The Sounds of Love

Most of my friends know that I have been going through a serious romantic drought for quite a while now. Some of it stems from a self imposed relationship vacation but, if I’m honest about it, most of it comes from a lack of opportunity and effort on my part. While having a romance appeals to me in theory, I don’t mind my own company and I’m getting a lot of sleep.

I have been giving it more thought lately. What do I ultimately want? The flowers, dinners, concerts, vacations, walks, talks and the ever popular sex are great benefits but they don’t always translate into genuine love or even like. I decided that this time around I would go for the real thing – not romantic posturing but genuine love.

I can’t say if I will ever find that special someone. I don’t know exactly what genuine love will look like but I certainly know what it sounds like. I hear it every day from my friends and family. And, since I’m a compulsive list maker I started a list of the sounds of love I’m already hearing…

You make me smile.

I understand.

What do you need?

I trust you.

You can do this.

How can I help?

Be careful.

Call me when you get there.

You are the smartest person I know.

You deserve to be happy, too.

I forgive you.

I’m sorry.

I’m proud of you.

I’ll be there.

I couldn’t have done it without you.

I need you in my life.

Thank-you.

I care about what happens to you.

Don’t go.

I’ll go with you.

You inspire me.

I don’t want to disappoint you.

I remember.

Yes.

No.

I may be on a romantic diet but I am certainly surrounded by genuine love every day. What was I so worried about?

What Tim Left for Me

The suffocating grief that followed Tim’s death is finally starting to lift. I still think of him several times a day. I miss him and my world and his family’s world will never be the same. But, I have started to think about how to honor him rather than mourn him.

I decided that I would take the best parts of Tim and display them to the world each day so that those who didn’t know him could still appreciate the man he was and those who did know him could catch a glimpse of him along the way.

Here are just some of the things I learned from my brother…..

• Never miss an opportunity to enjoy a dog or child.
  


• Confidence is attractive in any package. My beautiful brother was short and solid with a receding hairline and gray wiry hair that he pulled back into a pony tail.
  


• Don’t avoid the camera. Pictures of Tim enjoying his life, his family and friends have been a tremendous comfort. I have one picture of Tim and me together that I now cherish. It is one of the few of us – just us – together as adults.
  


• Never put housework and yard work ahead of spending time with family and friends.
  


• Life turns on a dime. Never miss an opportunity to tell someone that they are important to you, that you like them, appreciate them or love them.
  


• Some people may ridicule your quirky traits. They are the most memorable parts of your personality. Embrace and showcase them without apology.
  


• Never stop creating …you have talents, skills, and passions to share.
  


• Never stop recreating….play.
  


• Celebrate…holidays, birthdays, achievements, perseverance, survival, haircuts, Tuesdays
  


• Believe every wonderful thing that someone says about you. Cast off the bad stuff – those are products of someone’s agenda.
  


• Forgive easily and quickly. You don’t have to condone the behavior – just allow others to struggle with their own demons.
  


• Your occupation is what you do – not who you are.
  


• Take care of yourself. You are taking care of someone who is precious to your loved ones. It is not selfish. It is an act of love.

Finding Nemo

In October of this year I hit a serious patch of blues. Although season-wise, this is my very favorite time of year the change in climate sets off a serious emotional time bombs. One in particular this year was missing Kristi (still). The fall was our favorite time of year to walk through the neighborhood and crunch leaves. My nest had been truly empty for 9 months. I found that taking care of me was not nearly as satisfying as taking care of someone else. There was and is no romance on the horizon and I don’t really want to base my happiness on that anyway. I was outwardly functional but inwardly in danger of becoming permanently unhappy.

I didn’t miss having a pet. I missed Kristi. I didn’t want another pet. I wanted Kristi. In my head I sounded like a petulant child. Even looking at the rescue sites seemed disloyal to her memory. Still, I thought if I could find a dog that needed a home maybe doing a good thing – even half heartedly – would be a step toward recovery. I have to admit that my motivation was totally selfish.

This time around my selection would have to be small – less than 25 pounds due to neighborhood association rules. I had still been cruising the greyhound sites up to this point. I attempted to adopt first one female and then another only to find that applications had already been received and accepted on them. I widened my search to include a male – after all, I had raised a son, why not a male? That’s when I found Nemo.

I don’t know how I got so lucky. I found a loving, eager to please, smart, quirky, charming little dude bundled up in a 3 year old, 10 pound frame. He is a Maltese - rescued by Second Chance Small Dog Rescue in Elkhart. He was in foster care for 6 weeks after having been with a breeder.

He had to learn about stairs, treats, stuffies, sit, shake and bounce balls. He had to learn to endure brushing his coat, brushing his teeth, wiping his face, wiping his feet and negotiating his days with two other dogs at Mom’s place while I was at work. He also had to learn how to ask to potty outside and that I was the pack leader in our little family. He has mastered all of this in the three weeks we’ve lived together. And, oh yes, I’m becoming one of those – he has a sweatshirt for cold mornings in the car.

What started out as a half hearted search for relief has blossomed into a whole hearted love affair. Kristi would have loved him too.

Losing Kristi

Friends, I debated whether or not to add this piece to my postings. I like that most things here are upbeat or irreverent. Still, this one became a labor of love and while it is still an unfinished story I thought I would include it. I wrote this out in May this year. And, I don't think I can tell one story without the other.

I’ve been away for a while. Shortly after I posted my very hopeful New Year’s blog I had to say good-bye to my beautiful greyhound, Kristi.

All of the fears I had ever harbored about this event were played out in those three days in January. I had hoped that when her time came she would slip peacefully into a never ending sleep. That was not to be the case. Instead she endured pain, suffering, confusion and panic the last days of her life. She remained alert, loving and brave throughout. I had no idea that an animal could display and teach grace.

She was born and bred to run, retired from racing and 13 years old. We couldn’t fix her leg, we couldn’t even amputate. The bone was crumbling. She wouldn’t survive the surgery; she would never recover. There were two options. One was to medicate her and mask the pain as much as possible for whatever days remained and the other was to give her my final gift. As the vet administered the injection I held her and my breath. All too quickly her muscles relaxed, her breathing slowed and her eyes unfocused. I could feel her spirit, life and soul slip away. The moment her heart stopped beating mine broke completely.

Months have passed and the loss today is as fresh and heartbreaking as it was that cold January morning. My fear now is that I will grieve so long that the best parts of our time together will be overshadowed. I won’t wash her blanket or put away her picture or try to remove her from my days in any way. I carry her tags with me sometimes so I can hear them as I did when she was with me and wearing them. The vet’s office gave me a clay imprint of her paws. But, the most enduring memory of my beautiful girl is the imprint she left on my soul.

My Bliss List

This weekend was blissful. I didn’t plan for it or expect it but it was. I’m sure that part of it was the confluence of good weather, an open schedule, a healing heart and a downsized lifestyle. Still bliss is not a word I throw around lightly and like the perfect houseguest it doesn’t come often or stay long.

I pulled out a piece I started a few weeks ago. It seems like the ideal time to share it.

Bliss, the word is synonymous with joy, happiness, and contentment. Bliss has a different feel to it though. Joy is deep, spiritual. Contentment is quiet, warm, and comforting. Happiness is bliss on steroids. Bliss feels like the perfect alignment of stars, a fleeting yet intense affirmation that sometimes we get it right.

Here is my bliss list. These are the things that wrap me up in a long affectionate hug.

• scratching a dog’s ear and having them lean into you
  
• that first bite of your favorite dish (prepared by someone else)
  
• the first kiss with a new love
  
• a child’s head surrendering to sleep on your shoulder
  
• when everything you brought into the dressing room fits, is priced right, looks great on you and is machine washable
  
• tears of gratitude when you’ve done something for someone you thought was no big deal
  
• fat flakes of snow on Christmas Eve
  
• the smell of fresh coffee and bread baking
  
• Sunday afternoon naps punctuated by soft, steady rain
  
• overhearing someone say something nice about you
  
• soft supple leather
  
• the crackle of a fire
  
• the afterglow of a summer sunset
  
• an unexpected handwritten letter
  
• dappled sunlight and spring breezes
  
• waking up fully rested before the alarm goes off
  
• the perfect cross breeze in your living room in early summer
  
• fall days in the Midwest – crisp air, crystal blue skies, crunchy leaves and long shadows
  

What does your bliss list look like?

Exercise Equation

I grew up in a time when organized athletics for females in junior high and high school were limited to cheerleading and gym class. I was not popular enough or coordinated enough for the former and not enthused enough for the latter. I could pull off being oblivious to exercise when I was walking with my friends, dancing and bike riding for fun. But over time those free spirited activities were replaced by driving just for the fun of it, reading, needle working, desk jobs and being a wife, mother and exhausted. I’m not suggesting exercising in the midst of everyday adult life can’t be done but I am telling you that I couldn’t or didn’t do it.

At this stage of life I know that I better get moving or type II diabetes, heart disease and high blood pressure are going to come knocking. Since taking a battery of pills doesn’t appeal to me I figure life style changes are the only acceptable options.

Over the years I’ve run the gamut on rationalizing, deluding and financing every possible approach to this exercise thing. I’ve purchased a treadmill, a stationary bike, a Gazelle, a step, countless exercise tapes, CDs and DVDs, a yoga mat, an exercise mat, 2-lb, 5-lb, 10-lb weights and I’ve watched (on the couch with a bowl of sausage gravy, I imagine) all of the paid commercials for shedding pounds, losing inches, building muscle, increasing metabolism and decreasing appetite. Not one of these efforts lasted long enough for the charges to clear my credit card.

A friend of mine finally gave me the perspective I needed to move forward. She suggested that I look at exercise as a second job. I may not make the healthiest lifestyle choices but I have an awesome work ethic. Armed with a new philosophy I opted to find an acceptable health club. I wanted a place separate from my home life and dedicated to the job of exercising. In my search I found the perfect club for me. The location was less than a mile from my home. The hours worked with my schedule. The facilities were clean and safe with plenty of equipment that was kept in good working order. Plus, I found out later that they have a members' lounge that offers the best flavored coffee every morning. The trainer who gave me a tour pointed out that every cardio machine had its own cable television with sound provided via head phones. I thought, “TV got me into this position – that’s your selling point?” The fee was a little steep but I rationalized that I would have to go more often to make the cost per day rate reasonable.

Starting out was a little rough. The first day I had to follow someone to find the ladies’ locker room. I haven’t warmed up to the group classes yet. Some of them are pretty intense and the trainers are a little masochistic. I don’t want to strain my fragile ego. Besides, I get pushed around enough at my first job. I don’t care to subject myself to it at my second job.

I prefer to work out solo so I opt for early morning. There are plenty of people there at that hour but I’m too sleepy to interact. I like going early in the morning because I’m not awake enough to make excuses not to go. By the time I wake up I'm at the the club so I might as well work out. For some reason I feel virtuous for getting up at an ungodly hour. However, I will confess that prior to finding the lounge with the great coffee I would go home and nap for 20 minutes before preparing for job number 1. It took a while for the mythical endorphins to kick in.

I'm a regular now. I find it funny that so many of us who use this club are paying for the privilege to get more exercise but find the closest parking place to the gym entrance. I am also amazed at the women who come to the club in designer workout gear, jewelry, full makeup and who read magazines while they are on the cross trainer. I come in clothes that have been retired from weekend wear due to paint drips and baggy knees. I have to concentrate on breathing and not dying while I’m on the cross trainer.

I don’t have any delusions about meeting Mr. Right at the club. I’m not a pretty picture when I work out. I’m fairly certain I won’t attract anyone with my sweaty clothes and matted hair. Besides, it’s difficult to engage in witty repertoire while gasping for breath.

It surprises me to see discarded cigarette butts outside the health club entrance. When I commented to a friend that I didn’t understand how someone could commit to exercise every day and still smoke they pointed out that I commit to exercise every day and still eat chocolate. The difference is that I exercise so I can eat chocolate.

I don’t know that exercise will come back naturally to me but I do know that I have found the right exercise equation for the time being. I go 6 to 7 days a week for 1 to 1.5 hours. I use weight machines, dumbbells, and the cross ramp. I can cover 3 miles on the cross ramp daily while watching the Food Network (turns out that whole TV thing is a good selling point after all).

A New Year

It might be the unseasonably mild temperatures (58 degrees for January in Indiana is like finding an extra 20 dollars in your coat pocket) but this year, more than any other, I feel content, hopeful and optimistic. I can’t say I’ve formalized any particular New Year’s resolution but I am anxious to make my dreams a reality. Writing this piece and others like it is one of them. It occurred to me this week that I have much more than I need and nearly everything I want – at least of those things in my circle of influence. I am blessed with good health, great family and first rate friends. I earn enough to pay my bills (although I can’t quite swing the vacation in the south of France yet) and I have heat when I need it, enough to eat and an expectation of safety and privacy.

The things that I want these days are not things at all. I want a healthy and sustained life style (and, yes I still have pounds to shed like two thirds of us). I want to live creatively. I want health and happiness for my family. All that I want in within reach - anything, if not everything.

It makes me thankful on many levels – for having a job in a shaky economic environment; for living in a country that provides ample opportunities, freedom and options; for living in a time when we can extend and improve the quality of our lives.

Like all of us I’ve had crummy jobs, crummier bosses, false friends, disappointments and lost loves. But these days I’m looking at those things in my rearview mirror rather than at the road ahead.

Assignment: Select a word and write a 200 word essay surrounding it

Friendship is the cornerstone for all other worthwhile relationships. Romantic love cannot survive without it. Parental love should aspire to it. There is no aspect of life that doesn't benefit from an infusion of friendship. In the workplace it provides synergy. In families it promotes harmony. In communities it builds bridges.

I am blessed with a variety of friendships. They come in all 31 flavors – complete with nuts.

I am proud to call Karen my friend. She is 20 years my junior and is navigating her way through motherhood, life in a new city and the non-stop cycle of parents and in-laws visiting their first grandchild. She is worried about fitting into her new community, being supportive to her husband, being a good mother to her son and being out of the job market. Amidst all of this she talks by phone to me every week because she also worries about my minor dramas. She, more than anyone, encourages me to write and believes I can do anything. I don't know why she worries about parenting her new son, she is already parenting me.

Friendship is selfless acceptance, support, compassion, love and respect. It comes in stages and waves. It takes many forms and comes to you in unexpected ways. Karen embodies friendship to me.

Assignment: 200 words or less using the phrase "true success can be.."

She had been preparing her whole adult life for her definition of success. She sacrificed family, friends and relationships for fame, fortune and investments. She didn’t need neighbors or community she had clients and competitors. She didn’t seek love she sought domination in her field. She didn’t want a vacation because she had nowhere to go that her career couldn’t take her and no one to share it with anyway.

She didn’t just break through the glass ceiling she smashed it. She had her success. She thought fondly back to her first board meeting as chairperson, “Thank-you for coming,” she had begun. What an unnecessary statement. The board members had very little choice. She called the shots. She didn’t care what they thought as long as they served her purpose.

She was such a tightly wrapped type A personality that it came as no surprise when a stroke took her down.

And now, in a hospital room completely devoid of flowers, cards or visitors, unable to communicate with no chance of recovery it dawned on her that true success was more elusive than she planned. “Thank-you for coming,” she thought. What an unnecessary statement.

Coming to the Rescue

I was voted the least likely member of my family to bond with a pet. The dogs we had as kids were always Mom’s dogs. We could pet, play with or ignore them as the situation suited us.

Typical of my personality I made a fairly calculated choice when the time came to honor my promise to my son and get a dog. I had known people who had adopted retired racers and I read Cynthia A. Branigan’s, “Adopting the Racing Greyhound.” I knew they came housebroken, didn’t bark much and didn’t require a lot of exercise (they are the world’s most ardent couch potatoes) I learned that they socialized best with older children, walked well on a leash and were completely dedicated to their families. As dog choices went, this was ideal for us.

Ariel came into my life when she was ten by way of another family who had to give her up due to a move. That’s about two years shy of an ex-racer’s life expectancy. She had the athletic build of a racer and the most sensitive soft deep brown eyes with eyeliner markings that gave her an exotic look. She actually looked more like a German Shepard than a purebred greyhound. She was a little beefy (probably how I would be built if I was a greyhound) and loved to eat (ditto). And, she knew exactly how to tilt her head and flirt for the camera (I haven’t mastered that one yet). Her coat was a beautiful caramel shade with a soft rabbit fur like quality. She would try to put herself into the leash when it was walk time. She was timid with strangers. She had a habit of putting a piece of furniture between her and other people. She barked when the doorbell rang and moaned to the rhythm of a siren. The first time I heard her I thought it was the neighbor’s lawnmower. She was sedate indoors but came to life outside and loved to play tag with my son. She was smart and needed a project to occupy her when she was left alone or she would help herself to my books and literally devour them.

I fell immediately in love with her when I saw her picture on the Greyhound Adoption website. I needed a companion for my first greyhound. Ariel died about two and a half years ago. She went out fighting and endured several strokes and seizures one day before the vet helped me ease her out of her misery. It was a relatively easy decision because she was suffering but it was a gut wrenching experience. It took me well over a year to complete the grieving process for her. I still miss her and even writing this piece is painful.

Kristi is my first. She is with me today. She has the same coloring as Ariel but the similarities end there. She has a petite build and a silky coat. She can eat or not eat. She is completely devoted to me. She loves people and will approach them so that they have an opportunity to pet and adore her as she feels she deserves. She expends most of her energy bounding around and tossing her stuffies at the prospect of going for a walk. (stuffies are the small stuffed animals that greyhounds are given as pups to prepare them for the big “race.”)

My son was 14 when we got Kristi. He will be 23 this month and has moved out. Kristi and I share the remaining empty nest. Her beautiful face is more white than fawn and her legs wobble when she climbs the stairs. She doesn’t walk as far or as fast as she used to but she still does a little dance and throws her stuffies around when it’s time for a walk or a ride in the car. I expect when her time comes to leave me she will go out in her sleep like the little lady she is. Even in that respect she will be completely different from Ariel.

I knew I was doing a good thing when I adopted Kristi and Ariel. I knew it was good for them and I knew it was good for my son. I just didn’t know how good it was for me.

I am a better person by having pets in my adult life. I am more compassionate towards living things in general and particularly those humans who choose to share their life with a pet. I understand how someone can grieve long and hard for a lost pet and I appreciate how those pets can ease the transitions we humans are expected to bear. And all this time I thought I was rescuing them.

When my 10+ year relationship went south I initially felt lost and alone (among other less attractive emotions). Much of my day to day life had been centered on “us things” and, more often than not, “him things.” This was not entirely his fault. He may have relished the emphasis on him but I allowed the relationship to develop in that way. So, with him went the business associates (his), church community (his) and any “couple friends” we had made. In short, he got custody of our history. I had even moved from my community (only the next county over) to be geographically closer. This was supposed to be the next logical step. If we could make it work living in the same county then we would start making plans to be married (10 years - you can’t rush these things). So I went from a 7 minute commute to a 30 minute commute to a job I wasn’t particularly wild about anyway. (I mean, one of the few things it had going for it was the close proximity to my home).

I have wonderful, supportive family and friends but my compass suddenly disappeared and it took me a while to get my footing again. I started making phone calls and “circling the wagons.” I opted to attempt to take the “high road” and not spend hours upon hours vilifying My X or ruminating about the development of our relationship (although I have to admit, I did plenty of both in my head). Instead, I focused on reconnecting – finding out what they were doing, what they needed, what we could do together. Most of my friends didn’t know My X well because he didn’t make an effort to get to know them (see, sometimes I do veer off the high road into a ditch) so they didn’t miss him at all and certainly weren’t interested in hearing how I wanted him back. My family and friends rallied and I began to re-build my own life.

I’m not sure what the exact recovery time will be on a 10+ year relationship that never got beyond the dating phase. A year seems too long and I know two months isn’t long enough. But I am starting to regain my equilibrium. I have a strategy on the job front. I love the little condo I purchased so I will most likely make this new community mine over time. I plan to volunteer, serve on my neighborhood association board, continue the piano lessons I started earlier this year and reclaim my confidence.

But here’s the very best part. In the midst of all of this stuff, way down deep I kept hearing a little voice telling me I could be a writer. Maybe not a great American novelist but someone who expresses ideas in words that other people might be drawn to read. Initially I thought this was rational for dumping a tedious 8 to 5 “day job” – an escape fantasy. But I stumbled on an on-line creative writing class just after the “big breakup” that challenged me to write creatively and post to a discussion board for others to read. The instructor and students then provide positive feedback and support to each other. This experience has been a huge confidence builder. But, more importantly, I started to enjoy writing and I liked what I produced. And, I’m beginning to feel that being a writer isn’t as much a fantasy as it is a goal. The scary part is I know I wouldn’t have gotten here had I not lost my relationship.

Today I discovered that if I had to make a choice between regaining My X and writing for a living I would choose to write. Maybe two months is the right recovery time after all.

Writing Exercise - Lesson 6

Assignment: Write based on another source such as a newspaper article, etc.

I recently picked up a used copy of Elaine St. James’ book, Simplify Your Life: 100 Ways to Slow Down and Enjoy the Things That Really Matter. I love the idea of simplifying my life and I’ve been taking steps in that direction for over a year now – even before I read her book. It was a gratifying to see that I had already put some of her suggestions to use. I had reduced clutter (#1), stopped buying clothes that need to be dry cleaned (#9), and moved to a smaller house (#19). I had found a kindred spirit here.

There is, however, one area in which I take issue with Ms. St. James. Way down the list in a category marked “Special Issues for Women” she suggests that in order to reduce the complexity of your wardrobe you should make certain that all the shoes in your closet are the same (lower) heel height (#91). I know she’s right. She makes a great case for comfort, flexibility and the overall health of your feet in the long run. But this I cannot do.

I’m no Imelda Marcos but I have a healthy collection of shoes. We are best friends. I tuck them neatly away in safe see through containers and they are always there for me for job interviews, business meetings, weddings, funerals, Christmas parties and romantic dinner dates. They stay with me even when I lose or gain weight.

I have a fair representation of no-heel shoes. I have athletic shoes, hiking shoes (hardly ever used), winter boots, slippers and beach shoes and they are comfortable and functional. But in a sacred corner of my closet I also have cute two and three inch heeled summer sandals, two inch pumps, fashion boots and (drum role please) four inch stilettos. How could I ever choose between them?

I have a desk job in a small office so I can still pull off the high heels. Even among my younger, trendier female co-workers I have a legendary assortment. Two years ago I pulled a calf muscle on an elliptical machine (that contraction that blends treadmill and stair stepper workouts - don’t even get me started on the dangers of exercise) while I was wearing my very practical athletic shoes I might add. Anyway, I was “grounded” for several weeks while the muscle healed (no pun intended). My co-workers had no idea how short I was until I showed up in flats. I felt like I was standing in a hole.

You can dress up or down that little black dress by the style and heel height of your shoes. I enjoy my shoes and the wardrobe variety they provide. So with a respectful nod to Ms. St. James, I will retain this complex portion of my life a little longer.

Writing Exercise - Lesson 4

Assignment: Choose a color to write about; write about the color in the first person, that is in the I way.

I am romantic Caribbean sunsets.

I smolder in candlelit jazz clubs and present the sun-softened finish on buildings deep in the French Quarter.

I am variegated in mums and marigolds but in roses I am desire and afterglow.

I nurture you with luscious peaches, succulent apricots and the flesh of butternut squash.

I offer you the Mackinac Bridge in silhouette on a summer evening.

I cast sparks and illuminate the night with embers in a winter fireplace.

I am warm, radiant, luminous and flush - orange.

Writing Exercise - Lesson 2

Assignment: Write a short story using one of the provided sentences

Mary was "fed up" with Bob and he had only just arrived. He walked in as if he was some kind of superhero. But instead of an "S" on his chest he had "Bob" embroidered on his work shirt.

"Where's the culprit?" he demanded.

"In the fireplace" she responded begrudgingly. What was she thinking when she bought this 100 year old money pit of a house? Now, hardly a month into ownership she had an unwelcome housemate. While cleaning the glass doors of the fireplace – a fireplace she dearly loved and hadn't even used yet – she discovered a squirrel settling in for a stay. He wasn't going to exit the same way he entered so she called animal control. And they sent her super Bob.

Bob dropped his bundle on the living room floor and began to gear up for his task. Mary looked on as he donned hip waders, heavy duty gloves and a mask. Was he hunting squirrel or playing goalie for the Blackhawks?

"Go get yourself a broom" he directed. Probably the only way he recognizes a woman is if she's holding a broom, she thought. While she fetched the broom Bob moved her dining table and chair away from the sliding glass doors to the left of the fireplace. He moved the couch and chair off to the right barricading the front door. He then positioned Mary in front of the staircase with the broom."Now," he said opening the sliding glass door, "when I open the fireplace doors with this pole the critter should make for the nearest, most obvious exit – right through these doors. If he comes your way, just wave the broom to redirect him."

"Whoa!" Mary suddenly decided compliance was overrated. "You're standing there dressed like a Star Wars storm trooper with a ten foot pole and all you're going to do is open the doors? Where's my hip waders, my gloves, my squirrel gear?"

Bob smiled indulgently. "Miss, I'm a professional. I know what I'm doing."

Well, she thought. Once I deal with the squirrel I'm going to use what's left of this broom to beat the snot out of Bob.

I’ve recently come out of a 10 year relationship. That’s not exactly right. I’ve recently been booted out of a 10 year, 8 month, 5 day relationship. Never mind the details. Getting dumped is getting dumped no matter how you dress it up.

I’m working through the recovery process. In matters of the heart forget the typical five stages of grieving (denial, depression, anger, bargaining and acceptance). My theory is that you can gauge your healing process by the content of your fantasies.

Initially I envisioned my heart’s desire finding me walking the wind swept cliffs of New England. As I turn and the wind swirls my skirts he approaches me determined to reclaim his paramour ala Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. He sweeps me into his arms and professes his never ending love and desire for yours truly. Never mind that I live in Indiana and the closest things we have to wind swept cliffs are guardrails on the interstate. Disregard that my lost man is an accountant. The only time he becomes a tortured soul is at tax time.

Later, as incremental doses of reality and sanity seep back into my psyche, I begin to daydream about a benign crisis that throws us together. In a plot torn from the script of Twister my leading man realizes that it’s me he wants instead of the gorgeous gal pal fading into the background. At first, I resist and make him atone for his lapse in judgment but, eventually, I surrender.

Further into the process I begin to create my fantasies in more reasonable settings. After settling into a comfortable platonic friendship my former love asks me to accompany him to a business associate’s company Christmas party. He is smitten by my new self confidence, my size 6 frame and form (hey – it’s still my fantasy!) and the familiarity of my perfume. As the evening progresses he calculates the risk and asks me to dance. We have a wonderful evening. He drives me home, walks me to the door and kisses me goodnight. As he walks toward his vehicle he turns on his heel and returns to me. His next kiss promises everything except “goodnight.”

And finally, at his funeral I am picked up by one of the guests.

I suppose the ultimate recovery signal will be when I wake up, proceed with my day into the evening and finally to bed without thinking about him every hour. When my mind no longer constructs scenarios that keep him in my life; when thinking about a life without him doesn’t seem quite so bleak, then I will know that I have completed the process. Clearly, I’m not there yet.

Meet Kristi

She's beautiful, sweet, loving, mischievous.....she raced, won and retired. She came to me 9 years ago. She changed my life. I thought I was rescuing her...She rescued me.

An Apple Pie Without Cheese

When I was a little girl I remember my dad quoting this phrase: "an apple pie without cheese is like a hug without a squeeze." This usually served as the intro for Mom's dessert or a holiday treat. And, yes, I developed a taste for apple pie with cheese – usually with a chunk of nice mild cheddar.

In fact, the quote is actually "an apple pie without cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze."

Rowley Leigh mentions this phrase and its possible origin on www.ft.com:

An English fruit pie is frequently not sweet at all. Apple pies in England were often almost savoury and sometimes eaten with strong cheese. "An apple pie without cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze," went the old saying. The Kentish apple pie went further and introduced a layer of mature Cheddar under the crust.

Throughout my life with Dad we developed our own variations of this saying:

An apple pie without cheese is like….

…a cold without the sneeze

…a tree without the leaves

…a lap without the knees

… a car without the keys

… the birds without the bees

…a ship without the seas

As with most things about Dad, I prefer his original version. It’s one of the gifts he left me – every time I indulge in a slice of apple pie I hear “an apple pie without cheese is like a hug without a squeeze.” I hear it in his voice and in my mind’s eye I can see the mischief and delight in his eyes. I remember how he loved my mother, his children … and apple pie.

Success

To laugh often and much;
to win the respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children;
to earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends;
to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others;
to leave the world a bit better,
whether by a healthy child,
a garden patch
or a redeemed social condition;
to know even one life has breathed easier
because you have lived.
This is to have succeeded.

Ususally attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson but current postings debate this. Regardless it has become my personal "mission statement".

Can you call it writer's block if this is your first attempt to write for public consumption? Can you even call it writer’s block? Blogger’s block?

I like the concept of blogging. It’s kind of like graffiti on the Web. However, for better or worse, words on the Web live forever. No sandblasting, no urban renewal. For those of you who know my fear of commitment (I don’t even like massive furniture) this can be an overwhelming responsibility. It’s not quite the same as writing in a journal because this is intended for others to read while I’m still alive and accountable for what I say here. Still, I consider blogging a method of reaching out and I can delude myself into thinking that others might be interested and even mildly amused.

I’ve just come off a week of vacation. No exotic trips, no treks into the wilderness. I got as far as an hour away to walk along the bluff in St Joe, Michigan. Forget for a moment that a day trip to St Joe is about as far as my budget will take me. I really do enjoy vacations at home. I like spending daylight hours in my home. I like walking my dog in the neighborhood when everyone else is in school or at work. I love this time of year – the mild temperatures, saturated colors and crunchy leaves. The bugs are gone and the field mice haven’t invaded yet. I like running errands outside of the lunchtime or after work hours. I have time to talk to the young people ringing up or bagging my groceries or to ask about the baby pictures on the dry cleaner’s calendar. I have lunch with my mother, dinner with friends, and I make or send long overdue phone calls and emails. I make appointments and keep them. My focus is the life I want. The one that keeps getting eclipsed by the occupation that is supposed to finance it.

I’m getting my house ready to sell so I spent some of my vacation getting repairmen in to fix things I should have taken care of long ago. I had an electrician come to install an oven hood I bought when I bought the stove. It’s been sitting on top of my refrigerator for 10 years. You can’t rush these things.

I’m a little ambivalent about selling the house. It’s time. The nest is empty and a four-bedroom, two-story house is excessive for one person. I could be quite comfortable in less than 900 square feet – assuming that 900 square feet includes two bedrooms, a bath and a half, central air a fireplace and an attached garage. (I’m downsizing but let’s not be ridiculous). Even so, things are getting spruced up and, besides, the photo the realtor took makes the house look really good. So, if it sells –great; if it doesn’t - no biggie.

My life is in flux. Everything is up for grabs. I’m anxious to make new mistakes in the second half of my adult life. So, stay tuned.