truth serum

My friends are showing their true colors. Holy shit! I am overwhelmed with kindness and sweetness and honesty. HOWLLA! I love my wolf pack! It's a full moooon! Howl!

I must say, I feel lighter lately like I was treading water for a long time and my feet just found the sandy bottom. The sadness is gone. The fear has vanished. I was terrified last time I entered single motherhood. Three kids and a paycheck that is sometimes more burden than blessing. Who's gonna want me? Who's gonna want all that comes with me? Now, I'm more who cares, I'm free to feel what I want and to hell with all the people who say there's slim pickin's in the single world. Screw that thinking.  Last time, I went straight to dating, and trust me, there were plenty of fish. Match.com was quite the experience; I think I signed up just to see what was out there swimming in the sea. I went on one date with a guy who I made fun of (as I often did many of the men on there) because the profiles and the pics were sometimes so ridiculous. "Why pose with Donald Trump? Does that make you rich? What kind of person wants a new person to like them for that?" Trump poser guy wanted to meet the funny girl despite the insult. Turns out, that guy was a marine architect who helped design Trump's yacht. Woops! Lol. Then I'd get the, "what's a beauty like you doing on a site like this?" That always made me feel like such a Loser. I'd think....Damn, I must be really messed up in the head being on here...and if that's your clever way of getting my attention, you're mistaken. You better come up with something better than that buddy. I'm just not interested in serial dating and I just can't do all that again. Winks and views and lies and my foot in my mouth, no thanks.  I'm pretty good at putting my foot in my mouth, but who isn't, right? And if someone is  too busy judging what comes out of my mouth, that means they must be perfect, right? 


What I am interested in is the power of my truth serum. Here's an email from a male friend who kept inquiring about my marital status, but I kept a lid on it for a long time before I made it public knowledge. I shared the original blog with him because I trust him with my words, and my heart, for some reason. I trust you, JV Pretty cool. Here's J and I getting the truth of our friendship out in the open. JV inspired me a while back when I was ready to give up on my website. He reached out and sent me to what is now my support team, and pushed some wind under my wings just when I needed it.

J wrote:

◦                     wow. and here i thought i was never going to get an answer to my question from, oh i don't know... 4 months ago. how was i to know you were just building up enough content to give me such an amazing answer.

◦                     

◦                     a few things.

◦                      

◦                     1) you should write a book. channel everything here and do it.

◦                      

◦                     2) you are more than i ever knew you were. (how could i ever have known, though.) your strength is both arousing and inspiring. the next lucky one will be luckier than the first for having you as you are now after all your experiences.

◦                      

◦                     3) if i didn't have my amazing wife and child, i'd probably use every tool in the book and then invent some to chase you down and tame you. well, not so much tame...

◦                      

◦                     4) i look forward to keeping in touch and following your goings on in the meantime.

◦                      

◦                     your beautiful mess is awesome. talk to you again in, um... i guess may, right? : )


I don't reply. But I'm not offended. It's typical. But then he wrote this:

•    




◦                     hey. this has been bugging me almost since i pushed send.

◦                      

◦                     even as a flirty compliment of a harmless (that was the intention, anyway) nature, i don't think i needed to send those remarks to you (read: number 3).

◦                     i'm relatively certain you get them and hear them all the time- to a point way past cheesy cliches. so consider this my attempt to recall portions of my last email. namely number 3 in it's entirety.

◦                      

◦                     i figure you deserve more from guys than you may get a lot of the time. i've even seen the cheese pour forth outright on replies to your posts.

◦                      

◦                     and where we may never get to being close enough to where it really matters, i still don't want to be thrown into the list of "those guys".

◦                      

◦                     nevermind the fact that, while my wife has some quirks that drive me up a fucking wall, she's a most amazing wife and mommy, and i don't suppose said remarks showed much respect to her, either.

◦                      

◦                     fuck. consciences really suck sometimes.

◦                      

◦                     FYI- numbers 1,2 and 4 still apply.

◦                      

◦                     sorry if this seems like an odd msg to get. it was just bugging me. i'm getting more reflective in my old(er) age.

◦                      

◦                     talk to you in a few months, i suppose. peace.

•    




•     

•    


So I replied. 

◦                     Lol. Enlightened being you are. I blow off compliments, appropriate or not, faster than most I suppose. I do however love your honesty. You should delete. I want your wife to like me when I acknowledge your support in my book (?!). Friends we be! Don't be so hard in yourself. I'm like a drug. You just need to put me in the right category. 

                                                                         -THE END

I trust this J because he was honest. Now we're better friends. He

knows what I conjure up for him and he addressed the shadow, and he's 

a better man for it. For the record, I have this effect on males and females.

People are simply honest with me. It's flattering. They trust me with their fears,

doubts, secrets, desires, wishes, insecurities, shortcomings, faults.

I like that. I want all my friends to be as helpful and honest as J was. 

Offer support when I need support.  Make sincere apologies when required. 

My serum is potent. Potentially powerful, never poisonous, plausibly pleasurable, potent.

You just have to decide where you're going to put me. That's all. 

Shadows

There's a shadow in my day.

Of the eight types of intimacies (see below), I want them all, most of the time, not most, some of the time. When some of the eight became shadows in my life, I just had to step out, accept them as a part of me, and shine a light on them.  I know what my favorite intimacies are, the ones I cannot go without. Do you? I don't think we can have it all, all of the time. But I think it's possible to have them all, most of the time.

Want, and love. And friendship. And peace.

I really, truly do believe you can have it all. It just takes work. I'm a hard worker. It will happen for me. What to do in the meantime.... shine a light on it.

Eight Types of Intimacies

l. AFFECTION

2. SOCIAL

3. EMOTIONAL

4. INTELLECTUAL

5. PHYSICAL

6. AESTHETIC

7. SPIRITUAL

8. SEXUAL

swinging in the purple

I have this problem with my mouth. It has a mind of its own. It's like Tourette Syndrome, but not as severe. I don't want to shout out obscenities or anything, just cliches, taglines, mottoes, cheers and shit like that. If I hear it in my mind, I have to speak it with my mouth. It's great at sporting events. It's not always helpful at work. I call it clichettes, and it sometimes strikes me at inappropriate times and words are off my tongue and out my mouth before the thought can even complete itself. Like the time my boss (who has a bit of a crush on me, a girl just knows these things) at a work related function introduced his wife and I as 'his wives' to a spouse of new colleague. Most women would likely be silent and not know what to do much less SAY something. I murmured "Mormons" in a voice I didn't recognize as my own until I was giggling and staring at his wife thinking, did he really just say that? Then I can't believe I said that....and I can't believe how I said that. And it just flew out. No substances involved, I swear. Way too sexy for work. Way, way bad because now I keep having dreams about his wife. Not him, but his WIFE. WTF? Now I have to steer clear of him for two reasons, if I talk to him, he'll give me work to do, which is not good and I try to avoid whenever possible, and now I can't help but thinking his wife is a guitar playing, long haired, fair skin, wicked smart, compassionate, good looking, flamenco dancing, hottie. Sister wives is an interesting concept actually, but I'd rather be the man in that scenario. HOLLA!  Just kiddin'. Heehee. In a nutshell, having clichettes is a bitch. It's never boring though.

Now where was I going with this.... ummm... ummm.... I will have to work on this losing my train of thought thing... .it wastes time and I fancy myself to be somewhat of a time snob. As I mentioned earlier, my mouth has a mind of its own. I don't like small talk. I don't like talking to boring or stupid people. I also don't like to spend any time out of my sweet spot, or my zone. Brain researchers call it the zone of proximal development, or zpd. It's that place that exists in a healthy brain where all communication and understanding takes effort, but nothing is too hard, or too easy; overall, it's a good fit. Stress doesn't really exist in the zone. It's a peaceful state to learn in, to work in, and overall get things done in. I use my zpd to decide a ton of shit. Like when work comes calling, and I'm given too much to do by my zpd scale (1 means it will take a little bit of time and cause a little stress, good for the goodness of the planet,  or 10 which is the exact opposite), I deflect it like the eighties girl I am and I 'just say no' and maybe a 'whatever.' For sure, right? ;) I tell my boss to Find someone else. Period. I emphasize the 'F' here and the period, because I like words that start with F. Period. Fun. Fortunate. Fornicate. Formulate. Funky. Fearless. Fabulous........and....Back to the zpd, so I don't care how much you pay me to spend my time, if I don't want to do it, there's no convincing me.

I spend my days, handing out time slots in all genres of my life. Family. Career. Home. Health. In my mind, they're color coded. Red (Family, love is red), green (Career, bring in the green), blue (Home, invites calm), yellow (Health, increase vitality). Those are my primaries. Then there's purple. I like to spend a lot of time in the purple. I have always LOVED purple! Purple is sexy. Purple is royalty, magic and mystery. That's why my new bed set is purple. I found this lovely, demure collection of satin and velour madness, but I've had this rule about new bed-sets. And, well, I had no reason to buy one, or need one. But this one had Big fluffy pillows and teeny tiny ones in shades of eggplant, cream, brown. I have this thing about colors and this other thing, about bed sets. I had to have this particular bed-set! I shopped it down to over 65% off, for over a year at one store, knowing it wouldn't sell at the original price ($45 per tiny pillow and it went up from there)! I shopped it right down to one of a kind left of each item I wanted, got the last king left, all on double coupon madness. I'm in love with this set. And all things purple.

Why? Because, I know color stimulates our mood and I'm in a colorful mood these days. I have my indoor and outdoor hammocks in full swing, finally! I love my friends, my life, my kids, my job. (If I was a slave to my job, I'd quit it. Fortunately, I love what I do and I chose it knowing the pay wasn't great. I've never regretted it). And despite the trials and tribulations of my journey, I'm a happy cat. It's not like it's some secret success formula. It's as easy as ABC's. 


A: If you do what you love, then you'll love what you do. 


B: Spend time with those you love. 


C: Change your bed set when you enter a new relationship. 


Better yet, let me be less obscure and more obvious, never lie with two men on the same bed set. Now if you're a hoe, that could get expensive. Maybe you should consider being less of a hoe. This means you choose who you lie down with, and give your body to, your spirit to, with more care than you do your bed set.

As far as my ideas on what's for the good of the planet, I'll be saving those words for another time because it's time to pull the reins on this ride so I may ride of into my purple world and maybe take a nap made of milk and honey and calm. May the force be with you.  

F@CK me already, no, really!

It's state exam time which means I'm slammed at work. I'm also an adjunct professor at FAU this semester, only because I felt the urge to cross off a 'to do' from last year's list. "Write Dr. R and thank her for hiring you last summer, invite summer employment, etc." I didn't expect her to invite me to teach this semester, but how could I say no when I could really use the money and the experience. So I have time to teach teens by day, parent girls by night, teach aspiring teachers (on Tuesday nights-until 10pm, way past my bedtime!) every week, and I'll get up and go as promised, even though right now I feel as sick as a dying dog, and I know I have to do it all over and over again for 16 weeks. Alone! It makes me sad to think I now have no one to take care of me when I'm sick. Adrian always took care of me. I got hour massages 3-4 times a week. A workout he loved and a pleasure that spoiled me right up until the final days. So, I'm down, that's for sure, but I'm also peeved to still be dealing with stolen identity crap.

I do not have time for thieves! Five phones were recently delivered in my maiden name. I only bank in my maiden name. I didn't order any phones. So, what else could it be... then the call comes, private caller, I don't answer. A very distinguished sounding man tells me the order was an error and UPS would be back to pick it up if I could just leave the package outside. Fuck! I wish I answered the phone. I would've been able to tell him off because he didn't identify himself by name or affiliation, and he blocked the call, only a dumb ass crook does that. I'm so glad I'm not a dumb ass.

Again, with my stolen identity. I apparently ordered a large screen TV from some online vendor back in September, and I caught that one because it came in my maiden name too. Hmmmm. Thankfully I write my maiden or hyphenated name on all bank documents because that TV envelope one looked like junk mail and I was about to toss it when I realized the name.

But, what I don't understand is how I could open a Sprint account when I have a fraud alert with everything fucking credit agency. How, how, how? When the cop comes, he tells me someone stole the identities of all the officers at his stations and even his income tax return was cashed because of it. The fucking cops! I asked him isn't there a rule, a mob/cop rule about that!? He laughed and asked 'who' I live with and said he could see that I have kids. I told him there's a rule about those kinds of questions and sent him on his merry way. Plus, I've seen that cop film, the one with Ray Liotta, I think and the long haired lady, (I suck with names). That movie freaked me out; he knew the codes and was above the law. That's another reason I have never and will never date a cop. There's just something not right about a guy who loves a gun. Unless he's a cowboy. Rules for cowboys (see below) make me want to find me a cowboy. And I don't even like country music. But I did meet this guy coming out of my daughters' performing arts studio last year. Apparently he's a pretty famous guy. I just wanted to watch him play and sing because I saw the door open and the music was really loud (it was rehearsal Jake Owen at Round Up). I didn't know who he was because I don't much like country music. But he didn't look country and they were playing Stone Temple Pilots or Metallica, I can't remember, but I know my STP and Metallica, and this was a country bar he was playing in. I'm not big on guys in tight jeans with cowboy boots and hat, or guys that hunt. No thanks. But, if you read over their rules, that my friends, is a mighty fine man. And this cowboy wore surfer shorts and flip flops and by looking at his career, he hunts dreams instead of animals. Hmmm. Next time I'm offered tickets, I'm saying YES! But, that was when A and I were trying to fix each other. I ain't broke. I can tell you that. Neither is he. Together, we are broke. Not apart.

This is a strange, but interesting time for me, nonetheless. Stolen IDentities, Surfer Looking Cowboys, Clueless Cops, Mafia Bosses, and the 10 Commandments.  I'm an original sinner (4, 5, 8 and 10 to be honest). 4/10! Oh my!

The BBC reports that when Italian police searched a Mafia boss' hideout, they found a list of ten rules for proper mafioso etiquette.  

1. No-one can present himself directly to another of our friends. There must be a third person to do it.

2. Never look at the wives of friends.

3. Never be seen with cops.

4. Don't go to pubs and clubs.

5. Always being available for Cosa Nostra is a duty - even if your wife's about to give birth.

6. Appointments must absolutely be respected.

7. Wives must be treated with respect.

8. When asked for any information, the answer must be the truth.

9. Money cannot be appropriated if it belongs to others or to other families.

10. People who can't be part of Cosa Nostra: anyone who has a close relative in the police, anyone with a two-timing relative in the family, anyone who behaves badly and doesn't hold to moral values.

Compare it to Gene Autry's Cowboy Code from 1930.  

1. The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man or take an unfair advantage.

2. A Cowboy must never go back on his word, or a trust confided in him.

3. A Cowboy must always tell the truth.

4. A Cowboy must be gentle with children, the elderly and small animals.

5. A Cowboy must not advocate or possess racially or religiously intolerant views and ideas.

6. A Cowboy must help people in distress.

7. A Cowboy must be a good worker.

8. A Cowboy must keep himself clean in thought, speech, action and personal habits.

9. A Cowboy must respect women, parents and his nation's views.

10. A Cowboy is a patriot.

The original Ten Commandments.

1. Thou shalt have no other gods before me  
2. Thou shalt not make for thyself an idol

3. Thou shalt not make wrongful use of the name of thy God

4. Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy

5. Honor thy Father and Mother

6. Thou shalt not murder

7. Thou shalt not commit adultery

8. Thou shalt not steal

9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor

10. Thou shalt not covet

P.S. I thank my girlfriends who text and say, 'were you drunk when you wrote that?' because it forces me to go back and reread and edit certain posts. Not that I want to edit the thoughts, but sometimes the grammar is fucked up. Oh, and if you're wondering, I don't really curse in person. I save cursing for close friends and Big occasions. ;) So, if you don't like the cursing, I'm so sorry, but get the fuck off my blog. ;)

My Fugly Possum

A possom messed up my mojo yesterday. There I was, giving the pool and patio some love, ready to clean up and there he was, shacking up, being ugly, and dying. CRAP! Why now? Fugly, creepy, tail of a rat, and face only a mother could love, the saddest looking marsupial of all, why are you dying in my side yard, wtf?!  Who am I gonna call? Really? Now? (Ghostbusters and Maroone come to mind).

In the morning, he appeared to be playing possum, until my neighbor poked him and then he closed his mouth. By late afternoon, the flies started swirling, and then I knew, he was no longer playing possum, he was dead. How am I going to clean up the patio with a dead or dying varmint? I almost vomited on that idea and omitted it. I'm going to have to hire someone.

Pool love requires manual labor. Pool love isn't going to be free because I don't do possums. Snakes, now snakes, I can do. Snakes want to get away from you as much as you want to get away from snakes. But pissed off possums, they may fight back; it crossed my mind he could be a 'she' in labor. Anything is possible in my mind. All this disturbs my mojo. I'm starting to wonder how long I care to tend and mend this home, and its yard, and its pool, and its insatiable desires.  I have desires all my own. And they don't involve fugly (that's fucking ugly, in case you were wondering) possums. Marsupials that are warm and fuzzy, like kangaroos or koalas, sure, but possums, are not on my list of desires.

I wonder if I can find a bighearted handyman, named Manuel Labor. Wouldn't that be fun? True story: I had a student once named Female. When I asked this youngster how she got the name she said her mother didn't know English (they were fresh out of Haiti) and she misunderstood the question on the birth registration form. So, in America, she's Female. LOL. I kid you not, all her school forms said Female. Plus, no one cared to ask, so they all just called her by that name. The lunch lady, the other teachers, even her classmates until I came along. I wish I remembered her name, but of course, I can't, because I suck with names, but she liked my class. She, that is, Female, always smiled when I pulled her out of class to come to her 'special' class. I have a picture of that class somewhere. I bet I'll remember her name if I can see her face. I'm great with faces. Never forget a face. I never do.

I also don't forget promises. I try to never make a promise I can't keep. It's hard to never make a promise you can't keep. I promised to love despite all else I see. I will not be deterred by a possum, just momentarily derailed. How am I to take care of everything without missing something? A rental property is looking practical given the times. Still, I cannot fathom the idea of moving right now. It's there in the back of my mind, but right now, I'm staying put, and cleaning up, and loving on my home like I promised myself when I started the year. Love above all else. Choose love above all else, in all things I do, and it will become a habit, above all else.

Nine Inch Nails - Down in it

I was raised by ELLE magazine

How does a young girl learn to take care of herself and survive in a house with no mother, two older, stubborn brothers and an old school father? By reading magazines. That's how. When I was about 10, my father thoughtfully subscribed to ELLE magazine for me. I can tell you this, ELLE is not for ten year old girls; I never complained though, I was excited it wasn't some teeny-bopper rag mag full of pictures that I'd get bored with in a day. I didn't understand half the shit I was reading in ELLE, but I managed to figure it out. Just when I'd finish an issue, the next one would come. I never did HW because of ELLE, ever.  I scoured every issue from cover to cover well into my teenage years. The fashion, I skipped mostly. I wanted to know more about the make-up, the hair, the skin care, the articles. I learned about Sanskrit ruins and how to take care of your self from head to toe, all from ELLE magazine.  


Even if ELLE didn't come into my life, I never liked HW, but I loved to read. I read magazines and a lot of the books that my father had read except for scary ones like 'Helter Skelter.' My father is an avid reader and hoards an extensive collection of books. We always had a home-made, cedar library to hold them in. It wasn't rare for us to be left alone in the tween years and one day I climbed the sturdy cedar shelf to see what that big RED book was all about and why was it was turned backward so the spine didn't show and that was my first introduction to sex... THE JOY OF SEX, in full color, bigger than an altas book. The center of the book was a shocker to say the least. I blushed and gasped all the way through that sucker and quickly put it away and turned back to ELLE for the rest of the day. I remember feeling, I am a woman now that I know that. I felt different when my dad came home. No one noticed and believe it or not, I only revisited it maybe two more times my whole life since (he still has it). I feel like I was raised by ELLE with a sprinkling of Oprah, and a heaping of Leo Buscaglia, of course.

It wasn't until I had children of my own, and I had to take care of a very depressed spouse that I learned ELLE had taught me much of what I needed to know to take care of myself which led me to be a good mom, friend and wife. G-d knows I never had an adult family member to lead by example. I craved a female companion and found it in ELLE. Now I have three companions who adore me and think I can do no wrong. I'll keep my super hero status as long as possible. 

Life is too short to live in the gray for any length of time. I've had enough gray. I've been there long enough. I want all the colors. I want all the pieces that I desire and deserve. 


Thanks ELLE for showing me what was possible...

bakin' up some love

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Imagine a cupcake filled with a chocolate chip cookie...yum!

I've been eating too many cupcakes. Birthdays and holidays and baking days and I'm all sugared out. But my girls and I, we love us some sweets. We love to bake our food and I have a 'secret' ingredient I put in all our recipes. I'm pretty sure I got this idea from an Oprah show. I keep it in the spice cabinet in a tiny treasure chest leftover from some toy set. Only my oldest knows what's in it because I offered to tell her once she could make something from scratch. So, she got busy. Now my six year old daughter wants to know the secret, but she's not quite ready for the oven or the stove, so I tell her she's too little to use that ingredient yet. Don't tell, but there's nothing in that treasure chest except what I wrote on the bottom in sharpie marker. L O V E.  I pretend to sprinkle 'something' when I open it and then I stash it up high. . When my oldest mastered blueberry muffins, I let her look. She got it. She smiled and said 'aw, mom, I won't tell. Can I use it?" She also knows about Santa Claus. My next daughter is likely to be mad and make some flippant remark like "that's it, that's all" like the time I gave her clothes for Christmas when she was five. She put her hands up in shock and said "Clothes! I want toys, but thanks mommy..."

So my focus in life right now is to get busy baking up some love. Mother Daughter Love. Friend to Friend Love. Pet Love. Home Love. Garden Love. Get the Pool Ready for Spring Love. I am not a wife, or a sister, or a niece, or an aunt anymore. So I will collect love when and where I can find it. I collect people too. Those people know when I've scooped them up into Dawnland. I love them. I tell them. I show them. I especially love to collect other kindred spirits who much like myself, seek out their own kind. I love lovers. You can't fake being a lover. If you aren't a lover, chances are I can figure you out in one sniff. Lovers love. Lovers would never intentionally hurt another soul. And if they do, they feel badly for it. Lovers also know other lovers when they see them. There's always a hug. Eye contact. Smiles. A hello and of course a good-bye. They are soul mates. They already know each other.

I'm a lover, but more importantly, I'm a lover who wants to teach love. Does that make sense? I'd teach self love on my syllabus first. It's not too original of an idea. It's been done before. In fact, one of my favorite educators is the late Leo Buscaglia, or as they called him at USC, Dr. Love. He taught a class called 'LOVE1A' once a year at USC. Love1A was free, not a required class, and no grade would be received after having finished it; so naturally, it was the most popular class on campus. I'm one of those fortunate educators that was introduced to his ideas and books early on and devoured them all as I began my professional career. I  knew I needed a leader that was at least speaking a language I already understood. Dr. Love became my surrogate parent and mentor.

To me, the art of teaching is that often that you teach best when you teach what you confidently know after you learned by experience exactly what not to do. It's when you are unconsciously competent, that is, you don't even have to think about the subject you teach, it comes to you effortlessly, you are good at it, and if you're really talented, it comes to you naturally.  It's the act of self reflecting and creating a plan better than the last one. To me, to love, is to honor love above all else which is why I get so mad at haters. Haters only want to hate. I'm very fond of telling haters off. I really should love haters. Only a fully enlightened human being loves the haters. I'm not there yet. Haters are like moths, seekers of light, but if you are a hater and you get too close to me, I will burn you.  Being a flame, I attract my share of moths. Because I have a keen sense other people's emotions, I try to give the moths what they crave. Light and Love! As such, I always try to reflect openness and kindness as opposed to distance and cruelty because I feel that's how we find happiness, by reflecting it and when we reflect happiness and love the more people will be happy and if more people are happy more people are happy and the more we love the more we grow and well you get the fucking point, right? Soul mates aren't just for lovers either. Any relationship that makes you evolve into a better version of yourself is a soul mate, IMO. 

Dr. Love taught me you have to love you in order to love you. You cannot honor your body, your mind, or your spirit without first honoring your self. What I've learned over the past few years is that if you put everyone first, in spite of yourself, you will inevitably fail.  Just like we are instructed to put the oxygen mask on in case of an emergency on a plane, you have to put yourself first, if you want your plane to stay airborne. Otherwise, eventually it's crash and burn. We are all born with gifts and are worthy of happiness and love. Not everyone believes they deserve either, nor do they go searching for it so directly. I know what works for me. Point. Aim. Shoot. 

Lucky

We rescued this dog a while back named "Lucky." IMO, any rescue named Lucky should be given a new name because they aren't lucky if they ended up in a rescue. You may as well call a dog Lucifer, or unLucky. This dog was a nightmare. He changed our home for the worse. My motto has always been once a member of the family, always a member of the family, but this guy peed on the beds and barked when ice cubes fell in the ice maker. I tried everything to help him. There was no training this dog and that's coming from a behaviorist. If I can train a cat to pee in the toilet, then I figured I could train a dog to calm his nerves. I couldn't. (I later learned it's in his breed). Lucky drove me insane. He just had to go. I knew the girls were going to freak out when I brought him back, but they got over it and rarely bring up his name unless to admit he was a pain in the ass. They do miss his submissively sweet self.

And that's when the idea came to me. I've been searching for ways to get out my pain using my creativity. I dance. I write. I read. There's more in there, I need to help someone suffering. My problem is I haven't decide if I should write a book for children, adolescents, or adults. I can see a coloring book series for kids coping with crises or maybe a coming of age story about kids coping with divorce called "The D Club." My girls seem to feel Different now. They are in Disbelief. They Don't understand. Having been there myself, I know how they feel. I'll let my creativity lead the way and I know that either way, it's story about a lucky girl who was once unlucky, and the end of the story is a happy one.

I need to know what happened to the dog Lucky. I hope he found an old lady with nothing to do but sit and pet him. He'd bark at an intruder, or an ice cube and she/he'd be happy to have someone to holler at. I'm crossing my fingers he has a happy ending.

disappearing

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Part of me, is disappearing

Part of me, is glad

I'm out to sea again

Little do they know

I thrive in my watery exile

I've built a sandbar all my own

I'm safe here

Alone

No one can hurt me here

I float in the shallows 

a reef teeming with friends 

that keep away 

the surging waves

Coldplay Fix You 

airless bags

      My little before dawn traveler came in bed last night with her usual sweet, chatty comments. You a good gurl, she purrs in my ear ever so quietly. I lie motionless. Yeah, but mommy, you always been good. Still, I don't move. Actually, we both awre. Silent me smiles. So she adds, I saw dat. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know I'm a light sleeper, or that I'd much prefer to stay up and chat with this little sweetpea, but I know better. A full day lies ahead. If I chat a little, we'll both wake up tired tomorrow. Tired moms are not efficient or effective. 

          Soon, maybe real soon, everyone in this house will know how to properly sleep in on the weekends. Until then, middle of the night travelers get the silent treatment because our weekends are just as important as the weekdays. We cram in two full days of family time and then spend the rest of the week waiting for the next weekend. There are many prayers, long stories told and pictures drawn that consist entirely of dreaming up the perfect week. Stories that involve the "weekend becoming the weekdays" and vice verse. But then, who'd pay the bills if we play five days a week and work two. It does sound like a great plan I always remind. But, we live in a world were only 1% of our great nation  likely lives that way. Being the grown up in the house, I squash all fanciful talk and remind them to keep dreaming, but in the meantime, go be productive or play. As for me, I'm just thankful I don't have to work on the weekends. I did that for a long time. It's not all that much fun. I remind myself of my weekends at their age and I use those memories as a barometer for the inevitable complaints that bounce around the walls here. I have a suitcase full of childhood baggage that is tucked way up high in some compartment in my brain. I've made peace with it all. I forgive everyone involved. But, it's all there. Up high. Packed away. All the oxygen sucked away. Like one of those bags...what are those bags called? The ones that suck out the air? I did that to my childhood baggage. What the hell is that bag called? Uh? Um? Well, anyway, that rocky bag is hard as hell, lumpy, and I don't have any plans of opening it. But, it is there. It is a part of me. Like ashes to a flame.

            Weekends in the 70's, during my childhood, were much different than today. Weekends were unpredictable. Like the weather. Since my dad sometimes worked on the weekends, I knew that meant two things. My mom would either keep us home or take us to the beach where we were free to roam the ocean, dig for hours in the sand, or skate the long stretch of concrete that some like to call the broadwalk. I wish it was called a boardwalk because that would make the song make sense, but it wasn’t made of boards and you definitely couldn’t be under it. It was our home away from home. We'd either be there or we’d be stuck at home, with mom. All day. 

            Even the rain could not stop us from at least driving to the beach. If you lived as close to the ocean as we did, well, you knew perfectly well that it could be glorious and sunny in one spot on the sand and a there could be a thunderous downpour only yards away. We always took our chances. The only time we didn't stay is if there was lightning. Otherwise, we'd just wait out the storm. Mostly because we’d all rather watch the mood swings of the Florida water cycle than bear witness to the weather changes that plagued my moms mind as she mulled around the house. My early photos in my mind are filled with snapshots of my mom walking around the house singing and crying. The singing sounded nice. The crying sounded like it hurt. 

           As a little girl, I was sweet and simple, the type of kid who could always find something interesting to immerse myself in. And that’s why it was always such a shock. Barbie, who actually resembled my mom a lot, (but my mom had black hair and blue eyes), and I would be immersed in some activity; we’d be listening to music, trying on clothes and mom would just flip a switch. It was never me who flipped her switch. But it was me, or my dad (which depended on whether he was the offender or not), who came to the rescue. I don’t remember the conversations, but I clearly remember my feeling of shock at seeing her sob, and that my instant reaction was to make it okay. I’d yell at the boy or man that made her cry. I'm about four the first time I remember her in this state. The problem with coming to her rescue, I later learned, was that sometimes, it was the radio who was the offender. We always had music on, and I always sang along, I’d see a certain song trigger a reaction and I tried so hard figure out what the words meant. “Bears, only love you when they’re playing.” It wasn’t until years later when I heard the song as an adult that I realized it was PLAYERS, only love you when they’re playing. And it wasn’t until I had children of my own singing the words to songs that I knew they had no idea the meaning of, that I asked my mom about those days. 

            “Who was playing you, mom?” was the question and the story told was the first one that allowed me to have some empathy for her that had never existed before. I found out that day that her first sexual experience was a rape. Her next was with my father and next thing she knew she was married with three small children to, who could easily be described as, Arthur Fonzarelli. My father was a bit of an Fonzi growing up. He looked older than he was, rode a motorcycle, and if Greaser comes to mind, just add athletic, Jewish carpenter who also loves football and that’s my father. My mom was a 'knockout' as a teenager and was often mistaken for a celebrity when she was out. So much finally made sense that never did after this conversation.

          I felt my deeply Jewish roots branching out in every direction growing leaves that will cycle through seasons of change, the leaves withstanding all the sacrifices and injustices the tree has ever known. All parts nourished by the light from above. Light lovers. Lovers of light. Seekers of light. If I were a better science student, I'd tell you the name of that process where the plant seeks the light. I read about it even recently. Photobiotic? (I think I just made that up). It's a photosynthesis and a biology thing-  um? um? uhhh?

Got it!  Space Bags! Phototropic, Space Bags.

Fleetwood Mac, Players Only Love You When They're Playing

eye for an eye

--> Every time we hear about a child abuse sex scandal it puts us both in a funk. I know how it feels to carry the secret, the shame, for myself, and for my soon to be x-husband. We also know how it feels to tell those you think will help and they don't. When it hits the sports world, it hits home even more.

I already have an aversion to macho jocks and obsessed football fans like the ones who were more concerned with the coaching staff at U of Miami and Penn State than the boys who were raped and changed for life. Who the fuck cares who replaces Paterno? Is that really your first thought jocko?

How can justice be served for those boys? It won't change those affected to hate, castrate, or incarcerate the molesters. I know that. It's much bigger than that. We have to change our minds as a society. Why was it acceptable for these allegations to be dismissed? Why can school systems hide behind a bureaucratic infrastructure? They have established rules of testing, monitoring and reporting students financially and academically. How could their systems be so advanced for students and so lacking for coaching staff? Well, I know it's because the athletic program brings the university a gluttony of money, fame, and pride.  I hope enrollment at Penn State is heavily affected. I hope Jerry Sandusky goes to jail. I've heard what happens to people like him. It's a small sliver of punishment, but I'm a firm believer in an 'eye for an eye' style of justice.

The little angel on my shoulder says, NO, that's not the way. Only love will heal. Only kindness will reveal a solution. But, right now, I'd like to shoot that man in the asshole so that it comes out the other side leaving him dick-less and full of anal fissures for life.

Rage Against the Machine, Killing in the Name of  Read more…