or down one must use his or her arm muscles, not simply utilize a wussy finger push.

I was immediately embarrassed, and at the same time I was pissed off that I was embarrassed. Why the hell should I care about status? I'm happy damn it! I'm in love, I have a roof over my head, and overall I'm a very lucky human being. However, her shiny fancy car made me overly aware of the fact that I'm still pinching pennies. Financial woes have been at the forefront as of late, and it's a touchy subject.

My reaction to Regina's car, and my (completely ridiculous and ludicrous) fear of what she'd think of me (which is totally irrelevant to anything) made me decide that I need to make several vows to myself.

If and when I ever have an income which is sufficient to be comfortable and I have money to spare (which is different than being wealthy, but the same rules apply-except, I'd donate more to worthy causes), I vow to do the following:

1. Donate annually to NPR

2. Continue driving cars that are economical and practical. Fuel economy is at the forefront (not just for money's sake, but for our environment's sake). For instance, if I could buy any car right now-I'd buy a Toyota Prius. (However, I can't speak for The Good Guy who has had his heart set on a BMW since I met him.)

3. Purchase only organic produce, and as many fair-trade and sweat-shop free products as I can get my hands on.

4. Live in a practical home, nothing monstrous with more room than we need. Something comfortable and homey, not a home whose purpose is to make others envious of all that we have.

5. Always, always, always tip well. (I do that now and I'm poor, no problem there).

6. Never-ever shop in big-box stores. I will frequent small independently owned shops.

7. Have a compost pile and use the soil in my garden, which I will use to grow my own herbs and vegetables.

8. Not spoil the kids. With that, teach the kids that wealth doesn't equate virtue or morality. As my friend J told her son, "Some good people are poor, and some rich people are not good people, it has nothing to do with money"

9. Not have cable television. (The Good Guy will not be happy about this one. Is there a way to not have cable, and still watch baseball?)

10. Treat family and friends to dinner out, and slip my mom a twenty now and then (which she currently does for me)

11. Wear cocktail gowns and go to galas.
~Drink good wine.
~Have elegant dinner parties in a dining room decorated with elaborate place settings and fresh flowers.
~Have a stocked liquor cabinet-plenty of Jamesons, Tequila, Bailey's, Frangelico, (and Malibu-also known as 'sunscreen with alcohol' for you J. *bleck*)
~Dress fashionably.
~Give the Good Guy all the kitchen gadgets he asks for.
~Never forget that once upon a time I couldn't do these things.

And, although this is petty, and I shouldn't even add the following sentiment, I must say: I'm skinnier than Regina Something-Or-Other. HA!

Hey-I'm only human, and sometimes I'm a little petty.

If you learn to speak correct English, whom are you going to speak it to? ~Clarence Darrow

Having been in school for the last 2 years, immersed in text book and peer reviewed article hell, I haven't had much time for leisurely reading.

This summer I have decided to make up for lost time. The library has become my new intimate niche. I began with several novels in the chick-lit genre. They were entertaining, and a good way to ease myself out of the purely informational written works I have been deciphering. I have now moved on to a memoir. I was reticent at first, afraid that the transition from the predictable and humorous to meaninful and tragic would be difficult.

It wasn't. The memoir is well written and I'm captivated. (For those of you interested, it is titled The Tender Bar, the author, J.R. Moehringer.)

All of this chain-reading is stimulating the deaply burried creative writer in me. (I'm fairly certain there is one in there, however, its level of ability is certainly in question). This memoir business got me pondering, What makes a memoir readable? How does one's life story become interesting to the masses? Would my memoir be marketable? Would I want to share my life story with just anyone? Then I decided that my childhood memories are extrememly disjointed and vague. Conveying them through an organized written work would be nearly impossible (and there is still the question of entertainment value).

Then I thought-I could write chick-lit! Although, I realized shortly after this epiphany that any chick-lit I write will be a variation of my memoir. Experience (I believe) is the best material.



I have also resolved to read more classics. I have never read "The Great Gatsby", nor Dante's "Inferno", never read any Tolstoy, nor any Sylvia Plath, and I have only seen movie versions of the Bronte sisters works (though my hopes are not high after seeing Wuthering Heights-sorry TN I'll read Jane Eyre first, okay?).

Who knows? Maybe one day I will sit down and begin writing something other than a thesis, or an article review, or a blog post. I think I'll just keep blogging and reading for the time being. You know, build up my writing momentum.

The Legacy of Frank

He stands at the grill, spatula in hand, his few hamburgers are surrounded by veggie burgers while he is surrounded by other cooks tending to them. He wonders when he became obsolete, when his large family became too busy to attend a holiday gathering, when the meat and potatoes he worked so hard to feed his wife and children for so many years became poison, replaced by rabbit food patties. This was his post for decades. He stood at the grill, and fired up hot dog after buger after hot dog. He handed them out to adults and children alike following the question, "How do you like it cooked?" The kids would shovel in their food as quickly as possible so as to make it back to the pool in time to not miss any of the action. He was surrounded by family then. His six children, and their children (his 12 grandchildren), all cajoling, laughing, and back slapping. Today he looks around. Only three of his children are in attendance; one son with his third wife, his only daughters are the other two that came, both divorced, one still single (who will always be) and the other with her beau. Two grandchildren are present, one who has her own son, his great-grandson, a child with a beautiful smile and an infectious laugh.

He loves having them there. He has worked hard his entire life to be surrounded by family. His devotion to his family is part of his heritage. His father was an immigrant from Italy, this type of get-together is his legacy. He is saddened that the importance of family gatherings is lost on the next two generations. The swimming pool that used to be in the back corner of the yard has been filled in. He has become too old to keep up with maintaining it, and these gatherings have become so few and far between that it was never used anyway. The spans of this large backyard seems almost a waste, as nobody comes around to celebrate in it anymore.

He finds himself getting weepy as they leave. He is saddened when these gatherings draw to a close, as the next one will certainly be far into the future. Until then the house will be full of silence and echoes of times past when the bedrooms were full, and the comings and goings numerous.

As they leave he thinks, "God bless their souls". He has lived a good life. He has wonderful children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren (there are 4 now!). He has lived to see his family grow and thrive. He is proud of what he and his wife have accomplished, the legacy they have left. He pours himself another drink and begins cleaning the yard, already looking forward to the next time he will see them all.

**My grandfather is an amazing man. He is full of love. He can't sit still for very long (even though he is in his eighties), as his entire life has been an active one (he worked three jobs to support his wife and children). He is the hardest worker you will ever meet, and more devoted to those he loves that anyone I have every known. He is a veteran (United Stated Marine Corps). His Memorial Day backyard get together was very sparse this year. I was saddened by the small turnout. I am one of the rabbit food patty eaters. I seriously considered eating a burger just to make him feel better. Amusingly enough, The Good Guy confided in me later that he too had considered eating a burger so that my grandfather would feel more essential. We did have a good time, as did all of those who came.

Udder

The Good Guy's daughter (reminder: she's 8) was at the playground in our apartment complex the other day swinging next to and chatting with a little boy who is close to her in age (his name is Taylor). After a little while she came running over to where we were seated, sat down next to her father and asked:

"Daddy, what does udder mean?"

"Well, it means a couple of things, for instance, you know cows have udders, right?"

"Yeah, but, Taylor said he was going to play with his udder friends"

I simultaneously had three thoughts (while trying not to laugh out loud).

One: Poor thing, that little snot nosed brat didn't want to play with her-she's going to feel rejected*

Two: She's better off. That kid is really weird...And he can't even pronounce 'other'.(Have I mentioned how protective I am of the people I love? I don't generally have prejudices about speach impediments)

Three: This is hysterically funny, and I must share it with the blogging world.

Kids truly do say the darndest things.

*FYI: She was far from traumatized; she found something else fun to do within approximately 2 minutes of discovering (via her father's diplomatic translation) that Taylor was seeking out alternative playmates.

“How tedious is a guilty conscience!” ~John Webster

I had a piece of key lime pie before I left work tonight. I was STARVING and the cooks had already closed up the kitchen by the time my side-work was done. All that was available to me was dessert.

Now I feel guilty. Which leads me to the need to blog about guilt (I seem to be coming up short on new subject matter).

Guilt is a wonderful reaction that I have to almost everything imaginable. (And when I say 'wonderful' what I really mean is 'lousy, distressing, unpleasant, and/or annoying'). I attribute this response to my mother's cultivating it during the entire time I resided under her roof. I have no idea if she did this on purpose or if it was simply how she was raised, and therefore she passed it on to me. It is irrelevant at this point in time because guilt is something that I feel in an almost carnal manner. No amount of conscious rationalization seems to quell the unconscious need my mind has to feel guilty.

My jeans are too damn tight. Winter months in a small town in a cold climate are HELL on the waistline. Food has been my savior for as long as I can remember. I eat out of boredom, I eat when I'm upset, I eat to celebrate, I eat when I'm depressed. I have struggled with my weight for as long as I can remember. I was always the pudgy kid. Not fat, just not 'trim'. I was 'not trim' enough to be the fat friend (at least I always felt that way). Therefore, not eating junk food is an exercise in self control and will-power. I am probably the skinniest I have ever been (at least I was when winter started). So, whenever I eat crappy food, I feel guilty. Like...like I've failed somehow. I feel (seriously, one piece of pie has this effect) like my stomach is bloated and my thighs and butt have grown.

J bought me lunch today. She knows I'm financially strapped and decided we should get lunch and offered to buy. I took her up on it. Now, I feel guilty. She's just as poor as I am. I shouldn't have accepted. I suck. Moocher.

I had the kids on Sunday while The Good Guy was at work. I was exhausted from closing the restaurant and then getting up early the two days prior. And, I had to work Sunday night. I was not exactly my good-time self. I feel guilty for being totally preoccupied with the need to sleep while they were trying to get me to play. Loser.

See? I could rationalize that one piece of pie (in lieu of a meal) isn't going to make me tubby, or that J is coming into some extra money and she can afford one $30 lunch, or that the kids were fine and they needed that reading time I made them take while I snuck in a nap.

Still, the guilt lingers on.

It's okay though. I don't seem to be losing sleep. The guilt doesn't last forever. AND, I usually feel really skinny when I wake up in the morning (something having to do with gravity sucking on my stomach fat while I lie in bed).

I do wonder though, is guilt taught, or is it in-born? Is it a gender thing? Is is passed down primarily from mothers to daughters, or do sons carry the burden as well? Do fathers play a role in the passing-on of guilt? Where does religion come in? I am not religious. Spiritual maybe, religious-NO. Organized religion makes me cringe (there's another long post that may leave some offended), so that's certainly not the root of my guilt. It's an interesting phenomenon this "guilt". Does it keep us in check, or hold us back (perhaps a bit of both?)

Well, whatever. I've had two glasses (maybe 3?) of wine, and I feel the guilt melting away. I think that if I were sober, this post would be much more meaningful (Oh, goodness-should I feel guilty about being tipsy?) But, it is what it is-entertainment for me and my few loyal readers.

I would like to open my comment section to thoughts anyone may have on this 'guilt' phenomenon. Who experiences it? To what degree? How do you think it came about?

Oh, and this is a note to self more than a note to anyone reading: I intend to write a post about the book I just read, and the fact that it has inspired me to write a novel :-) No, seriously!

Conditioned Maturity in the Face of Genetic Inferiority

I was once asked out on a date by a fellow co-worker who is easily twice my age. He is a nice man, a former hippy, and has a daughter close to my age. I handled it all wrong. Hooooey, did I handle it wrong! I wanted to classify and clarify that I would accompany him to see a movie (as a friend), but that I had no intention of "dating" him. He said that he doesn't live his life like that, that he can't make determinate statements such as "I will never be romantically involved with you". I told him that I can, and do. It was shortly after my divorce, and I knew that I couldn't placate people. I couldn't make others happy by pretending I was something other than I am. I had decided that I eventually want children, and I wasn't the least bit interested in him romantically, or sexually. I knew that I never would be for a variety of other reasons. I forget the order of events, but ultimately I told him I had to think about it, and when I finally had the courage to tell him no, he was so completely angry that he told me I was off the hook before I could have a discussion with him.

Time has passed, and we're once again comfortable acquaintences. But, something he said to me at one point during the unfolding of those uncomfortable events has stuck with me. He told me that no matter how old your body gets, you still feel young inside. As you get older, you become surprised with the old face that looks back at you in the mirror because you still feel the same inside.

I looked in the mirror today and paused. Who the hell is that woman? She's a grownup! When on earth did that happen, and where was I? Of course, when I really think about it, I've had a lot of experiences. This age (and I realize that I'm not elderly) didn't exactly sneak up on me, but...sometimes it's all a blur. I really have to think about how I got here, and when exactly I become an adult.

For that matter, when will I start acting like one?

Sometimes I act like one.
For instance: Today I had this miserable old man at a table. These people come into a nice restaurant and ask me first thing if they can order dinner and have it served to them in time for them to eat it and be out the door in 40 minutes. Ten years ago I would have said, "Um, no, but, McDonalds is around the corner. However, at my wise, ripe old age of 28 (and counting) I simply listed the quickest meals on the menu, deflected smart ass comments from the miserable old gentleman in the party, and got them out the door in their desired timeframe. I was so pleasant that I even had the old guy smiling before he left. Freakin' amazing.

Let me tell you about me at 18 years of age.
Miserable middle aged guy who frequents the grocery store where I am employed decides he doesn't owe a late fee for a video rental (despite what the computer says). I tell him that he'll have to talk to the General Manager who is not working at the moment. He says okay and walks away. A couple minutes later he comes up and says he really wants to talk about this with a manager. So, I call the manager who is currently working. Before the manager arrives I remind the gentleman (I use this word as more of a joke than anything) that though this manager can speak with him, he doesn't have the power nor the authority to do anything other than listen to the complaint.

The Guy LOSES it on me. He asks why I bothered calling the guy, why didn't I say anything before I paged him, blah blah blah.

I pretty much tell the guy he's a lunatic and that I had told him all the same stuff just minutes prior.

He insults me in some manner and then calls me a little girl.

So I respond, "Ok, old man"

He proceeds to shake his finger at me and scream (red faced and spitting). "Listen you LITTLE BITCH you're lucky I don't slap you across the face!"

*Sidebar-I'm a little girl (his words) whom he is threatening with bodily harm. Nice.

At this point my manager arrives and tells the guy not to speak to me in this manner. I forget what happened next because I was too stunned to think and this was one of those rare occasions in my life when I was rendered utterly speachless.

Couldn't.
Speak.

Back to the present: I SO could have handled that better. But, I was eighteen years old and was still working under the assumption that the biggest asshole wins.

I was wrong.

I am amazed at the pleasure I get from being calm and rational while being verabally accosted. I am also amazed at the frequency with which my calm politeness creates a certain amount of reciprocity where there was formerly a distinct lack of civility.

Yet, while the moments where I am calm and rational in the face of blatant meanness are more recurring than they once were, the moments where I want to win the battle of hard-ass still exist. I still have this pigheaded portion of my character that feels as though I need to make it clear to the other guy that I am a human being, not a punching bag. But most of all, I want it clear that they are wrong and I am right.

I've decided it's genetic. My initial, gut reaction (which I can trace directly to my mother) will always be the same, "Hey buddy-did you know you're a JERK?!" However, my conditioning is making it somewhat easier to think, "Okay, maybe this guy's dog just died, or his mom is ill, or his kid is hooked on drugs, and the only way he is making it through today is to lose control with a stranger." Then I generally achieve a placid, composed response.

On the days when I try hard and succeed in achieving the conditioned response, I see my reflection and think, "You've come a long way, baby."

On the days when I role my eyes, emit a deep sigh, and retaliate; I look at my reflection and think, "You still have really far to go."

What Begins With M?

I have willingly decided to play a game wherein I am given a letter and must list ten words beginning with that letter and what they mean to me. I happened upon the game on Steph's blog and she has given me the letter M. I will extend the same invitation to my readers as she did to hers...leave me a comment with a request for a letter if you'd like to play. Here's my list, in totally random order.

1. Margaritas - Tequila, Lime, and salt. What does this mean to me? Good times, good taste, and refreshing! I'll take them on the rocks, I'll take them frozen, and I'll take a lot of them in the right company and circumstances.

2. Mom - This is a BIG one. I could devote an entire blog to what this word means to me. My relationship with my mom has had many ups and downs over the years, but I think we've reached a place of mutual respect and understanding. She gave me the tools I needed to make it through life's bumps, and she was my best friend through childhood and the tumultuos adolescent years. I love her very much. Will I ever be a mom? I'd like to be, but we never really know what the future holds, do we? What is my relationship to The Good Guy's kids? Eventually I will probably be step-mom. I will continue to walk a fine line where I give maternal love while trying not to give anyone the impression that I'm attempting to replace mom. I realize that being a mother whose ex-spouse has a new mate must be threatening and extremely difficult. But rest assured, the other side of that dilemma is not easy either. I don't want overstep my bounds, but I also don't want to be distant and unapproachable. Ocassionally I feel like a tight-rope walker.

3. Music - I love music. Clint Black has a song (the title evades me at the moment), the chorus goes, "Ain't it funny how a melody can bring back a memory, take you to another place in time, completely change your state of mind..." Oh, how true. My music tastes are as wide ranging as my moods (and for those of you that don't know me-it's a wide range). Just the other day, I was driving somewhere, and I was in a somewhat foul mood when a Bon Jovi song came on the radio. (Laugh if you will, but all music has a place, even Bon Jovi.) I started belting out the lyrics to the song and found myself smiling away. My mood shifted. I decided that I need to make a mixed CD of songs that elevate my mood for those times when rainy day blues take over. Just a few of my selections (there are LOTS more) would include; Sinatra's The Best is Yet to Come, Springsteen's Ain't got you, Sara Evans' Perfect, Nora Jones' Sunrise, Junior Brown's Highway Patrol or My Wife Thinks You're Dead, and Kenny Wayne Shepherd's Everything is Broken.

4. Mexican Food - Yes, not only do I enjoy imbibing that Mexican beverage, but I truly enjoy the food that goes along with it. It's wonderful that as a vegetarian I can go into a Mexican restaurant and pick any meal on the menu. Does it have meat? Yes? Well, I'll just substitute that meat with some vegetarian beans please! Just the other day I had a scrumptious chimichanga at a quaint little Mexican restaurant with my sister. And, it was so big that my leftovers became dinner for The Good Guy!

5. Movies - We don't have TV. We have a TV, but it is only used to watch movies. When I left my husband (who spent a large percentage of his life planted in front of the TV) I decided that I would not have cable again. But, we do watch a movie two or three nights a week. It's a wonderful way to keep our couch potato/brain rotting time to a minimum while still having quiet mind numbing evenings.

6. Money - The root of all evil? I don't think so. The root of many problems? Yeah, I'll agree with that. I don't want to be wealthy, just comfortable without a mountain of debt. I don't think I would ever be comfortable if I was wealthy, I would have a constant sense that others have suffered (and continue to) so that I may live in excess. However, I watched my parents struggle to make ends meet their entire lives, and I don't want that for myself. So, I'm going to school to be a therapist of sorts. I'll make a modest living while helping people. I'll stay away from Walmart, and I'll frequent as many locally owned non-corporate shops as I can. Then I'll be able to sleep at night.

7. Merlot - Generally not my favorite wine, but I like it just the same. I prefer Chianti and Shiraz. I've never been much of a white wine drinker. I stick to reds.

8. Memories - I love photographs. I love reminiscing with family and friends about good times we have experienced together. I love the idea that a loved one is always with you as long as you have memories of them.

9. Maybe - What a great word. It gives the speaker time to think before commiting to an answer one way or the other when unsure. I use it with the kids regularly. I'm somewhat new to this parenting thing, and I need time to think to myself; is that really a good idea?

10. Master's Degree - Ugh. I need a Master's degree to become a licensed Art Therapist. However, at the end of next semester I will only have a Bachelor's degree after two and a half years of schooling and I need a break. I'm burned-out. My plan (keep your fingers crossed for me) is to get a job, work for a couple of years, and return to school part time for my Master's if I can't find a job that makes me happy and accepts my current qualifications.

That was fun. Let me know if you want to play.

The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who can't read them. - Mark Twain

I love books. If I was wealthy (monetarily speaking) I would have my own private library. I am capable of losing all track of time and spending hours on end in a book store. I remember as a kid that my dad would take me to a wonderful bookstore near his home and tell me that I could pick out a book. Then we would part ways. I would go to the section of the store that had books at my reading level, and take great care to make the decision of which book would be coming home with me. Generally I was incapable of narrowing down my options to just one, (there were hundreds to choose from!) so my father would give in and allow me 2 or 3. The poor guy, how do you say no to a kid that is begging for books? He didn't stand a chance. I read them all voracioulsy. To this day I love the feeling of getting lost in a book. I love all of the potential that a trip to the book store holds. I love the sensation of so many options and so little time. I love that I can connect with people through books. Secretly, I'm always a little disappointed when I complete a book because the story is then over.

This year I had no idea what to get my mother for Mother's Day, so I did what I always do when I'm at a loss for gift giving ideas; I went to the book store. I spent at least an hour pawing through the merchandise, reading jacket covers and trying to use self restraint when making selections. Several times I asked for help at the sales counter when I recalled a portion of a title that had been recommended to me, but came up short when trying to recall the author's name, or the entire book title. I bet they love that!

While I was there a bus load of teenagers came in. I overheard various discussions (because, quite frankly, these kids were EVERYWHERE), and I gathered that these kids were from somewhere in NYC. There were cell phones going off left and right, MP3 players blaring in various ears, and groups of kids taking up entire ailes so that I had to walk around them to get to where I needed to go. I couldn't stop smiling. These kids were shopping for BOOKS! Not all of them where thrilled with the idea, but many of them were very serious about making their selections. They were in the store for almost as long as I was, and when they were ready to leave, the check out line was a mile long. I'm not a teacher. I couldn't be, my patience level is nowhere near the required level. Still, expanding minds excite me! The concept of adolescents choosing to read makes me giddy. I truly believe the potential in all of us is enhanced by expanding our minds. I also believe that books are one of the main resources we have for mind expansion. I was beaming!

I did (of course) find a gift for my mom. I also found one for my grandmother, one for someone I can't name because he/she reads my blog and (of course) one for myself.

Incase anyone is interested, the following were my selections:

For Grandma: A cookbook titled, "Splenda". She's daibetic. I thought it would be helpful. Besides, she's lived through enough Mother's Days and birthdays that she has a home full of trinkets and everything she wants or needs. She's a very practical, wonderful woman.

For Mom: "Falling Through the Earth, a memoir" by Danielle Trussoni. My mother's husband has severe PTSD resulting from the Vietnam War. Living with and loving him is no easy feat, but she remains loyal to him and continues to be devoted him. This book is a memoir of a woman whose father never really stopped fighting the battle he was immersed in while in Vietnam, and her choice to stand by him when everyone else gave up on him. I thought it appropriate.

For me: "The Wisdom of a Stary Night, Using the Power of Great Art for Self-Awareness" by Sharon Marson. This book was inexpensive and I had to have it. The book is a compilation of various pieces of art accompanied by introspective questions such as, "Who is in your inner circle?", and "What runs through your veins?" Art and personal growth are at the forefront of my life right now. I am one semester away from getting my degree in Creative Arts in Therapy, and this book resonated with me. For seven dollars, how could I pass it up?

For the person who will remain nameless: I can't say of course!

Bipolar

I struggle with how much to articulate my frustrations. I don't want to be a Negative Nancy, but I also don't want to deny my true feelings-that's how you get an ulcer. Here's a little sample of the thought processees I am undergoing this evening (keep in mind as you read this that it is REALLY late and I'm very tired, but my mind won't shut down enough for me to be capable of sleeping).

~5 people go out to dinner at a nice restaurant where dinner averages $15 a plate. They sit at a table for over an hour and accumulate a bill of $20. FIVE people, TWENTY dollars. How much of a tip do they leave? $3. This is no joke, this is my reality.
Bright Side: A couple with a small child goes out to dinner, they're friendly, not at all demanding, the baby is ADORABLE and their bill comes to $70. They leave a $25 tip. This is also my reality.

~According the the custody agreement the kids should be with their father. Instead their mother decides that she is a better judge than anyone else (including their father and the court system) of how the kids should spend their time so she keeps them. She lets one have a sleepover with two friends while the other sleeps in bed with her and her boyfriend all night long. In the best interest of the kids? I don't think so. Anything I can do about it? Not a damn thing.
Bright Side: The kids still go to their father's, though not as much as they should. While there, they see how a rational, giving, sincere, loving, and reasonable person interacts with others.

~One of the sweetest people I work with can't stay after our shift and have a drink with me because her husband will accuse her of any number of deplorable actions. She deserves better. I can't tell her that it will all work out okay. I'm not sure it will.
Bright Side: She's healthy?

~The witch waitress at work still has an attitute problem.
Bright Side: I have been strong enough to not light into her with the wit and anger I have been amassing while "maturing" and "bettering myself". It takes great strength to overcome the need to tell stupid people that they suck. I am strong.

~I don't want to be so damned negative all the time. I don't like constantly grinding my teeth and feeling powerless. Chocolate and red wine are the strongest substances I use. They are my last line of defense. They aren't working.
Bright Side: As frustrated as I am, I am going to crawl into bed with a loving man who adores his children enough to continue to be level-headed despite mounting adversity and disappointment. He is as devoted to me as he is to his children. And...there is always more chocolate and wine.

No one can understand the truth until he drinks of coffee's frothy goodness. ~Sheik Abd-al-Kadir

I remember the first time a sip of coffee didn't cause me to cringe. Up until that point coffee was a substance with a phenomenal aroma that caused me (on many occasions) to stick my head into a bag of coffee beans and breath deep. However, the taste, to me, was god-awful.

The day I left my husband I showed up at my father's doorstep sniveling and sobbing. You know that crying that takes over you until you're left hiccuping for breath,and doesn't generally happen to anyone after they've past the age of 3? That was the state I was in.

After being ushered in and embraced with concerned hugs from both my father and step-mother, I was provided with a cup of coffee while I told them of my decision. I drank the whole thing (it was a REALLY big mug, these are coffee people) and asked for more. It was wonderful. The taste (she had added just the right mix of cream and sugar to please my tastebuds), the feeling of the hot mug in my hand, and the fact that it gave me a focal point for my gaze while I was pondering how to verbalize my emotion, were reasons why this sweet and strong nectar seemed to take the edge off of such a heart wrenching moment.

Today The Good Guy and I had time to kill while the car was being serviced. We walked around town and stopped at a small bookstore with a large selection of greeting cards. We each found several that we couldn't pass up, so we made our purchases and headed to the only coffee shop in town. While there, we sipped mochas and nibbled biscotti and lemon pound cake as we wrote notes inside of our card selections.

As we sat in the shop, with a gentleman using a laptop to the left of us and a man reading a newspaper to the right, I couldn't help but wonder...What is it about coffee shops? What is it that brings people together to sit and relax while drinking a stimulant? What is it that makes people perfectly comfortable to meet up with someone new, or and old friend, or a business associate, or to sit alone? What is it that makes us able to break the ice with the unassuming question, "Would you like to go out for a cup of coffee sometime?"

I suppose that if I pondered long enough I could come up with meaningful answers to these (somewhat rhetorical) questions, but part of the fun is in simply accepting. I love the aura of a coffee shop. I love that I am comfortable doing any of the above things, and that I am comfortable doing so for hours on end.

I should add that I do my best to frequent small privately owned coffee shops instead of the monster corporation that is Starbucks. I always try to help the little guy whenever possible. That's not to say that I never go to Starbucks. I'm not perfect.

Anyway, I digress...I'm glad that I joined the club of people that enjoy coffee, and all of the experience that comes with it. Before I had that sip of my step-mother's perfect mixture I had yet to experience the community sensation I get while sitting with my friends in our local coffee shop. Perhaps for me, it's the association with having the strength to make an immensly difficult decision. Whatever the reason, it's nice to know that wherever I go, I can always find someplace that serves coffee. I can take time to gaze into my mug as I ponder my next move, and I will have some comfort as I do so.

The Kindness of Strangers

I have to where a neck tie to work. It's nowhere near as humiliating as the floppy bow tie I adorned at my first waitressing job ten years ago, but the need to be careful to not dip it into patron's water glasses was new to me. After several occassions wherein I dragged my tie through food and/or greasy liquid, I asked The Good Guy for a tie-tack, knowing he would have one. I didn't know however, that it would be in the shape of an F-16 (a fighting falcon is its nickname, so I've been informed). It was a gift to The Good Guy from his father, who was in the United States Air Force. I wear it for function, and know very little about planes or jets, etc. The shape was irrelevant as it was purely funtional.

I waited on a patron several weeks ago who was very talkative about my tie tack. He was involved in building F-16s and various other planes/jets (whatever) before he retired. He fired off LOTS of information that didn't sink into my brain, as I was mentally surveying my tables in order to determine my next move at each one. However, his enthusiasm was infectious, and I liked him. His wife boasted that when they had lived on Long Island, he could name the type of plane flying over head just from hearing the sound. It was pleasant to wait on them as it always is when the patrons are personable and friendly. The gentleman mentioned in passing that he would bring me in an F-18 tie tack the next time he and his wife come for dinner. Though I said that it would be great, I didn't for a moment expect it to actually happen.

Friday night he and his wife came back. They were waiting at the bar for a table to be ready when I walked by. I stopped to say hello, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a plane-shaped tie tack. It was similar to mine but had two tail wings (I think that's what they're called). He told me what it is (a Hornet or an F-18), and told me that I could keep it. His wife asked in amazement, "You remembered?!" then touched my arm and said, "He must really like you because he never remembers anything".

I can't even begin to put into words how touched I was by this stupid little trinket. It wasn't about the tie tack (though I will keep it always as a reminder of this occasion). It was about connection. As I said before, his enthusiasm was infectious, and I caught it. I don't even know this gentleman's name, but he was kind and offered this simple gift to someone who showed interest in what he had to share. He had knowledge, and enjoyed imparting to an interested party. We were simply two people who had a friendly conversation.

I can't seem to articulate it, but this simple gesture was, well...selfless. It was simply a nice thing to do. He got nothing out of it beyond more conversation (and a really big smile). The reward was connection to another person. That's it. He didn't expect more.

And now whenever I look at the Hornet on my tie, I will think of his friendly gesture and smile. He gave me that.

Rainy day doldrums.

The air was crisp, the sky a shade of blue-grey which seemed to be disputing whether the clouds would part and allow the sun to shine through, or burst, saturating the shuffling bodies below.

To the most vigilant among us, the balmy breeze carried jumbled sensations. There was the unmistakable jovial nature of the marginally organized horseplay. Yet, the undercurrents of insincerity and hostility were evident. The feeling of bridled furry has become familiar. The hope that a remedy exists for unseen wounds has become a decayed yearning.

In the diner, the waitress emits an aura of broken dreams and failed potential. The french toast is bland like the unfulfilled promise of the day which lay before us. He purchases breakfast for the mother and her young son at a booth in the corner as an anonymous thank you; their contagious and innocent enjoyment of one another infecting the negligable number of patrons sparsely populating the eatery.

The lonely ride home is an exercise in restraint. The tears come too easily, and once they begin, cessation will be elusive. The evening ahead will be full of obligatory smiles and banter. The bulge held in my pocket late in the evening as I drive home will not be enough to generate a respite for the financial oppression which lingers overhead like an ever-present and pregnant storm cloud.

Still, the morning holds promise, tomorrow budding with potential. The sun will once again crest the horizon, and with it will come a new beginning, a cleaner slate. All that lies between today and tomorrow are unformulated dreams.

Where do I begin?

It's amazing that my life is so damn full right now, yet I don't know what to write about. I guess part of it is that I enjoy holding my writing up to a certain standard (believe it or not) and at this point I feel as though I will fall woefully short of cohesion. Therefore, I will provide my loyal readers with what I hope will be a somewhat entertaining and illuminating update on the various tidbits of life which I currently have on my plate...

-We spent 5 hours in the emergency room last night; from midnight until 5 this morning. The Good Guy has some weird pain that won't go away, and the doctors can't seem to figure out the problem. We have no health insurance, so he's minimizing his participation in a number of tests they're offering forth. Great, juuust great. I worry. It's a trait passed on from my mother who would constantly lecture me that I needed to call if I was going to be late, because 1 minute past the moment I was due to arrive home she'd have visions of me dead in a ditch somewhere. So, as we were dressing to go to the hospital, it was The Good Guy (the one who's sick and in pain) who was consoling me that it would be alright. Sometimes I am such. a. chick.

-The kids should (legally and rightfully) be with us tonight but their mother is holding them hostage. It would be small and petty of me to use any of the numerous adjectives and expletives that come to mind when I think of her lately, so I'll refrain (besides, The Good Guy reads my blog and he wouldn't appreciate my choices).

-I turned in my thesis! Sadly, it's total crap. It is by far the worst piece of written work I have put my name on since returning to school. I had a great concept, but I couldn't seem to find an eloquent manner in which to pull it off. So, I gave a half assed presentation and turned in an atrocious piece of research. My final paper does not by any means make it obvious that I read about a billion articles on the subjects of art therapy, adolescents, at-risk youth, group homes, drama therapy, writing therapy and the use of all of those therapy approaches with adolescents. I shudder to think that my 4.0 GPA is in jeopardy at the end of my fourth semester after working my ass off for two years. But, it is what it is, and in the long run, what will a 4.0 vs. a 3.9 get me? A higher paying job?-No. Sometimes my perfectionism is simply a means for my genetically inferior stomach to cause me pain via self induced stress. It's just plain stupid.

-The lyrics to a Tori Amos song popped into my head this evening at work as another waitress PISSED. ME. OFF! "I want to kill this waitress..." I could hear Ms. Amos pleading with me, "If I did it fast, you know that's an act of kindness..." The details of the incident are too tedious and uninteresting to spell out, but rest assured that I was in the right and she was totally wrong. By the end of the night, the high and mighty witch apoligized, but my respect level for her has taken a tremendous nose dive.

So...I guess I need to work on FORGIVENESS in keeping with my bettering of myself mantra.

Oooh! My next post will be about my decision to expand my wardrobe and accessorize! Simple, yet exciting. And I'll bet I can maintain both cohesion and entertainment value within the confines of that subject. Stay Tuned!

Kids Are Gross

I won't devote another post to the wonderfulness that is my boyfriend, as I fear anyone that has become a regular reader may get sick of hearing just how great he is should I continue to brag. But, I have to post this photo and mention that I came home to 2 dozen red roses out of the blue the other day :-D Aren't they BEAUTIFUL?

And yes, that is my bra drying in the background. I guess I didn't frame the shot very well. I didn't notice it until the photo was posted. It took so damn long to load that I'm not cropping it and putting it back-I simply don't have the patience. Focus on the FLOWERS people, the FLOWERS.

The Good Guy and I took his kids and J's daughter to a local lake resort town this weekend. The weather was what I would call perfect. I could wear a t-shirt and jeans without being cold or hot. In the infamous words of Goldilocks, "It was juuust right". It was the kind of summer/spring day when I don't realize that my delicate milk-white skin is frying to an angry shade of pink. I do it at the beginning of summer EVERY year. Duh. Time to break out the lotion. My skin will be on fire for the next three days, and then it will all peal off while I spend 3 days looking like a lizard.

Anyway...the kids decided to play on a playground next to the beach. While The Good Guy and I were sitting on a bench making googly eyes at each other the kids called me over in excitement to show me their buried treasure (the kids have each inherited their father's penchant for being a jokster). When I arrived to their location under what they refer to as a "climbing structure" they unearthed some stray pretzel pieces that had been deposited in the sand by some drunken teenager or stray toddler, and acted as if they were golden coins. I joked that it was a great find, blah blah blah, and went back to the bench to accompany the good guy in soaking some rays. (He was smart enough to wear a hat-so as not the get burned).

Then, it happened. I turned to look at the kids and noticed that they were....CHEWING!!!! Aaargh! GROSS! The kids range in age from 5-8. We had just come from a nice (somehwhat expensive) breakfast, and they KNOW BETTER. Blech! The good guy made them all sit on the bench, calmly told them they all knew better, mentioned that they may get ebola and have their tongues fall out of their mouths (I'm embelishing here, he's nowhere near as dramatic as I), and after sufficient time to think about how stupid their actions had been, let them go back and play.

Kids are so gross. They pick their noses and wipe it on whatever is close by (sometimes that includes their tongue). They lick the bottom of their shoe when dared to by their older sister (This happened on the car ride home-the boy apparently didn't learn his lesson while sitting on the bench). They try to eat food by shoving it through their face instead of into their mouths. They role around on the grimy floors without a single thought about germs and dog poo deposited by wayward shoes. They pick up unrecognizable objects off of the ground only to find out that it is petrified animal droppings. Yet, they're such innocent, honest, vulnerable, and adorable creatures that you can't help loving them to death.

The Girl (she's 8 years old) is old enough and precocious enough that she tries to deny that part of her that is first and foremost honest. She has an awareness of self-censorship, and uses it sometimes conciously, sometimes not.

There was a split second today when I think that honest part broke through the censorship. On the ride home, as I noticed that my skin was glowing as if on fire, The Good Guy was commiserating with me as I complained that I make the same mistake every year. He said, "I still love you, even if you're sunburned". This is a pattented line that he uses whenever I do something stupid. Immediately from the backseat, The Girl said, "Me too!" A split second later, when censorship kicked in she quickly retracted by saying, "well sort of". I simply chuckled, knowing that she struggles with how much she can openly love or care about me while maintaining loyalty to her mother. I have no doubt that she loves me in some manner, and she and I will probably spend the next 10 or more years ironing out the kinks. I do everything in my power to make her (and her brother) understand that I am not trying to take the place of their mother. I did not birth them, and I didn't raise them, and I won't take credit for doing either. They do know that they can come to me for nurturing, and I think I do a fairly good job of letting them choose the pace at which our relationship progresses. Still, it felt good, even if only for a fraction of a second, to be loved :-)

This is Heavy Stuff...Proceed at Your Own Risk

One of my intentions upon initiating myself into the world of blogging was to attain some form of catharsis when all else fails and I need a release. Thus far I have avoided all topics that carry a great deal of weight because, well, this is the internet. I'm sure that if someone was really interested, they could trace this blog back to me. This is the reason I changed my picture. I don't need to be flaunting my face to the masses! What on earth was I thinking?

This brings me to the subject I intend to explore this evening. I'll try to stay within the realm of hypotheticals and metaphors, but I have very little optimism regarding my potential success.

I am in love with a man who has two children from a previous marriage. If there is one universal truth, it is that divorce makes people ugly (that's a metaphor for really mean and nasty). If you mix hurt feelings, broken promises, unfulfilled expectations, finances,splitting of property, kids, and opinions on child-rearing into a blender (again this is metaphor-nobody should throw kids into a blender) the liquid you're left with is more of a virulent sludge than a nectar (again with the metaphors-go me!).

It seems to me that The Good Guy's ex-wife, even after two and a half years of separation is still consuming sludge as a prominent staple in her diet. Now, I realize that I am not an impartial third party. I have a stake in all of this. I have this trait (good or bad-I'm not really sure) of being pitbull-esque when it comes to the people I love. When the people I love are being hurt or threatened, I get...well, into attack mode. Mind you, I'm not convinced this is an ideal stance, but it's who I am.

For instance: NOBODY tortured my little sister like I did. I was ruthless, it's amazing that as adults we speak to each other, because I was awful. My point is, the second anyone else messed with her I was ready for a school yard brawl. I would have gone all jets vs. sharks on their sorry asses. I'm sure this is common, but I never outgrew the us vs. them mentality.

Here's the irony: The Good Guy has been a wonderful mentor to me when it comes to attempting to see other points of view. He has the most amazing ability to be calm, rational, and patient in the face of unrelenting adversity by attempting to understand the other person's intentions, experiences, and emotions. I have no such ability, but I have certainly improved. I have watched him return one blow after another from his sludge slurping ex with a sincere smile and the offer of a handshake (again these are all metaphors). He has received spit in his eye on almost every attempt (this is a metaphor-sort of). Perhaps the most infuriating portion of all of this has been his unrelenting understanding and defending of this woman's actions. He refuses to speak of her in a derogatory manner, and makes it clear that in his presence he would like me to follow suit. He has attempted, throughout all of this, to take the high road. In doing so, he still has integrity, and not a soul can take that away from him.

I must add a sidebar here that he and I are in complete and total agreement to NEVER make disparaging comments about the children's mother in their presence. I had a mother who rode on the "your father is a worthless loser" bandwagon and I have no intention of hopping on board. Quite the contrary, we encourage friendly conversation about her, pictures of her in their room, and thoughtful gift giving on the appropriate occasions (and on others for that matter).

I must also add that my best friend (J) is going through a divorce, therefore I am simultaneously viewing the point of view of a mother and the father in this situation. Because of this, and due to The Good Guy's stance, I have thus far been somewhat successful in keeping a seething hatred for this woman at bay. However, she is now threatening to take away some of the already limited time he spends with his kids-in violation of their custody agreement. She claims that her lawyer has given the "it's legal, so go ahead" ok. When the custody battle was fought, he relented to less custody than he felt he was entitled because he was of the opinion that a long, drawn-out legal battle would help nobody (I'm having a difficult time with eloquent wording this evening). He gave his ex the benefit of the doubt and assumed that she would ultimately come around and realize that the kids will be best served by maximizing time with both parents.

He was wrong. It's been two-plus years. She's getting more self-rightous, and self-serving as time goes on. Mind you, she doesn't seem to see it this way, she's convinced that she is the only advocate for the kid's best interests.

I fear The Good Guy's patience has neared the end of it's rope.

Again, I realize I am biased, but I'm also a realist (ask anyone who knows me-It's true). Nonetheless, The Good Guy is one of the most loving and devoted fathers I have encountered in my entire life, and I have no doubt that many people who have less of a bias than I would share the same sentiment.

This is tearing him apart, and I have no idea what to do.

My hands are tied. They're not my kids. That seething hatred is bubbling to the surface, and is close to being unleashed into the world. This is one of those occasions when I wish my emotions had an on-off switch. I imagine that indifference would feel a great deal better than this constant feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. I'm not using metaphors when I say this is all making me physically ill. I don't have any idea what to offer him, and I feel as though this is one of those times when he needs me most.

This situation sucks, and the solution is elusive. How's that for stating the obvious?

I'm finding myself incapable of wrapping this post up in a nice little bow (which is what I like to do). I could go on and on, but I'll end here, with a plea to the karma Gods that this situation end without hatred. Hatred is ugly, and I don't want to own it, but I feel it taking over all of us. No good can come of that.

Oh, and since I handle stress by using humor, I offer this challenge: See if you can count the number of metaphors in this post. Hint: I didn't point them all out!