None of My Exes Live in Texas

Good God! How many ex-boyfriends do I have? Crap. I can't even keep them straight. How many have I written about now? Four? Five? Okay, well here comes number six.

Got an email a couple of weeks ago from the next to last. He was one of my professors. Before you all go thinking I didn’t deserve that “A,” we didn’t get involved, involved until after the semester was over. This was three years ago.

It was a meeting of the minds in a lot of ways. He was my friend first. Kind of. We met for coffee once while the class was still going on, and we did have a mad email thing going on. The attraction was there, for sure. On RateMyProfessor.com he has some hot chili peppers next to his profile, and he was oh-too-cool-for-school.

Did it go well? Well, you tell me:

As soon as the semester was over, and I’m thinking “Game on!” he was off to Germany for two weeks. To his credit, he did call me to tell me he was leaving when he was on the way to the airport. Then, he emailed me from Germany and Norway and called me on his way home, so that was nice.

Then, it all went to shit. And this was at the beginning of our relationship!

Fundamentally, we were the same person. Me and the guy I met in the classroom, I mean. The people we were outside the classroom… Not so much.

It ended badly. Was there ever any question? So, I sat down, wrote some really wretched poetry, and, shortly afterward, moved out of state. And in hindsight, that was a blessing. We talked a couple of times, but it was obvious to both of us, I think, that the relationship was broken beyond repair.

So, lesson learned, and we both moved on.


So, you can imagine my surprise when I got an email from him. My finger hovered over the delete key for a minute before I changed my mind and emailed him back. And now I've gotten a very nice email in response.

To be fair, he has tried to keep in contact here and there. He’s a very nice man. I still remember the time that I got so sick right after the first time we broke up, and he left work to take me to the doctor’s office.

And he was super allergic to cats, but he would take allergy medicine before he came over to hang out with me, just so he could tolerate being in the same house with the Dog's cat. The poor guy would still get hives, though!

See? Nice.

It’s just weird. When I say it ended badly, I’m not exaggerating. Bad. Bad badly. He doesn’t remember it that way. Hmm…

Do you ever wonder how much of reality is just your own perception of it?

Mostly Pink

My writing class work-shopped my short blog story last Wednesday. Weird to have a whole group of people criticize you all at once. Must remember to be kinder in my critiques in the future.

No, they mostly had good things to say. It was just strange, that’s all. Basically, they were critiquing my life, because that’s what the blog is. Sure, the names have been changed, and there’s some embellishment. Not too much though, so for the most part, the story I submitted was non-fiction. Well, non-fiction through my rose-colored glasses.

It was a little like I imagine therapy must be. Brutally honest and somewhat painful…

So, I spent a big part of today doing rewrites of the story and elaborating on my life, since from their comments, I realized I needed to explain myself - explain my motivations, explain my way of thinking. Today, I had to climb into my own brain and figure out what makes me tick.

It’s scary and a little weird in there, but mostly it's just pink.


Here are some truths about me:

I planted flowers today even though we’re going into the dry season, just because I think flowers make everything pretty.

I tell myself I’ll water the flowers every morning since they won’t get the rain they need to grow. In reality, I will water them about once a week and be broken-hearted when they shrivel up and die.

I was the teensiest bit insulted when someone told me that my blog reminded them of Sex and the City.

I’ve seen every episode of Sex and the City. Twice.

I used to hate Angelina Jolie for stealing Brad Pitt from Jen, and I haven’t watched a movie either Jolie or Pitt have been in since.

My best friend lives almost 700 miles away, and I talk to her every single day. She knows everything about me, including the embarrassing stuff. In the 12 years we've known each other, we've lived in the same state at the same time for a total of six months.

My favorite book of all time is Lolita. The main character is, sadly, a complete nut job, but by the end of the story, he gets it. I love that Nabokov's first language was Russian, yet he wrote this in English and opens using iambic pentameter. I love it most for the last lines of the book: “I’m thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And that is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.”

I’m on my fifth copy of Lolita, because every time I loan it out, it never comes back to me.

I didn't know what an aurochs was until I saw a picture of the cave paintings at Lascaux in Art History class.

When I was a little girl, besides being a mother, I most wanted to be a writer and a police woman.

I never went to Prom.

Instead of going to my senior year of high school, I went to college early. As a result, I graduated from a high school I went to exactly one time – to pick up my diploma.

When I was at college in Vermont, my friends and I stole a sign from one of those mom and pop general stores. It was a hand painted miniature sleigh that they had hung next to the door. At the end of the year, I took the sleigh back and left it on their doorstep in the middle of the night.

I majored in English, Art History, Philosophy, and Religion. I have a degree in the Humanities, because I couldn’t make up my mind which I liked best.

I've gone to eight different universities,.. so far.

I’m getting ready to start grad school. I’m planning to get a double masters degree in library science and art history. But I’m still not sure what I want to be when I grow up.

I’ve lived in Florida, California, Vermont, Massachusetts, New Mexico, Nevada, Hawaii, Kansas, and New Jersey.

I have never lived alone.

I celebrated my 23rd birthday in the Bahamas. That was the one and only time I’ve been out of the country.

If I ever run away from home, you can find me on Gozo. It’s the one place I really want to visit someday.

Out of Bounds

I was talking with a friend the other night, and she confided in me that one of her good friends is having an affair.

Her friend - we’ll call her Jenny - got married very young, while she was still in her teens. What happened is what sometimes happens. Jenny and her husband grew up and apart, and Jenny fell in love with a man who wasn’t her husband. Jenny has two young children, and though Jenny’s husband found out about the affair, as did her lover’s wife, months ago, Jenny stayed with her husband to try to make her marriage work for the children. But, well, I guess it hasn’t.

The whole situation is just icky.

So my friend is feeling conflicted. While she doesn’t agree with what Jenny is doing, she’s trying to be supportive because she wants Jenny to be happy.

So what do you do when your friend steps out of bounds? Is it up to you to steer them back? Or do you just keep your mouth shut, your fingers crossed, and hope for the best?

Quite a conundrum.

I guess when your friend is in such a scary place, you just try to be there for them. Friendship, even more so than a familial relationship, is just one of those bonds that can beg the question: Will you really still love me if I make these life choices?

So I tell my friend who’s wrestling with her duty to Jenny, “You’re doing the right thing.”

Because I really believe she is.

Even if she would never do what Jenny is doing, what other choice does she have? She likes Jenny. She respects Jenny. She values her friendship with Jenny. And, most importantly, she isn’t Jenny. She doesn’t have to go to sleep at night wondering if the life she stayed in out of guilt and duty and security was the right life for her.

Besides, who knows what you’d really do were you to find yourself in Jenny’s shoes?

You can tell yourself that you wouldn’t make that choice. You’d never take that step. But what if you did? What if you did, and you felt scared and guilty and confused, and, most of all, very alone?

At a time like that, I bet you’d really hope that you had a friend like Jenny’s.

Stupid and Contagious

Is it a bad sign when you can’t read the answer on your Magic 8 Ball? Seriously. I don’t know if they’re using a darker, denser liquid in these things or what, but I can never get a clear answer…

I did get a nice fortune in my fortune cookie the other night, though. Well, nice, if not grammatically correct:

“Happiness always accompanies with you.”

See? Nice.

I keep all my fortunes and stick them to my refrigerator with a magnet.

“A merry heart makes a cheerful countenance.” Ya think?

“Every man is a volume if you know how to read him.” Yeah, I thought that one was a little awkward, too.

“Good things are being said about you.” ...In bed.

“Nature, time, and patience are the three great physicians.”

Okay, that one isn’t particularly good, but it's true. And it makes a nice segue...


I guess I’m still getting over that cold I had last week because I fell asleep on the couch at seven o’clock on Friday night and slept through phone calls from the friends I was supposed to go out with that night. That’s okay, though. No way could I have navigated three-inch heels after the leg presses I did on Thursday and riding Friday afternoon.

So, I wake up Saturday morning with my left eye swollen shut.

This can’t be good.

I'm a big believer in the power of denial, though, and just wash my face and go about my morning.


My first birthday email hit my inbox at one-thirty in the morning. It’s from my buddy who was just here for a visit in December. The next one is from a blast from the past, so that's always nice. On my other email account, Email Buddy Eric dropped me a line at six-thirty in the morning, just as I was checking it, which I thought was kinda cool.

My father sent me a very sweet email. He lives and works in South America nine months out of the year, and my mom usually handles the b-day stuff, signing his name to cards, presents, et cetera, so this was a nice surprise. My youngest sister sent me an e-card. I got an email from one of my aunts, too. And a text from Josh.

Then, my mom calls, sick with the flu. She actually forgets to wish me a “Happy Birthday” during the phone call, but I think it was implied…

Karli calls. Carrie calls. When I tell them about my eye, they become instant Doctor Moms. “Oooh, sounds like pink-eye.”

“But I wash my hands," I tell them. "And I’m not eight.”

I blame the couch.

“You’d better go see someone,” they both tell me.


I get to the walk-in clinic.

The woman behind the desk takes my information.

“Your insurance should cover this. Let me check,” she does some stuff with the computer. ”It does. Oh, and Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks.”

I sit and read for a couple of minutes before another woman comes to call me back.

“Come on, Birthday Girl.”

“Thank you.”

I climb up on the doctor's scale. I’ve gained three pounds. Stupid, broken scale.

The nurse takes my vitals, while I try to figure out where the three pounds have come from.

“I think I have pink eye.” It could be all the french fries.

“Well, we still have to do all this.”

“Oh, of course.” Or the cookies I ate for dinner last night.

The doctor comes in a few minutes later. A slim, fifty-ish Pakistani man.

He smiles at me and starts to tell me a joke. I can’t understand anything he’s saying, but I laugh anyway. Maybe it was the shrimp fried rice I had the other night.

He keeps smiling. I smile back. He seems a little over-friendly, and it's making me uncomfortable. That fortune cookie put me over the top. I just know it.

I stop smiling, and he takes this as his cue to get to work. But instead of my eye, he’s checking my lungs. Look, I know you took an anatomy class at some point, right?

“Um,.. I think I have pink eye.” They're almond-shaped. They're hazel. And they're up here... Oh, almonds. I did have some almonds the other day. Nuts have a ton of calories.

“Just take some deep breaths.”

I comply. Okay, I could do without the Mike 'N Ikes. Just because they taste fruity, that doesn't mean I should be substituting them for fruit.

He moves from the back to the front. Hey, you're going to need to watch where you put that stethoscope, Buddy.

I breathe. I honestly can't remember the last time I ate an actual vegetable.

“Do you feel congested?”

“Well, a little, I guess. I had a cold last week, and I still have a bit of a cough. Really, though, it’s my eye that’s bothering me.” And those three pounds.

“Hmm.”

He finally moves to my eye. I look at his chin. I look at his forehead. I look left and right. I'm only going to eat salads and drink water for the next month.

“You have moderate-to-severe bronchitis,” he tells me as he’s writing in my chart, “and pink eye.”

Stupid couch.

“You’ll be contagious for the next three days. I’m prescribing you some drops for your eye and an inhaler, antibiotics, and steroids for the bronchitis.”

“Do I really need the steroids?” I'm only five-five. Three pounds on me is like ten pounds on a boy.

“Okay, no steroids,” he agrees, scratching out something he's written in my chart, “But come back if you’re not feeling better. Oh, and Happy Birthday.”

"Thanks." A lot.


BTW. Does anyone know how long it takes for the residual smell of an entire can of Lysol to fade from goose-down cushions?

Just Do It, Already

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I’m not an athletic person.

I mean, I quite liked ballet. And, when I was very young, my family called me The Fish. Playing “Beauty Salon” in the pool doesn’t really count as being athletic, though. Whenever we played kickball or Red Rover at recess, it was on like Donkey Kong. I do go running and to the gym now and again, but only when I'm feeling it. Beyond that,.. Not so much.

I am familiar with all the sports, but only because I’ve dated guys who did one or all of them. And, while I’m the only one of my sisters who wasn’t actually a cheerleader, I must have paid attention, because I make a great one.

“Oh, look at my man spike that ball!”

“Did you see him steal second?!”

“You should have seen his face after he scored his 1000th basket.”

I learned about soccer at age 14. His name was Scott. There I was in the stadium to cheer on Jeff at every football game the year I turned 15. Go Cowboys! My golf clap was perfected at the tender age of 16. John was the captain of the golf team, and when we went out on dates, I thought he looked really cute in his button-down Polo, khakis, and Bass Weejuns. Instead of paying attention in Chemistry class, I spent all my time studying up on the history of Wimbledon for Scott #2.

Then there was my alternative year, when I ran around with a bunch of skateboarders. Ty landed a ollie before any of his buddies could. The basketball star was my freshman year at college, and I do still love to watch college ball. Softball, volleyball, and surfing all at the age of 19. I spent countless hours either in the stands or at the beach that year, but, to be fair, I almost married him. So, yeah, I’ve dated all the sports - even had flings with skiing, snowboarding, rugby, and crew.

I'll still sit and watch sports, if the person I'm with is into it. Heck, I'll even bring some dip, wear the shirt, and root for their team. Happy to do it. But, really, I could take it or leave it.

I’m not team oriented, unless the team we're talking about is my family. I don’t get competitive with other people. It’s not that I’m afraid I won’t be any good at sports. It’s that I just don’t care. And I don’t think that makes me a bad person, or even an uninteresting one.

There’s something about this horse-thing, though, that just has me wanting to be good, and I’m not. My heels won’t stay down. (That’s all that ballet.) My left leg won’t stay bent. I don’t keep my knees in tight enough or far enough in front of the girth. Kahlua won’t keep up our trot without me flicking her, which I really hate. I can never walk. I’ve lost all feeling in my hoohah. But, dammit, I’m going to jump this horse, if it kills me.

And it’s going to be great.

And We're Back...

Yeah, so I go to take Dog to the groomer's this morning. He’s so completely excited, that he can’t decide which toy he wants to take. We, finally, get our act together, no easy feat at 6:30 in the morning, and we head out.

I get to the end of my walkway, and stop. I peer over the gate. Dog is jumping up and down on his front paws with Dove Bear in his mouth. And my car is not in the driveway. Hmmm.

Well, both our cars were "gone through" earlier this week. I'm sure by some homeless person. They went through all our stuff. I had conveniently left my car unlocked for whoever it was. No, you’re welcome.

They just took some loose change from my car but took Boy’s tools, a pair of shoes, and a jacket from his truck. It turns out the person doing the stealing was pretty bright, because she or he took my garage door opener, so he or she could come back later in the day and check out the garage. I figured that one out after I found the garage door opener in my mailbox that night. That was thoughtful.

So, after this event, I told Boy we needed to be better about locking up. Last night when he got home, Boy, being the thoughtful boy he is, moved my car into the garage. And locked the garage.

Now, I've never had a key to fit the lock for my garage (it's detached), and while the smart thing to do would have been to have all the locks re-keyed when I bought the place, I always just used the garage door opener to open the garage on the rare occasions I do lock it. The garage door opener that our thoughtful thief returned. The same garage door opener that is now back in my car, which is in the garage, which is locked.

Right, so my car is locked in the garage. It's now 6:49 a.m. The dog's supposed to be at the groomer's by 7:00 a.m.

I grab the leash, throw Dove Bear back in the house, and walk down to PETCO. They're very understanding when I tell them that "I have a day," and may not make it to pick up Dog at the previously agreed upon time.

Then, I walk back home, running into my neighbor, whose Labradoodle, is Dog's girlfriend. We chat for a minute. I tell him my dilemma. He's says, "Well, I'd try to help you out, but I've never been very good at breaking into houses.“ Still, it was nice that he kinda offered.

I make it home and call the closest locksmith. They dispatch this guy, Von, or at least that’s what I think he says. It could have been “Ivan” because Von has an accent that brings to mind old KGB officers in movies about the Cold War. Von sounds sleepy and a little reluctant to come out so early in the morning.

Tough shit, Von. I have a day.

He makes it to my house half-an-hour later. I force black coffee down his throat under the guise of being an excellent client and hostess, and he pulls out some picks to go to work on my door lock.

The thing can't be picked.

Ten minutes later, he breaks into my garage.

Success!

Then, I ask if he can change out my locks so all the keys match. "Sure," he tells me. With the accent, it sounds more like, "shore."

But, twenty minutes later: "Nyet."

He offers to put on a new doorknob for me. It's this big industrial looking doorknob. Ugly. Really ugly. That he can make work.

Me: "Nyet."

So he puts back together my old doorknob, all the while shaking his head at the silly American woman who wants a pretty doorknob.

But, before he left, he did slip me his cell number as he told me to go pick out a doorknob I liked at "your Home Depot" and he'd come out to install it for me.

“Something pretty,” he tells me.

Bite me, Von.

Here Comes the Sun

I am so unbelievably happy today.

No reason. Just happy. And isn’t that the best when it happens?


Why does everything seem good today? Walk with the dog was good. Coffee was good. Spartan omelet I had for breakfast was good. (And really, it couldn’t be bad. Spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes, and feta cheese. Yum!) Weather was good. Work was good. Workout was good. Drive home was good.

And I’m not even worrying about when the other shoe will drop…



Big weekend ahead.

Tomorrow is Drop-Off-Dog-at-Groomer-So-He-Can-Get-Shaved-Day. I love when he gets his shave, because the groomer always shaves this square on his butt that makes me giggle whenever we go on walks. Plus, he’s a Lab, and I have wood floors. Need I say more?

I’m going to see Kahlua in the afternoon. I’m sure that after the workout today and the ride tomorrow, I won’t be able to walk tomorrow night when I go out with friends.

Saturday, I have Saturday chores and need to remember to meet Sharon to workout, have lunch, and get my facial. Saturday night I’m going to the hockey game with a big group of friends.

I promised Lily’s mother I’d meet her at the University library on Sunday afternoon. And the rest of my favorite day will be spent writing and doing laundry, I’m sure.

And at some point I have to take the car to get washed, so I can finally get the dog's nose prints off the windows.

And just remember to breathe and enjoy it all.


Life is good.



Crap. I just reread what I've written, and now I get why the writers I enjoy reading the most are suicidal alcoholics. Because well-adjusted, happy people are really boring.

There goes that other shoe...

Boy, Interrupted

Today, the boy was accepted to the college he really wanted to attend.

While I’m a little sad that he’s not going to my college, I’m really so happy that he’s going to a college, as opposed to a prison, that I’m good with it. Very good, in fact. This college’s cheaper.

So, I came home today to find him with his girlfriend and one of her friends making Valentine’s Day cards for their mothers. Awww. This is so not the scene you expect to find when you come home to find your teenage son with two young girls. Huge sigh of relief.

As I’m checking my email, I’m absolutely stunned beyond belief to see him stand up, take his glass to the dishwasher, and put it in the dishwasher. Then he grabs some cleaner and a tea towel, wipes down the counters in the kitchen and turns to me to ask, “Hey, how would you like it if I took the dog to the dog park?”

This is the same child that I have to bribe to walk the dog he begged for six years ago.

“Who are you?” I ask.

Okay, he leaves with said dog, and I walk back into the kitchen to find a homemade card stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. It reads:

“Mom, I know this last year has been in ‘every direction.’ Thank you for everything. I love you.”

Then he signed it with his first and last name. Just in case I wouldn’t know.


I’m so lucky.

Let Them Eat Cake

Went to my writing workshop tonight and had to turn in a short story.

Despite being told I couldn’t do it, I went ahead and turned in my blog anyway. Not this one, because my instructor has seen this one. I turned in the stuff even y’all haven’t seen. I grabbed a bunch of old posts, strung them together to form a story arc, and voilà, instant short story. Forty-seven pages worth. I only needed forty for the semester. So, I’m done.

I’m either the laziest person in the world or the smartest…


Had, like, a super long conversation with my email buddy, Eric, today. We usually start the email chain at about eight-thirty and go back-and-forth, off-and-on to the end of the workday. I can’t figure out why I never get that much done, what with all the “LOL” and “I know, right?” replies and sends. We have the coolest conversations, though. We’ll start talking about something completely superficial, like, what each of us did the night before, and we end up on this level waaaay out there by the end of the day.

Me: “Yeah, I was supposed to go meet these people out, but I’m still kind of sick and I’ve got all this writing to do. So I told them I didn't feel up to it and went and got my nails done instead.”

Him: “LOL. How do the nails look?”

Forty emails later.

Me: “So, I think that what Nietzsche was really saying is that it is only through the death of the concept of religion that man can fully explore the meaning of life as it relates to his place in the world.”

Well, it’s kind of like that. We definitely talked about my nails at one point.

And, P.S., they look really good.


Lily came over tonight. I’d given her my short blog story to read, and she called me laughing about what I’d written about her trip to Kansas being an example of how she’s so cool that she’d have fun in a paper bag.

“I’ve been to Kansas,” I tell her, “and ‘paper bag’ pretty much sums up the state.”

We sat on my back porch and talked for an hour or so, and then we walked over to her place so she could feed me some of her pre-birthday cake as a pre-birthday celebration for both of us. Hers is on Wednesday, and mine is on Saturday. (Yes, Valentine’s Day. The single worst day for a girl baby to be born.)

Lily’s mother surprised her with this birthday cake from Let Them Eat Cake, and it’s this amazing concoction of three different chocolates - chocolate cake layered with chocolate frosting and covered with chocolate ganache. The cake even came with a little raspberry-filled, heart shaped chocolate box with her name stenciled in gold on the chocolate lid.

I'm not at all hungry, but that's never stopped Lily from making me eat before. So we sit on barstools at her kitchen counter and make a meal of the chocolate cake and some sea salt bagel chips. As I'm leaving, we promise each other that soon, we’ll do something fun together, like go kayaking or to dinner, to celebrate properly.

But, honestly, I think this is our something fun. This is what we do. We talk, and she feeds me. I bounce ideas off of her, and she gives me advice or helps me to look at the world differently. I hope I do that for her, too. And it’s important to have friends like that.

They let you just be you.

Best Laid Plans

I knew this woman whose husband of twenty years had left her for a younger version of herself.

The break up came out of the blue. He moved out immediately and cut off almost all contact with her. She was devastated, but after a grieving period, she picked herself up, dusted herself off, and tried to move on.

She talked with a lawyer about filing for divorce, but decided that if her husband wanted a divorce, he could pay for it. They owned property together, but he wouldn’t sell or settle on any agreement she proposed. This went on for months.

She went about recreating her life. She became closer with her family. She even tried dating, and though she only ended up making some very nice friends, that was okay, too.

One day, after some serious soul searching, my friend came to the conclusion that, despite everything, she still loved her husband, that he was, at heart, a good man, and that she didn’t want any other man. She reasoned that he wasn’t making any effort to permanently sever ties, so why should she? So my friend did the only thing she could do: She moved forward with her life but left the door open. And, along the way, she had some nice adventures.

After I met her, we ended up becoming quite close. She told me about how she’d given up on trying to make things change with that relationship and just let things unfold the way they were meant to. She had faith that everything was going to work out with him.

I thought she was one of the smartest and strongest women I’d ever met, but I also thought that, in this, she was deluded. I worried that she’d find herself alone and regret the time she’d wasted waiting for her husband to come back to her. I mean, even if this other woman didn’t work out, surely, her husband would just move on to another woman again.

I never told her what I really thought, which was that, if it happened to me and I still wanted him, I would have gone and gotten my man back. Or, at the very least, I would have a better plan than to just to have faith that it would all work out. Instead, I kept my mouth shut and tried to be supportive.

Four months later, a little over a year after her husband left her, he asked to come back. And she took him back. They’re doing great. She's so happy, and I’m thrilled for her.

If you let them, people will surprise you.


When something works out in a way you never would have predicted, it can turn your world on its head. I just think about how wrong I was about her situation and how it would play out. How arrogant I was in thinking I'd do it differently, handle it better. How cynical I was to believe that there was no happy ending in store for her with this man.

I’ve never been one to just go with something on faith. I usually have a plan with a very well defined goal. I decide what I want, and I work to make it a reality. I can be pretty relentless in my pursuit, and I’m fairly stubborn once I've set my mind to something. Just another one of my special gifts! If for some reason things don't work out as planned, it isn't for lack of effort on my part.

It takes a lot of faith to let go and just let things happen. You have to believe very strongly that everything will take care of itself. And, then, you have to be willing to accept the end result, whatever that result may be. Basically, it's just the opposite of how I've always conducted my life.

I’m starting to see, though, that when you always know what's going to happen next (because, of course, I make very logical, detailed plans, complete with schematics and flow charts), it’s not nearly as much fun as being surprised at what happens along the way. Life is unpredictable. People aren't logical. Well, at least not all the time.

Now, I really believe that the worst thing to happen is not that your end result isn't what was planned, or even what was hoped for. The real tragedy would be to continue on with no faith in anything or anyone.

People will amaze you, but you have to let them.

And I'm thinking now, too, that maybe the best plan any of us can make is to just keep moving forward with no other goal in mind than to stay true to yourself and to be happy.

Oh, and to always leave the door open,.. just in case.

Sick and Tired

Two boxes of Kleenex with lotion? Check

Twelve-pack of Quilted Northern for when the Kleenex boxes are empty? Check

Ginger Ale, Gatorade, Constant Comment tea? Check, check, and check

What do you mean you need to see my license before you'll sell me Mucinex D? Seriously?

Copy of this week’s People? Well, yeah. I’m not dead.

So, I've caught a cold. Nothing crazy. Just enough to make me uncomfortable and cranky.

I never foresee being sick - I mean, who plans for these things? - so every time I get to feeling this way, I grab a fistful of tissue and head up to the store to buy supplies and spread my plague.

But, wouldn’t it be nice if there were a person who traveled from town-to-town dropping off little care packages for the ill? He’d be like Santa or the Easter Bunny but for the sick. He could dress up in scrubs and carry a giant thermometer for a wand – the Sick Fairy. There’s got to be a better name than that, but my head’s really foggy right now...


Kind of a crazy week. Monday was, well, a Monday. Tuesday was spent gearing up for a big project at work and a visit from my boss flying in from Charlotte on Wednesday. Was up too late Wednesday night nursing a beer and buying shots for a friend who turned 30. Thursday just sucked. And here I am Friday, sick as a dog. Just in time for the weekend. Lovely.


I caught myself being a bad friend this week.

People generally don’t think of themselves as bad people, do they? Even serial killers have some weird sort of justification for their behavior. But I just don’t have an excuse. I was being selfish. And, the bottom line is, I’m a spoiled brat who wants to get her way no matter what.

But, you know, I’m not going to worry about it until I’m feeling better and the haze of decongestant fades. Everything always seems worse than it really is when you’re sick.

So right now, I'm going to go crawl into my bed with my box of tissues and my People magazine, pop in a movie, and wait for this, too, to pass.

Directing the Flow

“You’ve got to learn to just go with the flow,” he told me.

And I found myself speechless and sputtering, mid-stream-of-consciousness-speaking on the other end of the phone. That’s how I catch myself talking on almost a daily basis, because this is what my day is like:

Wake up, feed the animals, make the coffee, where's my iPod?, where's my bra?, walk the dog, wake the boy, feed the boy, kiss the boy, grab the coffee, check the email I can’t check at work, shower, take my first phone call of the day half in the shower, rinse the soap out of my eyes, shake the water out of my ears, dry off, get dressed, get more coffee, put on make-up, that’s the phone again, finish putting on make-up, blow dry the hair, let the cat in, pat the cat, pat the dog, pour what’s left of the coffee into a travel mug, find my cell phone, find my other cell phone, where are my keys?, start the car, why am I the only person in this city who can drive?, sing along with the radio, is that the phone?, get to work ten minutes late, walk through the door still talking on the phone, shut the phone, answer questions, grab a stack of messages, log in, pour my coffee from my travel mug into my work coffee mug, add more coffee, add more cream, check my email, spend the next hour answering emails, how did my coffee get cold?, is that a text?, answer the text, answer the phone, why is there no coffee?, who’s on the phone?, who’s waiting to see me?, how is it already ten-thirty? Fuck.


Look. I hear what you’re saying, Buddy, but it is simply not possible for a single parent to “go with the flow.” It just doesn’t happen. We direct the flow, Baby. We’re control freaks, because, if we weren’t, nothing would get done.

But, I wonder, sometimes, when I’m just so tired of being in charge all the time, what it would be like to just go with the flow. What if I didn’t have to do EVERYTHING? What if I let someone take care of me for a change? (I mean, someone besides the co-worker who brings me half his order of French fries everyday at lunch to make sure I eat something because I’m inexplicably too busy to be hungry.) Could I do that? Is it okay to want that?

You know, I do just fine, thank you very much, for a month or two. Then it hits me. That it’s all too much. And I feel weak, and I hate when I'm weak. But I want, desperately, just to sit and be still with someone who will let me just sit and be still, someone who will listen and understand, or not listen and understand.

So I go see a friend, and I lay my head down on a shoulder. Sometimes, I say, “I’ve had just an awful month,” or sometimes, I say nothing at all. And for an hour or two, I go with the flow. And my friend tells me, "You're going to be just fine." And it’s okay.



Josh called tonight. He's still seeing doctors. I'm still too scared to say I'm scared. I'll wait until he's okay to tell him.

I changed the subject before I change my mind.

I asked, and he told me about his girlfriend. He told me what she wants. He told me what he wants. He told me he doesn't like that what they want's not exactly the same.

I told him to not think so much or to hold on so tight to what he thinks he wants. I told him that life usually has other plans for us than the ones we make for ourselves. And then I apologized for telling him what I think he should do.

I want to tell him to listen to his girl when she says, "let's see." I want to tell him she's right when she says "we" when she talks about "them" and uses the word "our" right before she says "future". I want to tell him to let go of this picture he has in his head of what it was, of what it will be, of what it's supposed to look like and to just let it happen.

I want to tell him to just go with the flow.

But, instead, I say, "I understand."

And I say, "It's all gonna work out."

And I say, "Good night."

Bumping Along

Kahlua, you bitch. You’re killing me. After spending any amount of time with you, I come away from the experience feeling like I've done the splits on a three-foot wide fence sheathed in broken glass.


Saw Kahlua Friday afternoon, and we did our posting thing - “trot, trot, up-down, up-down, knees in, heels down.” Everything hurts. The only positive in this, besides that it’s actually kind of fun while I'd doing it, is that my missing butt is slowly starting to reappear and take shape. It’s just proving to be a very painful process.


I wandered over to Lily’s the other night.

Every time I walk into her place she tries to feed me. I’m starting to suspect that she may, in fact, see me as just another neighborhood stray…

While she was making nachos, I read to us from a book she’d gotten as a gift: In Me Own Words: The Autobiography of Bigfoot. Silly, funny stuff and a very quick read. Check it out if you ever come across it.

Later, we sat out in her courtyard talking, and she asked how the writing was coming. I told her about the progress I was making with writing about lattes. She laughed, and then she asked, “Well, who are you writing to?”

“I don’t know. No one, anymore. I think that’s the problem,” I said, and wouldn’t look at her, though I felt her eyes on me.

She didn’t say anything for a minute, and then she said, “I write to Pete McInerny.”

“Who?” I asked, turning my head to look at her.

“Just someone I used to know. I write to him.”

Hmm.

"You know," she went on, “An acquaintance sent me an email the other day. It was an invitation to his retirement. In it he said that though he knew that many of the people he was sending the email to wouldn’t be able to make it, he was writing to let them know that he was grateful to them for having helped to shape the person that he had become.”

“That’s really nice,” I told her.

“Yeah, it is. And if you think about it, that’s what we’re all doing. Just shaping each other as we bump along through life.”



We connect. We disconnect. And, sometimes without our even being aware of it, we change each other. Our interactions with others, good and bad, and how we react to them make us who we are. Sometimes, that change can prove to be a painful process, though, and there are some people I used to think I could have done without meeting. I don’t believe that anymore. I'm different for having known them, and mostly, I'd say that was a good thing. I’m glad I’ve known them.


Well, everyone except for Kahlua.

I’m so wishing I’d never met that bitch right now…