Rebel rebel, you swore you'd text...

Yeah, I'm a rebel. A groundbreaker. A free spirit, a random thinking, out of the box, weird kind of girl (woman) but I'm still a girl at heart..

I don't want to fit into a mold or a pre-determined way of life, and I almost, ooooo I came SOOO close for a minute there, did. I had the house, 2 cars, husband, kids, even had the dog. I stayed at home, made play dates, did laundry, exercised to Cindy Crawford tapes (remember tapes??? VCR tapes???) and cooked dinner. Sometimes. That wasn't my strong point. Neither was socializing with my then husband's people he knew from high school, they were all 4 years younger than me, and seemed so shallow and so, pointless. Not because I was better than them, but because I felt unaccepted by them. I mean, what is the point of going to events with people that clearly don't want to hang out with you, but are tolerating you because of whom you are married to???? Who needs that kind of constant negative self image bounced off the glassy eyed mirrored mom-bots???? So I did my own thing, I made my own friends. I joined karate, I started going to school for Nuclear Medicine (two very off the grid past times/vocations). And I got my black belt, then my teaching certificate, then my second degree black belt. And I graduated from Nuclear School. And not long after all that, I lost my husband to....I don't know. He probably was sick of me being so damned independent, and such a free spirit that needed to get away from him and his apathy. Oh he wasn't apathetic about everything, just me. And we fought. Yelled, pushed each other, got to hate each other. So apathy I could definitely rip hatred from when I wanted his attention. My youngest daughter and I were talking recently and I asked her what her earliest memory was. "You don't want to know". "Of course I do, that's why I asked? What is it?" "Mom, really, you don't want to know." Quizzical look on my face, followed by her looking at the ground. "Ok, just say it", I say. "You and daddy fighting." Oh. Christ. I shook my head and apologized (for the 100th time) for that part of our lives, and for her being a child of divorce. Ugh.

Fourteen years later, I'm divorced longer than I was married (either time-2nd marriage referenced above...) and feel, like in that movie, The Object of my Affection, when the older gentleman says to Jennifer Aniston's character, "Don't fix your life so you're alone just as you get to the middle of it." And there are no accidents, I take full responsibility for my actions and re-actions, my paths and decisions.  So I'm going to travel. I'm going to find a way, find the funds and the companions (maybe) to do it!!!! And I'm not going to do anything expected, I'm going to find my new path and forge it. With or without anyone else...we'll seee......but I bet whatever I do, it will be uniquely me. And that's ok...

Oh the places I've been....

While not that much of a traveler, up till this year that is, I am determined. I started by going to Aruba in July, Burning Man in August, NYC  and Connecticut in Oct and December. I have a plan, and I must dig deep to make it happen, to visit somewhere I've never been once a quarter in 2012. So, for the first quarter, I'm taking a few days around my birthday in March and possibly going to...I don't know yet...somewhere. Just have to think it thru and budget, nothing too far, only have four days...to fly or drive....hmmm....flying is so much more romantic.....maybe meet a handsome stranger...or just someone with an amazing spirit....

And I need to come to terms with going alone. I am alone. I don't have a mate, or a friend I can count on to travel with me. I have friends I have traveled with and they're fabulous, don't get me wrong, but their lives and commitments are different than mine, and I need to rely on me, no one else.

So the next step is to look online (where anything seems possible these days!!!) and pick a location....a destination...someplace...spiritual??? Fun??? Crazy???? Exotic????

Stay tuned...

Happy Holidays....

Just when I had my bah humbug up to epic levels, I get a huge dose of spirit...in the form of a patient. She came in for her test and had to have a two day protocol, meaning I got to spend two days with her. What a nut! She laughed at everything, talked to everyone, kept the conversation in the waiting room upbeat and positive and made us all laugh while we cared for her during her stay. She was 70 but looked 50, dressed in bright colors and had just gotten her hair cropped short to pre-empt the effect of chemo before it told her body what it would do to her. Take that muthafukka, her attitude screamed. Her son had died of a heart attack at 48, her husband was in a nursing home with alzheimer's and the daughter who came with her for her test was quiet, unsmiling, tentative. Worried. Worried she'd lose her Mom, who clearly, is the heartbeat of the family. But Mom never wavered, never once let on that there were forces inside her, claiming their right to take her life. For every ounce of cancer in her system was a pound of fierce, determined woman, strong and positive, thoroughly convinced of her own ability to beat the hell out of her disease with willpower and smiles. Her hips were aching every day from arthritis,  so each time we called her back for another stage of her test, it would take her some time to struggle out of the chair and upright, slowly swinging one leg out, then left, then right, grimacing but joking about her old bones and their arguing with her about who was in charge. When she left us, she gave us each a hug, wished us happy holidays and blessings for life.

I walked back to my camera room after she left and thought about my struggles, my obstacles. I laughed at myself, shaking my head. Sent by a higher power, this angel reminded me that there is always someone with bigger troubles, maybe impossible to overcome, but the importance of using each moment we have to enjoy what we can, when we can, with whomever we can.

Friendly fire

I had been looking forward to getting away for the night for weeks, my friend SB had a comped room at Harrah's in AC, (we call it hurrahs) for a Friday night. We were leaving right after work, as soon as I switched my new phone's sim card with my old one so my sister could (finally!!) have a reliable source of communication while driving all the way to and from Vermont.

After a quick tutorial on how to use my phone, I threw some party clothes, shoes, jewelry and makeup into an overnight bag, just in time, too, because SB was ringing the bell as I was zipping it up. Hugging my sister goodbye, running out the door, hopping into the car and blasting out of my neighborhood and my routine, I felt about 16 years old.

The ride went so fast, the two of us gabbing away, mostly about her stuff, it is all about SB, as you know. I can abide that for a certain amount of time, she just likes to talk more than I do, and I'm a better listener. I did get a chance to throw a story in about something I had gone through during the week, to which her response was, I'm going to be there soon, myself. All about her.

We got to our lovely room and changed, spritzed, made up blinged up, admired our beauty and downstairs we went. After telling the bartender how we wanted our French martinis made, he showingly poured two cocktail shakers at once, added our Chambourd and wowsa. Biggest martini I've ever seen or drunk!!! After 4 sips, I could feel the glow coming over me, and SB and I relaxed into the music and the scene. Just as she was saying what a huge mistake the last year had been, referring to her relationship with a married man, that had ended, predictably with his NOT leaving his wife, who walks over to us. I am stunned, and so disappointed as HE (the married man, of course) appears in front of us. As is SB, or so she says, I think it was just a tad too coincidental. The night progresses, mostly with me sitting alone while SB dances, flirts, kisses her paramore,  and basically tries to occasionally throw me a bone by saying, "let's go to the Borgata", "let's get away from him" "this is a mistake".  Of course that doesn't happen. Till suddenly, she is snapping, we're leaving, let's go and storms off, clearly furious with said paramore. I follow her and we agree to go back to the room after she tearfully sobs why is he doing this to me, blah blah blah. We're just about to get on the elevator, when, oops, SB can't find her phone. "We have to go back to the bar and find it." And we do, go back to the bar that is, oh, and find Mr. Notsowonderful, and doesn't SB forget all about her phone, and sit down and start fighting with him all over again. "I'm going to the room, SB." Barely nodding an acknowledgement, I know this is the last I'll be seeing her for the night. I get to the room and immediately order room service for myself, a compensation for a boring, disappointing night. I decide to let SB pay for it on her room bill.

The next morning, no SB in the other bed, so I try her phone. Low and behold, she has miraculously found it. "I'm so sorry, are you mad at me?" "SB, what are you 5?" "You should be...I'm getting you coffee." Ok, I say, great, bring splenda. "Is it ok if he comes with me?"

Are you kidding me? What am I supposed to say, No?

"Of course."

The guilty parties arrive bearing mea culpas of coffee and breakfast sandwiches, and we all have a good laugh, finally leaving after two hours of bizarro world conversation.

I get home and think to myself, self I says, what is it about the people in your life? why are you always the one making concessions and doing the listening and fixing?

Something is way wrong with this picture. It's time for a new paintbrush.

Fear and Loathing in my car

My sister from Vermont has been here all week, helping with my Dad. She is one of the most thoughtful, kind and  attentive people I have ever known, and she constantly grows in her own inner fabulousness. And shares that wonderful spirit unhesitatingly. This week we had dinner at a different house every week. First Peggy's, then Cheryl's, then mine, and back to Cheryl's last night. Now, Tuesday night we all trooped up to Cheryl's, about 8 houses from my house, my Dad, Marleen (Vermont sister) and my daughter, Colleen. I'm driving, and as I get closer to the house, I see there isn't exactly room in the driveway to pull all the way in, so I kind of angle the car to a position where my Dad can get out safely and onto a flat surface, positioning the car so his door opens onto the sidewalk as opposed to the inclined apron of the driveway. Sounds great, right? No. Loudly, and I mean shouting, Dad's response to my park job is "Back the car up! Back the car up!!! Back the car up!!!" Always in threes when he's giving directions, maybe that's why 3 is my lucky number? Anyway, I'm trying to explain why I'm parked where I am, my sister is frantically jumping out of the car, kind of swiveling between opening Dad's door and getting back in the car, a look of grim panic on her face. My daughter is silent. Absolutely silent. I'm saying, Dad, don't shout at me, please don't shout at me. He continues to demand the car be moved, and I'm trying to get a word in, but it just isn't happening. "Why are you arguing with me?? Just move the car!!!" he shouts. Beaten and humilated, embarassed and my ears are hot with this emotion, I back the car up. "STOP!! STOP!! STOP!!! Perfect, thank you!!" he starts to open his door and get out, but first leans toward me and says, "I don't know why you had to be so difficult, it was only going to take a drop of gas to back the car up." Uh huh. Now we're joking????? Sure. I spend the rest of the night avoiding him, and believe me, I'm good at that. I've been doing it since I was 5. The whole next day I feel this sad, beaten down feeling. I just don't know how to shake it. Another dinner, this time at my house, my aunt from Pennsylvania, Peggy and her fiance, Juliano, my daughter Theresa and Marleen, and the father. Whom I am still avoiding. Avoiding eye contact, avoiding conversation, avoiding getting anything for him, letting Marleen take over, which she so kindly does without question. The next night is my sister Cheryl's turn, but Dad stays home. When I get back to my house, he's on the couch. Sitting in his favorite spot, reading. I am dreading this, but I know I have to speak up. "Dad, I have something I need to talk to you about." "Ok." He puts his book down. I have his full attention. The words spill out, not rehearsed, but within me, like a waterfall. Letting him know that he hurt me, that I was upset for the entire next day, that I just can't have him yelling at me like that. He apologizes, he knew he "did wrong", he wanted to say he was sorry, but the occasion hadn't been right with all the people around. "I know, Dad, I wanted to wait till we could speak in private, too. And I know you were upset and scared, and I understand that, but please remember, I would never do anything to endanger you, I want to always be sure you are safe. And if something makes you feel fearful, as I suspect you were feeling that night, you can always tell me and I'll make sure you are safe. But you cannot shout at me like that, I'm 52, not ten." Then we hug. and it is a gentle patting on my back from this once fearsome and fierce man, that brings the tears to my eyes.

Today, I'm smiling and walking around like my normal (ha, totally relative term!!) self.

It's a good day.

My father, myself

So an introduction first?

I'm in the second anniversary of my mid-twenties, single, sort of experiencing empty nest, although two of my four kids are still living here, and are in and out so fast I barely have time to see which of them it is flying past me, down the steps, out the door, into their lives.

My Dad recently moved in with me, and that's what this blog is about today.

It's Thanksgiving, and Dad and I and my sister and her fiance will have a small turkey later, with some stuffing that hopefully turns out moist and yet not greasy (I usually create something either really dry or really saturated with too much butter). I was going to skip the whole thing, and he actually said, "Don't do anything or plan anything, I don't want to go anywhere or see anyone, I just want to read my book." Then we saw a new doctor on Tuesday. During the question and answer period of this bizarre little program called "Seeing your Dad age and feeling helpless", it comes out that Dad is depressed. That he doesn't see any future. That he doesn't have anything to look forward to. Although he likes to play bingo at the senior center 2 or 3 days a week, and as long as he has a book to read he's happy. Or at least content.

The doctor called me yesterday with the blood test results, and Dad is anemic (not severely) and has cholesterol "thru the roof". During the visit, the doctor asked Dad if he was taking his medication,
Dad's reply, I'm all fouled up about that, I don't know. ?????? Really???? Of course what he has been telling me is that every Sunday he fills up his days of the week med container so he has meds for the morning, and a second container for evening. ????? Ok, so I called Dad from work (and he answered, other wise when I got home I would have had to delete the missed call from his phone, he can't get a handle on that skill) and tell him start taking your cholesterol medication. "Ok, ok, I'll start taking it today." Now, do I monitor this? Do I start checking his meds, force feeding them to him? He's 89, by the way, and still drives, can shower, take care of heating up food, read, and shuffle around from his room to the bathroom, by himself with a cane. Oh, except, now he's started falling. And says he hasn't hit his head or gotten hurt, but could that have something to do with the anemia? Which the doctor very generously offered to send me a kit so Dad's poop can be tested. "Just follow the directions when you get it." Oh no. I do not handle poop. Where is the service that comes in for that?

But I digress. Well, now I'm making a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. Not huge, but turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, a veggie, you get the gist. My sister will bring dessert, and a bottle of wine. yay. I'll need that for sure.

He's always been tough, my Dad. While we were growing up we were terrified of him. Not like, wait till your father gets home, no way, my Mom was always trying to protect us. He didn't beat us, but he was very threatening, not a warm or affectionate man. Yet, I remember sitting on his lap when I was little, I think I used to launch myself at him, whether he liked it or not. He still calls me Babe, I'm the youngest. Although I overheard him call my sister babe on the phone Sunday. I was so sad. That was the one thing he had given me, almost traditional, and I was the only one who had been given, a nickname. Now he uses it like "hon" or "sweetie" so he doesn't have to remember who he's talking to.

He had a gun collection, and a very military way of raising us and teaching us discipline and blind obedience. Naturally, I became a very rebellious teenager and acted out all over the place. But that's for another time. We'd be outside and the task of the day was moving that pile of rocks to that location, and when we'd finish, he'd say, now move it back. No explanation, and you better not ask why. Of course I would. The death stare, held for several minutes, me staring back, but I always dropped my eyes first. And complied. Not a lot of hugs, and even now, if anyone walks toward him with their arms open, he waves them away, No no don't come near me, I don't want to get sick. And he's so skinny now, so frail. He was this big, mean, son of a bitch, now he's a stooped, fragile old man. It is depressing. And I feel isolated and alone with him, sometimes impatient with him. But I'm not afraid of him anymore. And for some reason, that makes me sad.