Two Cups of French Roast and Why Am I Not Still in Bed?

I can’t believe I’m up this early. What’s up with that? Worse, there’s someone else up this early, too. I’m texting with one of my friends AT FIVE IN THE MORNING. Ridiculous. We should both be asleep.

It’s New Year’s Eve. I have a date tonight with New Guy. Should be a lot of fun for him when I pass out on him at around eight o’clock, huh? Maybe I can take nap this afternoon...


Anyway, I’m trying to come up with something wonderfully insightful to pass on this momentous occasion of the passing of one year into the next. Auld Lang Syne and all that.

Speaking of which, how 'bout a history and culture lesson?

I looked up “Auld Lang Syne” on my good friend Wikipedia for you. (What can I say? I'm a giver.) Loosely translated, “Auld Lang Syne” means “days gone by.” Now, I personally prefer that version by Dan Fogelberg, who wrote about running into his old lover at the grocery store, but way before old Dan’s ex-lover married her an architect, the song that everyone sings at the stroke of midnight was credited to the Scottish poet Robert Burns. Before that it was an oral tradition, so no one really knows who the heck thought it up. Nice try, Bob.

In Scotland, New Year’s Eve is called Hogmanay, and it lasts until January 2nd. Now that’s something to sing about. Those Scots sure know how to party. Must be all the whiskey and kilts. A bunch of drunken men and women with easy access? That IS a party…


Last night, I went to visit some of my favorite people: The gang at Solace Salon and Spa. They’re such an awesome group of people, and I make the drive over the bridge just to see them once a month.

Got the hair done. I’m blonder and thus, am certain to have more fun this year, right? Yeah, only if the blonder hair scores me a guy with a boat and a jet ski…


Well, crap. Still nothing profound. Nothing to leave you with that will make you stop and think, “Wow! This chick’s brilliant.” Maybe five a.m. is too early for profundity. Or maybe leaving my mark is not what I should be trying for as I go into this next year.

There’s something to be said for simplicity, for getting back to basics, for looking around and appreciating all that you already have in your life instead of wishing it away in your search for something better or more. What did I read the other day? “The value of a thing is never so acutely realized as the moment it is lost.”

Or something like that.

I feel as though I’ve spent this last year searching for something, and I don’t even know what it was that I was looking for. What if I already had what I was looking for all along? Or it just may be that I need to stop looking for that something in other people and start looking for that something in me.

Whatever the case, it’s a new year, so all my best to you and yours.

Have a safe and happy holiday.

The House of Sand and Lifting Fog

I ran away from home.

Well, my home.

My parents are out of town and have graciously allowed me the use of their home. The plan was to come here, do some writing, run on the beach, and figure out what the heck I’m doing with my life.

This is what happened instead:

I got here Friday night, ate every last bit of chocolate that was in the house, and watched old movies until I came down from my sugar high and passed out in my parents ginormous bed. Then, on Saturday, I stood on the balcony using my cell phone to take pictures of the sunrise, did my nails, took a bath in the big garden tub, played with the cat, and talked with friends on the phone.

No writing. No epiphanies – other than that I have no discipline when it comes to writing or exercise or Hershey’s Chocolate Kisses, and I don’t like being alone.

So, Sunday morning has rolled around, and I’m heading back home today a couple of pounds heavier - Vacation calories don't count, dammit! - and absolutely no closer to getting the next Great American novel finished. Or started, for that matter. My nails look good, though.




Had to share this photo. It reminds me of my favorite painting by Caspar David Friedrich... Monk by the Sea.

And So This is Christmas

I tried to right a wrong this holiday.

I misspoke, once, to a longtime friend and lost her friendship. I say, misspoke but really, the thought must have been there or the words wouldn’t have come out of my mouth. I’ve tried to apologize, but she won’t speak to me. I’ve called, emailed, written. Nothing. It’s been two years, but I still feel awful about it. And I miss her.

So, I tried again. I emailed her on her birthday with no response. I’ve just tried to call with no answer. I don’t blame her. What I said was unforgivable. I just wish there was some way I could make it right. I've tried enough and asked enough to see now that she really does just want to let this go. My mistake. My loss.



In spite of my bad behavior, Santa was still pretty good to me this year. Got some cool toys. I even got a Magic 8 Ball. Had a nice brunch with family. Spent the morning with a baby on my hip and friends and family all around. It was exactly the way Christmas should be.


After all the hoopla died down and the gift wrap was all bundled, bagged, and tossed, I spent the day sweeping up dog hair and pine needles, doing the laundry, and catching the House marathon on USA. I almost never watch television, but after five straight episodes and whatever subliminal messaging was going on in the background, I think I'm hooked. That character is just so grumpy and sarcastic and smart. He cuts right through the crap to tell it like it is, and I dig that about him. Reminds me of my grandfather. Well, a little. I've yet to see the episode when House sits down to play cribbage or walk through the kitchen singing "My Wild Irish Rose."



And so, as the holiday comes to a close, I’m thinking about the things that were given to me that you can’t buy in a store or order online. I'm so fortunate to have so many great people in my life who’ve always given me their love and support freely – year round. I don’t think I’ve told them enough, or at all, that I love them, too, and that I’m honored that they’ve made me a part of their lives.

Well, I do, and I am.

Deconstructive Criticism

Met a really great guy. He likes me a lot. He makes me laugh. He calls regularly. He sends cute little texts to make me smile.

And it’s freaking me out. It’s too much. It’s too soon to be on a daily call basis. I mean, isn’t it?

So I did what I do. I talked with my aesthetician about it.

Me: “Is it weird that this guy is so attentive that it's making me want to run away and move to the other side of the country?”

Her: “My sister lives in San Francisco. I used to want to live there, but it’s too cold.”

Me: "California is nice. I've always been happy there."

Her: "It's beautiful. All those quaint little towns."

Me: "I know what you mean about it being too cold, though. And Southern California has all that traffic."

Silence. Then,..

Her: "Well, how long have you known this guy?"

Me: “A couple of weeks.”

Her: “Then, yes, it's weird.”

Me: “Weird that he calls so much, or weird that I'm freaked out by it?”

Her: "Weird that you're freaked out by it."

Me: "Seriously?"

Her: "Yes. There's seriously something wrong with you."

I’m so glad I don’t have to tip this one.



Got an email from a friend who’s "skimmed" my blog. He told me that I should write about something other than the men I date. His suggestion is that I throw dog poo on a neighbor’s doorstep and write about that. I’m not quite sure how to take that one.

I actually like all my neighbors, even the nudist who’s in his fifties and conducts his life as though he were in his thirties. There’s something to be admired in that kind of chutzpah. Also, when he’s dressed, he’s a tennis instructor. I might need his skills one day. Never know when you’re going to need to bone up on your backhand.

Besides, it’s never a good idea to throw dog poo where you live.

That's How I Roll

My best friend, Carrie, sent me a text a couple of days ago. It read:

“There’s a lil angel that the flies around & hits people that I love… I hope he beats the sh*t out of u.”

Funny, right?

So, I forwarded the message to a bunch of my buddies with varying responses:

From Josh – “Thank you?”

From my sister, Julia – “Aw! Thanks for the laugh. Love you too!”

From the son I gave birth to – “Oh thanks chainmail freak.”

From the son I didn’t give birth to but who sleeps on my couch weekly – “Thanks! Now I get to go through life waiting to get my @ss kicked.”

Hmm.. No more chainmail texts…


Talked with Josh tonight. He’s got some health problems a 40-year-old man shouldn’t be experiencing. Nothing crazy. But it’s freaking me out.

I know he’ll be fine and all that. At least that’s what he told me. Still, I’m not liking the way this whole growing older thing is going.


Went out with this guy a couple of weeks ago. Super nice guy. No chemistry, but a super nice guy. He emailed me yesterday to ask me out for this weekend. I was up for it, but he pressed for reassurance as to where things were going on my end. As is my policy, I was honest. Told him I honestly wanted to be friends. Not a blow off. Just not a connection. Got to be honest. That’s how I roll. He told me we should just “table things” for now. And, honestly, my feelings are a little hurt.

What’s wrong with being friends? Why is that a bad thing?


Talked with Sadie tonight. Told her about how my whole "that's how I roll" policy played out for me this time. She suggested I join a singles group. I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle her.


So, I’m heading out with Ashley, the girl I met at the golf tournament. We haven’t been out together since last month, when we had a really good time that somehow included hanging out at the Don Cesar and peeing in the woods. Don’t ask how those things go together. We made it work.

We’re going to dinner. I’m hoping somewhere with indoor plumbing…

Kissing Frogs

What is it about black heels and blue jeans that turn men into idiots?

I was coming out of a gas station store when this man was getting out of his, very shiny, big black Mercedes, and he about fell all over himself to grab the door for me, look at me very directly, and say, “Hello.”

It might as well have been the Joey from Friends, “How you doin’?”

I just said, “Thank you,” and continued walking over to where my friend was pumping gas.

The irony of all this is, were I interested in meeting anyone right now, there’d be no one grabbing doors for me. I’d be stuck, arms full, searching frantically for anyone to help.



Went to Crabby Bill’s out on Indian Rocks Beach tonight. Had the stone crabs. They were fabulous. It’s impossible to be ladylike while eating stone crabs. After a few attempts with that little fork, you just end up eating with your fingers. It’s more fun that way, anyhow.

My friend and I drove back to his place, so I could pick up my car. We were listening to this radio station that plays all these oldies. The Eagles song “Desperado” came on, and when the song got to the part about how “you’d better let somebody love you before it’s too late,” my friend wagged his finger in my face.

Yeah, I tried that, buddy.


When I got home I ate a Kashi Oatmeal Chocolate Chip TLC smeared with Nutella, drank a beer, and pondered that finger wag.

It’s not that I won’t “let somebody love” me. It’s that you have to find the right person to let love you.

Look. I do get the whole frog kissing thing. I know you have to get out there and do the duty dating. Gotta get out and meet people. Prince Charming isn’t going to come knocking on my door, and, on the off chance he did, I’d probably be in sweat pants and no make-up, with my hair up in a haphazard ponytail and a friend's child on my hip.

I’m just tired. I’ve got a lot of years of dating experience. Okay, less than what I can count on two hands isn’t a ton of experience, but I’m over it. I’m not ready to throw in the towel. I’m just exhausted from the effort. These black heels are pretty high, and the blue jeans are fairly tight. And I’m sick of kissing frogs.

Even the ones who drive very shiny, big black Mercedes.

Didn't They Cancel "Jerry Springer"?

My dog wanted to go on a much longer walk this morning.

The weather’s cold again. Not Connecticut cold, but cold for Florida. I’m so not happy with the way this year’s winter is going, and it's not even winter yet! With all this briskness, mornings are not a friend to me...

I went out last night, so I got in late and, very grudgingly, got up late this morning to take the big guy for his walk. Needless to say, we took the short route. He did his business. And as we’re getting to my place, the smart aleck grabbed the leash up in his mouth and slowly trotted past my driveway, pretending he didn’t know it was home. When I called out to him, he just turned and looked back at me with that look in his eyes. Really?

“Yeah, really.”


It’s been an uneventful week. Went out a couple of times. Talked with some friends. My friend taught me how to play poker. (My fav is "Follow the Queen," though, he called it something else!) I made a chocolate hazelnut pudding that never quite set. The usual.

Thursday, I was talking with my friend, Lynn. She was my neighbor up in Jersey. We used to have a regular night that we'd get together to have drinks, play cards, and talk about life. We’d lost touch but reconnected when I went up there for the wedding in October.

This is how she started the conversation: “If you think you have problems, listen to this.”

Lynn has a niece who got mixed up in the wrong crowd and was making some bad decisions. The girl is twenty-four. Lynn’s sister sent her daughter to stay with another sister and her husband out in Washington State. The theory being that removing her from the environment would help her clean up her act.

Yeah, that didn’t work.

Lynn’s sister, the one who took her niece in, came home one day to find her drunk niece in bed with her fifty-year-old husband.

Let’s say it together: “Eewww.”

“I didn't think Jerry Springer was still on.” I said to Lynn.

So, now the niece is back home, the husband’s unrepentant, and the wife's sticking it out.

Okay.

1) What is it with men and the much younger woman? It’s uncomplicated, sure, but what on earth is the appeal past a week in the sack? Is it worth throwing your life away to bed a child who, I assure you, will not help you find your dentures when you’re toothless and erectile defunctive in ten years?; and

2) What could a young woman possibly find appealing in a man twice her age? Especially, when she’s going to have to search the couch cushions for dentures for her impotent and incontinent daddy-substitute in ten years.

Honestly, unless there’s a staggering balance in the bank account, children involved (besides the child the man’s sleeping with, I mean), and a mutual agreement to live-and-let-live, what’s the point?

I don’t have as much problem with the wife sticking it out. That may read a little crazy, I know, but this woman has twenty years invested. Who am I to judge what a woman does to hold her life and family together? We all make compromises.

I think the husband is a complete creep, and, were I to find myself in the same situation, I’d like to say his stuff would be out on the lawn right next to where his cheating butt landed. I can’t know, though, what I’d do in that situation. (Thank God!) I would like to think I’d save myself from that kind of pain, but in some situations, I think people just decide that the sweet is worth the sour.

It got me thinking, though, about the kind of drama we allow in our lives. When do you decide enough’s enough? How much space has to be left in that corner you’ve backed yourself into to still wiggle your way loose? And, worse, do we somehow bring it on ourselves? Is there some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy to the things that happen in our lives?

Not that I believe this woman consciously knew her husband would cheat on her, anymore than I believe that any of those women we read were killed their husbands understood the irony as they stood by his side promising “til death do us part,” but do we think we deserve the bad things more than we deserve the good?

And I find myself asking once again: How much of our own destiny do we control? How much is decided for us by chance or coincidence or just by the people we let into our lives?


There’s this old Twilight Zone episode, called "Spur of the Moment," that I remember seeing when I was a kid. This wealthy young woman is out riding on her father’s property on the morning of her formal engagement to an investment banker. While she’s out riding, an older woman, who is also on horseback, begins to chase her. The young girl finally makes it back home safely, having eluded the crazy woman. That evening, she runs off to elope with a man she's crazy about.

Years have passed. The man she married has bankrupted her. The woman, now forty-three, is a bitter alcoholic. (As opposed to those happy-go-lucky alcoholics, right?) Her father had wanted her to marry this man who loved her and would have taken care of her, and she's made this choice as a child that changed the course of her life. She goes out for a ride one morning, comes across the younger version of herself, out for a ride on the morning of her engagement party, and the older woman begins her pursuit.

That’s how the episode ends: The older woman trying to catch her younger self to warn her not to make the wrong decision.


Maybe I should pay better attention when someone takes control of the leash and tries to lead me somewhere I don’t want to go.

Let's Make a Deal

Been spending a ton of time with the ex-boyfriend. We’re having a great time. It’s very mellow and comfortable being with someone who knows you really well and loves you anyway.

We’ve spent a lot of time talking, and it’s cool just hanging out. Granted, the poor guy has had to put up with my snoring through the movies we’ve watched, but I think I’ve made it up to him.

He’s been staying at this hotel down the road from my place and, though the hotel is practically deserted this time of year, the front desk, in their infinite wisdom, put a new couple in the room directly above his. They’ve been keeping him up until all hours with their antics, so last night before I curled up on his couch for my evening nap, I jumped up and down on his bed, knocked the headboard into the wall a few times, and made the appropriate noises. Hopefully, Mr. Man and Ms. Thing, as he calls them, took the hint, and he got a good night’s sleep.



Despite all our reminiscing about the past, I’ve been thinking a lot about the future. I’m not really sure where life’s going from here. I seem to be at a crossroads in my life, and I don’t know how I got to the place I’m at or which path to take from here. On one hand, I think I’ve screwed my life up beyond all recognition, but on the other hand, I’m optimistic about the choices I’ve made and the opportunities ahead. I’m feeling a tad conflicted.

I’ve been here before, though. This crossroad looks familiar. This time, though, I feel an urgency, a restlessness, that is somehow more acute. I’m nearing the end of the first half of my life, and the decisions I make at this point, I really will have to accept. I no longer have the luxury of time to be ambivalent about the future.

I find it slightly bizarre that in the past six months, and after years of silence, I’ve had contact from three of the more significant men in my life. What does that mean? Is it just that we’re all getting older, or am I giving off some sort of psychic vibe that’s calling them all back to me to allow me to assess, regroup, and move on. It’s weird how the universe conspires to set things right for you. I’m trying to figure out my future, and I’ve been given this chance to look back and come to terms with my past.

I think that what they say about life is true. It’s what happens when you’re not paying attention. But is life ever something you can make a choice about? How much control do we really have over some things? Can we decide our own destiny? What if you're wrong?

And who are these people who know who they are and what they want from childhood and set about making that life happen? I’m in awe of that awareness and self-knowledge. It’s really a gift. The rest of us are left sitting in the audience, like costumed fools waiting to see if we have in our bags that obscure knickknack that will get us on stage so we can choose what’s behind curtain number one, two, or three.

How do you choose, though, when you’re so afraid to be wrong?