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Love, Part 1

03.14.2017

I met my first husband in line for the bathroom at a St. Patrick’s Day themed frat party twenty five years ago this month.  With such an auspicious beginning, who would have guessed that it wouldn’t last?  I nearly didn’t meet him at all, as I was about to leave the party because some drunk frat boy had just smacked me on the butt.  I realized my cup was empty when I went to throw my green beer on him.  I ended up shaking my cup at him and yelling, “Not nice!”  while he laughed and shrugged like, “Whoops, my bad!”  It was time to go. 

I didn’t want to ride the subway with a bladder full of green beer, so I got in the long bathroom line and the guy in front of me turned around, smiled and said hi. I was going to smile vacantly and look through him, but I noticed that he looked kind of like Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything, which is a stupid reason to fall for someone, but I was 20 and it was a good time to fall.  I opened my mouth and something super sexy came out, “I really have to pee, so don’t stink up the bathroom or use up all the toilet paper.”  I was a sweet talking devil.  How could he resist?  He laughed and was waiting for me when I came out, so we sat on a couch and started talking.  I found out that he was not one of the frat boys, but was home on spring break from his college, which was four hours away.  Frankly, this made him even more attractive to me, as I tended to be far more enthusiastic about romances that seemed like they would be excitingly short-lived.  It soon became clear to the fratties that Lloyd (not his real name, but let’s just go with it) was not one of them, and they not-so subtly asked him to leave.  He and I, along with my sweet roommate, who had been waiting while I chatted up Mr. Say Anything, got in a cab headed back to our dorm.  My roommate was heading to bed and Lloyd asked me if I wanted to get coffee.  I always say yes to coffee. 

It was a magical night, lightly snowing and cold with a big bright moon giving off a glow that gave the trees and sidewalks a sparkly luminescence.  I am not made of stone.  How was I not going to fall in love with him?  We walked to Harvard Square together and sat at the counter of a diner called The Tasty and had coffee and talked more.  Elton John’s Rocket Man started playing and he said his dad used to call him the Rocket Man and made him a t-shirt with the nickname emblazoned on it that he wore all the time when he was a little boy.  After our coffee we went into the Store 24 and bought gummy worms and other candy that you can eat at 2 AM when you are 20, yet still avoid heartburn and belly fat.  I saw a card that had a picture of a chubby guy sitting at a diner counter and inside it said, “missing you” and I told him he should buy it and send it to me and he bought it.  Then we walked back to my dorm and sat in the lounge watching MTV and eating gummy worms and milk duds, and we talked on and on all night.  When it was light out, we wrote our phone numbers on the back of a jello box (I seriously had eaten jello for dinner that night.  How was I even alive with that kind of diet?) and then I walked him out.  At the door he leaned in and kissed me and I remember it being this monumental thing, where I thought, “Whoa….something big is happening.”  Maybe it was lack of sleep and too much sugar, but that was the first kiss I’d ever had where I saw fireworks.

We spent nearly every day and night of the next week together and then he had to go back to school.  I was sad that he was leaving, but it didn’t seem sensible to try a long distance relationship.  The morning he left, we said that maybe we’d get together next time he was in town and kissed goodbye.  I was a little relieved that it was over, because the week with him had been way more intense than anything I’d ever experienced romance-wise and I felt like I needed to catch my breath.  I was watching tv with my friends that night, when the phone rang and it was Lloyd, drinking at a bar near his school.  He said, “I was wrong, I think we should give a long distance thing a try.  I don’t want to wait and see.” I was surprised, but thrilled.  I threw caution to the wind and said yes.

Everything about love was so new to me.  I’d had a couple of boyfriends before, but it had never been like this.  It all seemed like magic.  He wrote me letters from school and would draw me funny cartoons and write silly poems.  He took a train and a bus and traveled a ridiculous amount of hours just to come see me every couple of weeks.  We were crazy about each other and never seemed to run out of things to talk about.  We came up with silly ideas and stories and laughed like maniacs.  We made each other mix-tapes.  Plus, we were both young and adorable and having the type of sex that young people with endless energy, are limber and need very little sleep have.  Lots and varied.  Ah youth.  I found a way to stay in Boston for the summer while he was home from school (four part-time jobs!) and we spent all of our non-work time together.  We loved taking long ambling walks through the city.  Sometimes we’d ride the subway to a stop we’d never been to, then get out and walk around for hours. The first time he asked me to marry him, we were on a late night walk,  just four months after we met.  Our summer together was ending in a matter of weeks and we were both starting to get anxious. “We should get married!” he said and I just laughed.  But he stopped and spun me around so that he was looking in my eyes and said, “I’m totally serious.  Let’s get married.” 

“But we can’t!  We’re too young!”  I said.  I adored him more than I’d ever adored anyone in my life, but I had no interest in being a wife.  I still had two more years of college.  He said we could do it and still finish school.  Maybe we could just secretly get married,  and we wouldn’t even have to tell anyone? That idea actually appealed to me.  I like secrets and I am prone to doing ridiculous things on a whim.  We didn’t do it, though.  Before he left to go back to school he bought me a gold ring with a little heart-shaped amethyst stone in the center.  “Will you wear it on your left hand?” he asked.  “I want everyone to know you are mine.”  That sounded like passionate adoration to me back then. I was all in.

We should have done it.  We should have made that spectacular mistake early.  Gotten it out of the way and been divorced before we could do any major damage to each other.  Instead we had a long distance relationship while we were in college, then moved to Texas together so that he could go to graduate school.  He asked me to marry him again when we’d been together 6 years.  This time it wasn’t romantic.  We’d been growing apart and fighting more and more.  And then he had a health scare, something minor that seemed major, and when we got back from the doctor he said, “Maybe we should get married?”  And I said, “Sure, why not?”  And we tried to plan a wedding, but neither of us was really interested, so we flew to Vegas and got hitched in the Chapel of Love.  Maybe it was an attempt to get back to the days when we were younger and frivolous and did wild things together.  Eloping in Vegas is some wild and crazy fun. 

Sadly, I’d say that was the last time we ever had crazy fun together.  Things quickly went to shit after that.  The jealousy and possessiveness I’d mistaken for passionate love in him was starting to smother me.  He seemed to disapprove of everyone in my life: friends, family, anyone that took my focus off of him.  I somehow thought that marriage would make this better, that he would feel more secure and loosen up a bit, but it seemed to make it worse.  Two months after we married, we had a huge fight where he was angry at me for talking on the phone with my sister when he wanted me to watch tv with him.  He yelled at me and punched a wall, and I grabbed our car keys and took off.  I drove around aimlessly thinking, “I’ve made a huge mistake and I am going to need to get out of this marriage.”  But I stuck it out for two more years.  I always loved him and I kept hoping that the stress of both of us being in graduate school was our biggest problem.  We still seemed really compatible, as long as I didn’t spend too much time away from him.  And working full-time while going to grad school didn’t give me much opportunity for a social life, so things just went along for a while. 

He was at the point in his academic career where he was teaching his own classes, while working on his dissertation.  He seemed restless and unhappy.  He began telling me salacious stories about a colleague who was having an affair with a student and I was fascinated and repelled.  Somewhere in the back of my mind it began to dawn on me that he knew way too many details about this affair.  One day I came home from class and he smelled like a fruity shampoo that we didn’t own.  He left to go play basketball that evening and without thinking, I logged into his email.  I’m not sure what drove me to do it.  I’d never done anything like that before, but it was easy because his password was my name.  I found a chain of his emails with a college friend of his, whom he was supposed to be meeting in New Orleans that weekend.  It was all about keeping a secret from me.  It said, “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her I’m with you if she calls.”  And it ended with “Fuck your brains out this weekend!”  So then I knew.

I’m not saying I was perfect.  I know I can be petty and mean.  Conveniently, I can only rememer two instances of my egregiously bad behavior towards him.  One was in college when we’d had a fight and I hung up on him, then got all dressed up and went to a party.  I met a guy and ended up making out with him in a bathroom stall, standing on a toilet.  I thought it was hot at the time and now I can’t believe I didn’t get flesh eating bacteria.  The other thing is shitty, but not nearly as gross.  Once he was sitting on our bed, shirtless and I went over and poked him in the belly and made that “hee-hee” sound like he was the Pillsbury Dough Boy.  This seems way meaner to me now that my stomach will never be flat again, due to having three babies.  These days, I’d cut somebody who poked me and made the Doughboy sound.  Then I would cry.  But at the time I laughed maniacally at him while he stared at me in horror.   

Also, that amethyst heart ring he bought me?  I lost it.  He had another one made for me a few years later and I lost that one too.  I was appallingly careless back then.  But it may have been symbolic.  That ring and that relationship sometimes made me feel smothered and I would take it off for a while to breathe and be myself again.  I think I knew it wouldn’t last, but I still hoped it would.  Maybe he felt the same way.  

When I found out he was cheating, I was devastated and furious.  I kicked him out of our apartment and proceeded to cut all of the crotches out of his pants and underwear, then folded them up in a box for him to take with him.  Surprise, asshole!  I threw out all of the love letters he’d written me in college, including the “missing you” card from the night we met.  I gave him back my wedding ring and told him it didn’t mean anything to me and I never wanted to see it again.  I held on to being angry, because when I wasn’t angry I felt more lost and desolate than I ever had in my life.  I divorced him, even though I still loved him, because I thought that he’d end up ruining me if I let him stay.  I don’t think it was the wrong decision, but it was one of the hardest things I ever did.  

I wish I hadn’t thrown out all of our love letters.  I wish I hadn’t let my second husband convince me to throw out the three wedding pictures that I had from my time with Lloyd.  I wish I hadn’t lost the heart rings.  I have no physical evidence left of that relationship and sometimes it feels like it never really happened.  I’m writing it down now, while I still have the memory to do so.  It’s already flawed and missing pieces, but I can still remember that feeling of first real love, long before things got so sad and ugly between us.  It was a pure and beautiful thing.  He and I aren’t in touch today.  I once ran into him at the gym a few years after we split and we had a nice conversation.  I haven’t seen him since then, 12 or 13 years ago.  I’m not really interested in knowing him now and I don’t want him to know me.  But I am glad that he was my first real love and also that he was my first real heartbreak.  The love we shared opened me up to so many good things.  When you’re in love, I think you learn to be generous, kind and vulnerable in ways that you never have before.  Maybe that’s why we keep doing it, taking the leap even though it can turn on you.  It makes all good things even better.  But the heartbreak from that relationship taught me that I was strong, brave and resilient and that I was capable of picking myself up and moving forward on my own.  It has been immensely helpful to know that in my life.  I am grateful for all of it.

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Most Influential

05.01.2019

A few weeks ago I read that Christine Blasey Ford was on Time Magazine’s list of 100 most influential people.  It would be so much more of an honor if Brett Kavanaugh weren’t on that very same list.  That seems utterly perverse to me. I’m not sure what that list really means and who thought it was a good idea to put both of them on it.  But those hearings were certainly memorable, with the sniffing, the outrage, the inky social calendar with references to all the beer and the bitter crocodile tears of a man who seemed like he might not get what he wanted for the first time, ever.  What really affected me, and most of the women I know,  was the woman whose voice shook as she told a story of a traumatic night that happened many years ago.  She testified to all of this in front of an audience of strangers, many of whom didn’t believe her and/or didn’t care. 

The unsurprising conclusion to all of it was a kick in the gut to me.  I knew what was going to happen, but it still hurt. But still, those hearings and Christine Blasey Ford’s courageous testimony were very influential to me, in a way that has changed my life.  Her bravery in the face of horrific judgment and backlash is something I won’t forget. And a part of her testimony gave me a small but amazing gift:  the permission to not be ok.  Hear me out.   (Or don’t.  You can probably tell where this is going, so you may want to skip it. After all there are so many of these stories.)

Many years ago, I was in the process of divorcing my first husband, although I still loved him deeply.  It was the right thing to do and I knew it.  I was learning how to take care of myself and follow my own instincts. During this time I met a man, a friend of my dear friend and roommate’s boyfriend who was also going through a divorce.  He seemed like nice guy.  He would come by our apartment with the boyfriend, his toolbox in hand and fix things without our even having to ask.  He asked me out on dates and I demurred at first because my heart was broken, but at some point I said yes.  We dated for about a month and I never felt much of anything for him.  He seemed nice most of the time, but he drank in a way that alarmed me sometimes.  I slept with him just once, toward the end of the month I was seeing him.  I felt guilty about it, though, because I didn’t love him and didn’t think I’d ever love him.  That really mattered to me back then. 

He could tell.  I went to his company party at the lake and he got wasted.  A colleague’s wife referred to me as his girlfriend and I blurted, “Oh I’m not his girlfriend, we’re just dating.”  I knew immediately that I’d fucked up.  He was quiet and cold for the rest of the night.  Late in the evening we were walking on a path by the lake and I said something else he didn’t like and he shoved me hard.  Falling to my knees, I remember thinking, “Ah yes, there it is.”  He quickly pulled me to my feet, apologizing and acting like it was an accident, but I knew.  I pretended it was all fine and dropped him at his place, feigning exhaustion.  I called him the next day and broke it off.  He was livid.  He was still yelling at me when I shakily hung up the phone.  But I knew I’d done the right thing. 

We hung out in the same circle, so I saw him now and again over the next several weeks.  He glared at me occasionally, but didn’t speak to me.  I felt really guilty about hurting his feelings.  I felt like I’d messed up.  Six week after I’d ended things, I saw him at a Halloween party.  I was dressed in a short plaid skirt, like a sexy school girl.  This is one of those things that shouldn’t be relevant.  I wasn’t wearing it for him, but that doesn’t matter, either.  He came up to me and was friendly and I was stupidly relieved.  He wasn’t mad anymore! We could be friends again.  He offered to get me a drink.  It was my second of the evening.  I think that fact is relevant.  He handed me a tall drink and we kept chatting as I sipped it.  It probably was a jack and coke, because I liked those a lot back then.  It was sweet and bubbly and I don’t remember anything weird about the taste of it.  I drank half of it.  And at some point I realized that I didn’t feel right, but it was too late to do anything about it. I don’t remember much of the party after that, but I’m told that I passed out and he sat in a room with me laying in his lap.  He told people I drank too much and he was taking care of me.  Everyone knew we’d dated, so I’m sure it seemed sweet. He carried me out of that party and brought me back to his house.  At some point I woke up in his bed with him.  I didn’t know why I was there.  I didn’t have my underwear or my shoes on and for some reason I was way more concerned about my shoes.  I really wanted my shoes.  

Don’t worry, I don’t remember any of this well enough to share any gory and upsetting details with you. Whatever he *allegedly* put in my drink makes me a terrible witness.  I’m sure this would be relevant in a court of law, but we are not in one, so who cares?  I remember asking him why I was there and he said, “You wanted to come here.”  I said I didn’t think so, and I instantly knew that I’d fucked up again.  That man knew how to exude rage without having to raise his voice.  He was talking to me quietly but I don’t remember most of what he said.  The only part of it I remember was him asking me if I “just fucked everybody?” and I only remember that because a couple of years ago, some asshole friend of a guy I was dating put his arm around me and asked me that same question, out of nowhere, and the jolt of terror that went through me at that moment took my breath away.  I didn’t fuck everybody.  Then or now or ever.  But none of that has ever or will ever be relevant.  Back in that bed that night, that man was very angry at me.  I wasn’t sure why, but  I knew I was in trouble.  He kept talking and at some point I put my hand on his arm and said, “It’s ok.”  I don’t know who I was talking to, him or me.  But I know that it’s relevant, in that I can’t call what happened later rape.  I never said no. In fact, I said it was ok.  I thought that would make it better, but it’s the last of many things that I was wrong about that night.

For the next month or so I still ran into him.  And when I did, I went home with him.  He always wanted me to leave with him and it seemed pointless not to.  This fact has seemed very relevant to some of the people I’ve told this story to and they have judged me for it accordingly.  I judged myself too.  I can’t say why I did it.  That month was a blur and I couldn’t really feel anything.  I also couldn’t eat anymore.  I lost nearly 15 pounds in just four weeks.  It was the single most effective diet I’ve ever been on! I didn’t have much of a voice, either. I’ve always been quiet, but I could barely talk, especially around him.  That made him almost as angry as when I did talk.  Nothing really worked with him.  Sometimes I wondered if he was going to kill me, but I didn’t really care because some part of me wanted to die. 

I was seeing a psychologist back then and attended a weekly support group of his depressed patients.  Toward the end of that month someone in the group said they were worried about me because I was even more quiet than usual.  I suddenly blurted out what had happened on that bad night.  A sweet guy with a blond beard and glasses said gently, “That sounds like sexual assault.”  I started to cry and I said, “No, no, it’s not. In fact, I’m kind of seeing him still. It’s all fine.” I didn’t want to talk anymore but I couldn’t stop crying.  After the group meeting, the psychiatrist wrote me a prescription for a stronger anti-depressant and in two weeks I miraculously didn’t want to die anymore.  I never went home with that soulless garbage person again. A deceptively easy ending to a brief, but horrible and self-destructive period in my life.

I wish that was truly the end of it, and I had immediately been all better, but the truth is that I never felt safe again.  And I started having all these quirks and workarounds for my crippling anxiety.  I was terribly ashamed of all of it and I always tried to hide these things, only letting someone know about it if it was absolutely necessary.  There were just so many. And a lot of them persist to this day.  Some examples: I have an security alarm on my house, but I only set it at night when I am there.  I can’t sleep unless it’s on and I’ve checked to make sure all my doors and windows are locked, usually more than once.  I don’t really care if someone breaks in and steals my stuff when I’m not home. I mean, I wouldn’t be happy about it, but I’m not a stickler for setting the alarm when I’m gone (besides, I own little of value and have a mean, barky and bitey dog). I can never sleep with the windows open, even when I stayed in a house without air conditioning for a summer.  I’ve camped, but I don’t actually sleep when I’m outside in a tent.  That’s why I hate camping.

There’s more!  Inconveniently, in order for me to have a repair person in my house, someone else has to be there with me….or better yet, without me.  I can’t park in a parking garage by myself at night.  If that is the parking choice, I’m not coming.  If I have to park too far away at night and I’m alone, I am also not coming.  And I nearly always run on a treadmill inside unless I’m running with a group. I tell people it’s because of the weather or childcare, but it isn’t.  It’s all about safety from predators.  I hate when someone I don’t know touches me.  I hate when anyone touches me unexpectedly when I’m sleeping.  I always have a pair of shoes by the door. There are more, but I don’t feel like sharing them.  I’ll say that it takes a ridiculously long time for me to trust anyone, especially men.  Way longer than most reasonable people would expect and that’s caused some really unpleasant conversations.  I don’t know if all of these quirks are because of that one traumatic night, or that whole shitty month,  but I don’t think I had most of these issues before then.  I kept thinking I’d be better at some point.  That I should be better.  And stronger.  But so far, this is just the way I am.  High anxiety with lots of quirks.

Which brings me to my point. As horrifying as it was to watch Christine Blasey Ford’s testimony, it was freeing.  I will forever be indebted to her for changing my life.  Decades after the trauma that a laughing Brett and his friend caused, she talked about how she still lived with the effects.  She had quirks and workarounds, including the fact that she couldn’t live in a place without two exits.  This seemed crazy to her husband, but not at all to me.  Instead a lightbulb came on in my brain and I had the amazing realization, “Holy shit, I am fine.”  Finally, after all this time,  I had permission to feel ok about not being ok. 
The way I was and am makes perfect sense.  I am not broken or crazy.  I have been managing my life so that I can live and sleep and move through the world every day.   And I don’t have to be ashamed about any of it.  And I can tell this story and I don’t have to be afraid for people know these things about me.  It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about it or how anyone judges me for my actions and reactions. I am fine and I am free.  Thank you Christine Blasey Ford.

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Morning Routine

11.30.2016

Rudely awakened by the bleating of my first alarm at a ridiculously dark hour.  So strange to not feel refreshed and energized after 5 – 1/2 hours of fitful sleep! First put the coffee on, now the day can begin.  Oh my God, who is that mug shot in my mirror? Nick Nolte? Oh shit, it’s me. Stupid 40s, why do you hurt me?  Shower, then put on my pink fuzzy robe.  Grab my coffee cup and buckle up.  It’s about to get real.

Second alarm is 12 minutes later.  That one plays “Don’t Stop Believin'” for extra motivation.  I need it ’cause it’s time to wake the children.

It is unfortunate that only one of my children is a morning person. That child, while not thrilled to be getting up, will generally smile at me and get out of his bed and possibly start getting ready for school.  The other two are in no mood for pleasantries.  They are burrowing, they are growling.  They can only be lured from their beds with promises of pop tarts.  They don’t know that my pop tarts aren’t the real deal, but some facsimile from Trader Joe’s that claims to be “organic” and therefore full of nutrition, right?  But really, how can something called a “toaster pastry” be organic, or healthy, or even considered food?  That is one of the many mysteries I will not be solving this morning. 

After I have thrown food at the kids, I grab my coffee and head to my bathroom to try and make myself look like the competent professional I aim to be someday.  Not hungry yet, but I will likely be chowing on trail mix at my desk later this morning. I eat a lot of trail mix for someone who is not particularly outdoorsy.  I read and admired Wild, but I’m going to have to go another way with my transformative journey. The way that doesn’t include wildlife or sleeping on the ground.  As I dry my hair, I multitask by barking orders at the children.  Is it possible that they will someday figure out that they have to put clothes AND shoes on their body and brush their teeth EVERY day without my telling them?  Hasn’t happened yet.  Won’t happen today.  They are screaming at each other and eventually one of them throws a hardcover book at his brother’s head and there is more screaming and a little bit of blood.  I wipe up the blood, do some consoling and scolding and direct the children to the next steps in the getting ready process. “Brush your teeth or they will all turn green and fall out of your face! I hear that the Tooth Fairy charges YOU to haul away the green ones.”

Oh crap, I’ve got to put on real clothes!  Luckily, I have a dress I found at Ross Dress for Less for $14.99 which miraculously makes me look 10 pounds thinner. I don’t know if it’s the material, the cut or the print, but it’s magical wizardry!  I need to find six more of these dresses.

Grab my youngest son’s “sack lunch” because he has a field trip today.  I have no sacks, so it is in a paper wine bag from Trader Joe’s, ’cause I stock up on Three Buck Chuck when I purchase my organic pop tarts and trail mix.  The bag has a wine bottle on one side and a wine glass on the other.  Awesome. 

Time to go!  Each minute that passes after my set to-go time buys me exponentially more minutes in congested Austin traffic. 

But wait!  Shoes!  I tell the boys to put their shoes in a bin by the door every evening.  But do they put them there? Occasionally. Right now, five out of six feet are shoed.  Nobody can find the sixth shoe.  I search around frantically while approximately 1/3 of the hundreds of “dammits” and “shits” in my head come out of my mouth.  I consider that a victory.  And I find the shoe under the couch and consider that a victory as well.  Roar up to the school in my vaguely-colored minivan and practically push them out of the car. Now it’s time for traffic hell! This was one of Dante’s levels, right?

Did you know that things are just magnetically drawn to vaguely-colored minivans?  Cars come at my van like moths to a vaguely-colored flame.  And nobody wants to be behind a vaguely-colored minivan.  Furthermore, Dodge Ram drivers seem to think that their penises will fall off if a vaguely-colored minivan passes them, so they are on high alert and do their damnedest not to let it happen.  If I get cut off or somebody is practically driving up my butt, that person is most often piloting a Dodge Ram.  Hey guys, I don’t think the penis thing is true.  It doesn’t seem like real science.  Please stop trying to kill me.

I live 11 miles away from my job, but it takes me at least 40 minutes to get there.  Luckily this morning I have a sweet Neil Diamond playlist going.  “I AM, I CRIED!  I AM, SAID I!” Hell yeah, Neil.  I AM the bitch driving the vaguely-colored minivan you are stuck behind, Mr. Ram.  Suck it.

I eventually get to my parking garage, which is three blocks from work.  Not terrible, unless it is raining.  The thing that IS terrible is the garage stairwell.  It smells like a whole lotta urine and at the bottom there is often some sort of weird surprise like old pants or empty cough medicine bottles or dead crickets.  Today I realize, after exiting the stairwell, that I have forgotten my badge in my car. I have to run back up four flights of stairs, causing me to breathe heavily and suspect I am huffing a urine cloud.  That can’t be good.

But wait, the harrowing times aren’t over!  The three blocks to work are filled with crazed Austin commuters and I must make my way across the streets like I’m playing a live version of Frogger. I am almost run over by a guy in a Prius who didn’t see me in the crosswalk because my magical dress made me look so incredibly thin.  We stare at each other in horror for a second and then he smiles apologetically and gives me a wave, like “Glad I didn’t run you over! Have a nice day!”  Whew.  I’m finally at my building. I work at the courthouse, where there is usually a line to get through the metal detector at the entrance, because courthouses are one of the few places in Texas where your concealed weapons are not welcome.  Never fear, you can still bring them to the state mental hospital or your film studies class at the university, where they are totally appropriate.  I don’t make it through without setting off the buzzer and must be “wanded” by a police officer.  Not gonna lie, that was the best part of my morning.

I make it to my desk, just barely on time and breathe a sigh of relief.  My cube-mate smiles the serene, well-rested smile of a child-free woman and says, “Good morning!”  I say, “I’m gonna need to drop six bucks on a ridiculous coffee beverage with syrup and whipped cream in about an hour.  Need anything?”  I think I deserve it.

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Cats Are Assholes

03.28.2017

Look, I’m just going to say it: I think most cats are assholes. I hate to admit that I feel this way, as I tend to be open minded about most things. I’m not into newer country music, most sports, many theme parks, carrot cake or that guy who plays Sherlock, but I can definitely see why people like these things. I recognize that we all find different things appealing and that is good. It’s what makes the world interesting! And I am usually able to get along with just about anybody, even people who seem to have no sense of humor, other than the laughter that comes at other people’s expense. Do you know the type of person I’m talking about? Is it my imagination or are there more of them lately? They are not fun or funny, but they *think * they are. Ugh. I’ve had to deal with more than a few of those folks in my life and they are extremely tiring to endure for long periods and only barely manageable in small doses. I generally just nod and smile and make affirmative sounds near them, until I can get away. Much like I do with cats. Which was the subject I was on, before I digressed. I often digress. I have no illusions about my endurability to others, but thankfully I like my own company. But cats? They suck. There, I just threw that down. Boom!

I know that some people admire the “don’t give a fuck” attitude that cats seem to have, but not me. That attitude doesn’t make me want to win them over, it convinces me even more that they are assholes. It’s not that they aren’t cute assholes. They are adorable! I love pictures of cats, especially in clothing, but even uncostumed, they are pretty damn cute. I don’t love that they will walk on your counters and tables and not even give a shit that you don’t like it and think it’s probably unsanitary. I don’t love that they poop and pee in a box that you have to clean frequently so that your home doesn’t smell like an indoor zoo exhibit. But I could deal with those issues.

Here’s what I can’t deal with: I hate that cats ALWAYS approach me. Always. They meow at me and look irresistably sweet. They rub up against my leg as if to say, “I reeaaally like you. Pay attention to me. Give me pats.” And I always acquiesce even though I know how it’s going to end. I pat them for a while, they purr and seem oh-so happy, they snuggle up to me and relax. And then, out of nowhere, those cute little motherfuckers will bite me. Almost every time! If they don’t bite me at this point, it just means that this is a long con, where they are going to bite me six months or a year from now when I trust them more. Hmm….this is sounding scarily similar to my history with men. Given this, you would think that I’d be all, “Cats just seem right to me for some reason. I don’t know why, but I just love them so much.” But no. My heart belongs to doggies.

Dogs are just as cute as cats, but they are unabashed in their adoration. They will wag and jump and seem absolutely crazed to see you, even if you’ve just re-entered a room you walked out of five minutes ago. Dogs will go on a walk with you and make you slow down (while they sniff and pee on stuff, it’s true) so that you actually see all the pretty trees, flowers, yard art and other people in your neighborhood. But you won’t have to talk to them, because dogs try to protect you. My crazy ten pound Josie will get in front of me and bark and growl ferociously at anyone who dares approach me when we are out walking. While I doubt that she has saved my life in this way, she has almost certainly saved me from countless uninteresting conversations. Dogs will happily play fetch with you or wade in a creek, but they are also happy to sit next to you and watch a Netflix marathon. And dogs look even better than cats in clothes. If they love you, they will totally let you dress them and take photos to send your friends and post on instagram. Dogs are not sneaky at all about wanting your food. They are never subtle. All I’m saying is that dogs are sweeter, snugglier, more helpful, more loyal and just generally better than cats.

I know that people will disagree and may try to change my mind, but ironically, my personality is more like a cat’s than a dog’s and I will not care at all. Maybe this attitude is why so many cats approach me. They know I’m a kindred spirit. An asshole who deserves a good chomp every once in a while. They probably aren’t wrong.

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I Don’t Know

04.24.2019

“I don’t know how you do it!” If I had a dollar for every time I heard those words, I could actually hire someone to help me do it. Or hire someone to do it for me and then I could lay in my bed and read (#goals).  I heard these words again this week and I find them oh-so irritating.  Because let’s be real: A) You aren’t actually impressed with what I’m doing and B)You don’t really want to know how it’s done.

Welcome to my latest rant!

At best “I don’t know how you do it!” is just one of those things that people spit out when they really don’t have anything to say, but feel the need to talk anyway.  As a lifelong introvert, I particularly dislike this kind of happy horse shit and fervently wish that people would stop polluting the air with meaningless words (yes, I’m also a bit of an asshole). It’s much like “You’ve got your hands full!” or “Is it hot enough for you?” or “How about that exciting sportsball whatever?” (not an actual thing, just what sports-talk sounds like to me).  I do understand the need for human connection, so I will try not to act like an asshole when I hear these things in their benign, friendly tones, and will probably just nod vaguely and move on with my life.  You’re welcome.

At worst, “I don’t know how you do it!” has a little snotty tone to it that betrays the not-very-well hidden message of “Your life sounds so shitty to me.  Glad I’m not you!” I’ve received way too much of this in the past 4 years, what with my surprise divorce and years of piloting a hideously ugly minivan, not to mention the constant presence of multiple boychildren, who belong to me and are always wilding nearby.  You’d think I’d be used to it, but much like those situations where people tell you that you “look tired” when they really mean that you look ugly or disheveled to to them, IT GRATES.  I get that “tired” one a lot too, because I’m a single parent in my 40s and hell yes I’m tired.  I usually just respond with, “I AM tired, thanks so much for noticing!” and raise my coffee cup to the asshole who said it, because really? Who doesn’t know they are tired?  Who needs it pointed out?  Nobody, that’s who.

I suppose “I don’t know how you do it!” is a bit better than “You look tired!” because faux admiration is surely better than faux concern.  But honestly they both suck.  Especially when said with a smug smile and little headshake.  Yeah, I saw that.  Thanks!

I guess it’s possible that some people are actually wondering how I accomplish some of the unremarkable things in my life.  Well I have answers to some of the “I don’t know how you…” comments I’ve heard recently.  Here you go:

I don’t know how you do that long-ish and trafficky commute to your job with the very inflexible schedule EVERY weekday!  I sure couldn’t do that!    

Answer:  Oh I bet you could do it, if you had the motivation of it being the only means of your getting health insurance and the paycheck that provides food and a home for you and your children.  And even though I do not love being in the car for 45 minutes in the morning and an hour at night to go 11 damn miles, it’s actually super easy to do.  I just get in the car (no longer a minivan!!) and put on a podcast like My Favorite Murder or a sweet (possibly yacht rock) playlist and then I drive while trying not to hit anything or swear too obviously at the other commuters until I get to work.  Then I do it again at 5.

I don’t know how you ran that half marathon!  Who has time to train?  Plus running is so boring…especially on a treadmill.  And aren’t you worried about your knees?

Answer: Running isn’t for everyone, but I love the way it makes me feel wrung out and happy and way less crazy.  I fit it in to my already packed schedule, because being less crazy is a high priority for me. So I turn down other things or get up really early in order to do it.  Bonus: the effects of running have (so far) kept me from throwing things at annoying people who tell me I look tired or ask me stupid questions while criticizing my choice of hobby.  It’s a win/win for society!  The actual doing it is a deceptively simple process of getting up out of a seated position, putting on running clothes and shoes and moving forward while listening to another awesome playlist that I compiled in my head during my long-ass commute.  My knees seem to be holding up fine.  I am not worried about them.

I don’t know how you handle parenting your three crazy sons!

OK, this one may be legit, because my children are nutsy and loud and they all talk at once and want my personalized attention at all times.  They also never walk when they can roll, flip or climb something and jump off of it and getting anywhere with them is exhausting and probably much like herding cats.

Answer:  I’m not very good at it.  That’s why I look tired.  Having three kids was not the smartest move for my temperament and if I’d known that I’d be alone with them most of the time and that they’d all be energetic boys, I might have rethought the whole endeavor.  But I’m lucky that I didn’t know what my future would hold, because I adore them in all their craziness. They are truly my life’s best reasons.  I may sometimes look like I’m not extra thrilled with it, but that is because I am so damn tired all the damn time.  But it’s good. We’re all doing just fine.

And that’s the point of my rant.  My life, while not everyone’s cup of tea, is very good and I’m fairly happy.  Nobody really needs to know how I do it.  I just do it, because it’s what needs to be done and who cares? It all works for me.  Everybody has things in their life that they don’t particularly enjoy and that other people would find distasteful or downright horrifying.  But they get them done because that’s what they need to do to make their lives work.  If you haven’t had to make the best of some shitty situations recently, that’s great!  But don’t get too smug, because life is unpredictable.

If you think that someone’s life looks unpleasant, you do not need to let them know.  If you must say something, you could try to be helpful with “This seems hard, is it?  Can I help in some way?”  Or if you are truly impressed with the way someone is handling the challenges in their life you could give them some encouragement like “You are doing a great job!” or “I admire the way you did that.” Those are nice things to hear.  Or you could send them a lovely Starbucks gift card! Tired people love those.

Thank you for reading my rant.

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Learning to Fly

05.16.2017

I frequently describe myself as a “nervous traveler” or just “not a great traveler” but I’ve started to rethink those ideas. It’s true that I feel somewhat incompetent when I travel by plane, mainly because for most of my life I would fly once every few years, maybe twice in a really big year. In my younger days, I was always too broke for anything but long car trips or the ‘hound. That’s what the cool broke people call the Greyhound bus, btw. Well that’s what I call it, anyway. And I hope to avoid it for the rest of my life. Speaking of buses, I once went on the Mexican version of the ‘hound and some of my fellow passengers were actual birds. That was an adventure. Would a bad traveler do that? Maybe I’ve had the potential to be a good traveler, but not the resources? Hmmm…

My second marriage was to a great traveler, so I had high hopes that we’d go a lot of places together and I’d become an expert at it. But we had lots of kids (three, but all boys and in less than four years, so it’s really like having fifteen) immediately, so my travel dreams were put on hold while I was tethered to the earth. We did take a LOT of road trips, which is really the way to go when you have young children. At least if your asshole kid is screaming in your personal minivan you don’t have to apologize to anyone when you put in ear plugs and ignore him for 7 hours. And nobody has to know that you are carrying around a large bottle for the children to pee in, that you actually refer to as “the pee bottle” because you’re just handing them any damn juice box they want so their little mouths will be quiet for a while, but you don’t want to have to stop at sketchy gas station bathrooms every 40 miles when you could just pull over for a pit stop and then empty child pee all over these great United States. I bet this ensured that search dogs could have easily located my family on any of our trips, had we needed to be rescued, so really it was a win-win. Plus, I always researched any weird and interesting places that might be along our route, so we’d get to see some crazy shit, like a giant King Kong statue, boat and train-shaped restaurants, the Precious Moments chapel, a big blue whale you could wander inside of, multiple Elvises (Elvi?) and South of the Border, where Pedro sez you need to stop, so you just do. I will always go out of my way to see something unusual. It’s one of my life’s guiding principles.

So maybe I could be a good traveler, but I just haven’t flown often enough to totally get the hang of it. My air travel skills are still like those of a very old, very young, or slightly drunk person. I am unclear about what is happening, but I’m really excited! I can’t figure out how to check in my bag, and I ALWAYS have a bag to check, because I have not mastered the skill of paring things down when I might NEED a variety of shoes and multiple books. There are always new and unpleasant protocols to follow, just to get near the plane, like shoe removal and weird body scans and threats of pat downs and anal probing. It is all really confusing and makes me rumpled and disoriented and protective of my body parts. I’m getting better with it, though. This has been a big travel year for me, possibly the biggest ever. I’ve flown 4 times since July! I know, right? It’s huge! I stayed in hotels by myself twice and it was glorious. I have plans for even more travel in the upcoming months. Soon there may be a time when I can call myself a great traveler. And I will! The main thing I’ve realized is that in order to navigate travel one needs to READ THE SIGNS. There are many of them posted. They are telling you things that you need to know. This is good practice for life in general, not just for traveling. Read the signs!

I love being at the airport so much more than the actual flying part. It’s really fun to watch all of the people. So many interesting outfit choices. People are either super-fancy or they’re like, “Screw it! Why shower or wear anything clean when I’m going on a damn plane? I’ll just wear these pajama pants with the blown-out elastic waist. Yup, that’s my butt crack. No need to hold up the security line when you can see for yourself that I’m not hiding anything in there. You’re welcome everyone.” Hmmm…maybe those people are on to something.

I usually spend money that I would not ordinarily spend in airport stores, and not just at the Starbucks. Magazines are a given, because Us Weekly is never more compelling than when you read it on a plane. But I’ll even be tempted by souvenirs FROM MY OWN CITY. On my most recent trip, I had to convince myself that I didn’t need to bring a packet of “chili-fixin’s” from the Austin airport with me to New York. If I hadn’t been distracted, I would have totally picked up those fixin’s (oh my God, it is killing me to make something plural with an apostrophe, but I think that’s the way you are required to do it with something called “fixin’s”) on the way home. And I’ll just admit here that if I’ve ever given you a gift after I’ve taken a trip where I traveled by plane, there is an 85% chance I got it at the airport.

I am not at all a fan of the actual flying on the plane part. It’s always too cold and claustrophobic for me to really be comfortable. And despite my lack of frequent flying, I’ve had some weird and unfortunate flight experiences. Have you ever been screamed at by a hysterical flight attendant to put on your oxygen mask while you made an emergency landing because of an issue with cabin pressure? I have. The bags do not inflate, but the oxygen still flows, just like they said it would. How about being on a flight that is rerouted to a different place, because after four insanely turbulent attempts at landing in a dust storm in El Paso, the plane is running out of fuel and the pilot is will finally admit defeat, as your fellow passengers get teary, throw up and pray. I had that harrowing experience with Shakira and her husband last summer. Thank God I was with them, because they are never opposed to getting drunk and that was exactly what I needed to do, once we were on firm ground.

Usually if I’m flying alone, I take Dramamine, put on a fuzzy neck pillow and try to fall asleep and miss as much of the flight as possible. Do good travelers do this? Do they bring better distractions? Do have access to better drugs? Are these some of those adult secrets I never seem to know until it’s really late, like that people who have kids, but also have clean houses most likely *pay other people* to clean them. Or that more people than you’d suspect, who don’t have those “eleven” lines between their eyebrows, that you get from thinking “WTF?” too often get a little botox there? I didn’t know these things before and just thought I was failing at things like cleanliness and graceful aging. Perhaps it is the same with travel? Are there just a few more things I should learn and then I will be an amazing traveler? Let me know!

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Be Better

9.26.2018

I am raising three sons.  Man, just typing that made me tired. It is not easy and I worry constantly that I’m not doing it well or that I could be doing better.  I feel like I get things right about fifty percent of the time.  And I suppose the other half can be classified as “learning experiences.”   Oh yes, learning experiences a-plenty, every day!  And I’m not even halfway through their childhood.  There is no chance in hell that I’m going to give up caffeine in the next 10 years.  Please feel free to send Starbucks gift cards my way.

 I have an overarching goal in my parenting: I’m trying my absolute best not to raise assholes.  World, you’re welcome! My boys know I have high standards…not for cleanliness (don’t come over if a clean floor is on your “must haves” list) but for many other things.  For example, two of my children are able to communicate with me by text these days, and as everyone knows I do not appreciate texts with bad grammar and stupid texting language.  My boys know that they better fix their spelling and under no circumstances are they allowed to “K” me.  I know it’s not how everybody feels, but I do and that is the way I want to be treated. I have made that clear. Stupid texting language is a smack to my eyeballs.  Be better or don’t text me.  It’s a boundary I have set and so far they respect it.  

I’ve always set boundaries with them.  I think when you care about someone, it is important let them know how you want to be treated.  And learning to respect people’s boundaries is one of life’s more important skills. My kids were never allowed to demand things from me.  If they demanded, they did not receive.  From the time they were toddlers, I expected them to say “please” if they asked me for something and “thank you” after I gave it to them.  They might be loud and crazy little hooligans, but they damn well better be polite little hooligans.  I didn’t want them to think I was their personal servant, just because I was their mother.  I want it to be clear that I am a separate person from them and while I am happy to help them and do things for them, they need to show appreciation and not entitlement.   I’m also no nonsense when it comes to talking about or touching other people’s bodies.  I’ve made sure that my kids know that their bodies belong to them and other people’s bodies belong to other people.  That you don’t get into someone’s space or touch them without permission. That you can tell people when you don’t want a hug and they can tell you the same.  This does not prevent them from trying to beat the crap out of each other multiple times a day, but apparently they are more respectful of the space and bodies of their peers. It’s not a total win, but it’s not a loss!

I’ve also tried to hammer home the point that one’s commentary on someone else’s body or looks is unnecessary and not good conversation.  I am mindful to not make careless remarks about other people’s looks or weight around my sons.  They know that I think that jokes about someone’s looks are stupid and that people who make those jokes are trying to deflect from their own poor self esteem.  And that poor self esteem is probably warranted because they don’t know how to carry on a good conversation or tell a funny joke.  I want them to be better than that. 

I’m thinking of all of this as I try to figure out how and why so many men seem stunned that women’s bodies are not there for the taking or for their inspection and critique. And they are shocked and dismayed that women are speaking up about this and deeming it unacceptable. How on earth did they not know this?   And what does this mean for me, when raising sons?  If so many men are surprised that we women do not enjoy being groped in the middle of a conversation or that we wouldn’t be thrilled to see their penises at work or that hearing denigrating comments about women’s bodies is insulting to all of us, does that mean that at some point my sons will be shocked by this too?  Or is society changing so much that they will see girls and women as equals?  There are still school dress codes that are geared toward female students’ attire, under the assumption that even today’s boys have so little self control that they will not be able to learn if they see a girl’s collar bone or too much of her leg or *GASP* a bra strap.   I expect better from my sons.  It is natural to want to look at people you find attractive or interesting, but then you need to move your eyes to your school work and get on with it, because that’s what you are there for and your classmates do not exist for your ogling.  Don’t be a creepy asshole.   

I’ve been hearing about a lot of people who feel that #metoo has turned into a witch hunt and that it’s ruined romantic interactions between men and women.  Obviously, I don’t agree.  Women don’t want to be treated in a subhuman way. This doesn’t mean that all women no longer want to interact romantically with men, it means we don’t want to be considered prey anymore.  We are not targets, we are people and we have our own boundaries, needs and desires and we’d like them to be heard and respected.  Instead of whining about the unfairness of it all, a mature response might be to look at your own behavior.  I wish that everyone would ask themselves some key questions: How have you treated other people when you wanted something from them?  How do you talk about other people and their bodies and their sexuality?  Has the word “slut” or some other derogatory term come out of your mouth when you were talking about a girl or woman? (I suppose you could say this about a boy or man, but let’s be realistic, these terms are meant to denigrate women.) Have you touched someone in a way that was unwelcome?  Did you immediately stop at that point or did you continue?  Have you tried to coerce someone into sex when they were telling you verbally or non-verbally that they were not interested in having sex with you? Were you paying attention to what they wanted?  Did you care? Because you should, if you don’t want to be an asshole!  

If you aren’t a predatory creep (and let’s throw caution to the wind and assume that most people aren’t) then it really comes down to: 1) Treating everyone as if they were a separate human being from you and therefore knowing that they have their own needs and desires that may not match yours. 2) Paying attention to that person’s words and actions and responses to you.  3) Caring about what that person’s words and actions mean, even if it disappoints you and is the opposite of your wishes.  4) Respecting that other person’s boundaries and walking away if that is indicated.  Four step process, guys. You can even skip the Step 3 “Caring” part if you’re kind of an asshole, but not a complete one.  You can even do this if you’re drunk.  If you find that you are too drunk to do this, you can call a car service to come get you and take you home so that you don’t assault or harass someone.  What a time to be alive! It’s just that easy.  It really just comes down to noticing what the other person in your interaction wants and making that as important to you as fulfilling your own desires. If you have a question about what that person wants, you might have to come right out and ask.  But then you will have a really good chance of knowing the answer.  It’s a win-win.

But you know, you can even be better than that if you are brave enough.  I think a lot about those guys who were out biking and stopped the assault Brock Turner was committing.  They saw something wrong and they stopped it.  I wish this wasn’t so surprising to me.  They didn’t choose to mind their own business, because a guy was getting “twenty minutes of action” and it would break some sort of guy code to prevent that from happening.  And I bet there were people who watched creepy Brock leave with a woman who was too intoxicated to walk steadily.  Just like there were probably people at that house party 35 years ago who watched two drunk and aggressive guys follow their female friend up to the bathroom.  And apparently there were people in a dorm room watching  and saying nothing while their shitty drunk frat brother waved his dick in their drunk female friend’s face and told her to kiss it.  And I hope that this is changing and that people (men specifically, but women too) aren’t afraid of being called a cock blocker if it means that they can help prevent an assault.   I think there will always be entitled garbage people in the world who see other humans as conquests and who will do whatever they can to get what they want. They are not looking for a mutually satisfying interaction with another person, they care about their own needs, only.  If this is you, then you are at best an asshole and at worst a predator and you probably should hate #metoo, because it’s going to put a crimp in your lifestyle.  I certainly hope most people are not like that.  But you don’t have to be a bystander, either.  And you could even be a stand-up person who says something when you see terrible behavior taking place.  I’m hoping to raise stand-up men.  The world needs more of them.

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Resolution

I have a problem with maintenance. I’m working on it. I told this to my therapist last week and she nodded sagely. She often nods sagely and I love that about her. She is proof that I’m working on my problem with maintenance. I guess ‘maintenance’ isn’t quite the right term. Or maybe it’s that not doing maintenance is the manifestation of my real fear which is a fear of *knowing*. If you don’t check under the hood, if you don’t get the test, if you don’t look too carefully, if you don’t ask the right question…then you don’t really have to know. At least for a while. Until it blows up in your face. Which it inevitably does. You know those moments you have before you learn something that shatters you? I think about those moments in my life. They were mundane. They wouldn’t have been memorable except for what came afterwards. In 1988, in my friend’s car after a night of playing Nintendo and swimming in her sister’s pool. Pulling up to my house and laughing our goodbyes before realizing there was an ambulance in my driveway. In 1999, a phone conversation with my beloved grandfather that ended with a promise to see me soon and an “I love you, stop worrying about me.” In 2000, watching my husband walk out the door with a basketball and an “Eat dinner without me, I’ll be home in a couple of hours.” Again in 2000, a fucking devastating year I still haven’t recovered from, at a Halloween party where a man I’d briefly dated was being friendly to me instead of the usual hostility he’d shown since I’d told him I didn’t want to date him, and I was stupidly relieved and happy to accept the drink he handed me. I didn’t think I’d ever be so blissfully ignorant again. My problems with maintenance were intensified after that. I couldn’t relax, I always felt unsafe and unmoored. If I heard a rattle in the car, I turned up the radio. If there was a problem in my apartment, I moved. I had eight addresses in four years. I became petrified of going to the doctor or dentist, because what if there was a problem I couldn’t handle? When all the worst things keep happening, how can you trust that the sky isn’t about to fall on you every time you leave the house? How can you risk hearing somebody tell you that things are even worse than you feared? What if you just can’t handle ANYTHING ELSE? Better to ignore any issues, because sometimes issues just go away! After four years of living by that sensible philosophy, I met someone with whom I didn’t feel alone. That was new for me. I got married again and had my sons. Weirdly, that started to steady me. It doesn’t work that way for everyone, I know. Kids aren’t exactly a calming force, but somehow, they grounded me. I still wasn’t thrilled about maintenance, but I went to the doctor. I got my car fixed. It’s best have to have a working body and car with kids. It’s good to take your kids to the doctor, too. So I did. I sunk into it for a while. I don’t know if I ever got comfortable. And yet…it hit me like a goddamn truck when the blissful ignorance of my marriage was shattered in an artfully decorated hotel room in Manhattan with a view of big wet snowflakes in the air and ballet dancers practicing in the building across from us. I left the room an hour later to walk alone in that beautiful city in the falling snow, knowing that the life I had before was over forever and I would have to do something and tell someone and ask someone to help me, but all I could do was walk for a while and feel the snow and remember that I was still breathing and my heart was still beating. It’s important to know those things. Sometimes you don’t need to know anything else. So. That was almost three years ago. Maintenance has been difficult for me again in those years. I haven’t been to the dentist in forever, I ignore my doctor at all costs, I have a plumbing problem in my shower and a toilet that needs you to lift the lid in order to stop it from running. Also my car is ten years old and has a lot of hazard lights that are always illuminated on the dash. I ignored grindy brake sounds until I needed to get a complete new set of brakes. A ridiculously expensive consequence, yet it still didn’t cure me of the maintenance problem. But this year is the year. I told my therapist (and therapy is totally maintenance, so I’m not a total failure in this regard) and now I’m telling you. My 2018 resolution is to get check-ups and get things fixed. To ask the questions and find out what I need to know to solve the problems. To know that I am strong enough to handle the answers and resourceful enough to find the solutions. I’ve got this.

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Alternalife

In an alternate universe, I’m pretty sure I’m wearing overalls right now.  Or swoveralls, which are a delightful mash-up of sweatpants and overalls.  I recently heard about this magnificent combination and I have to actively force myself NOT to purchase a pair or several of them.  I know they would almost definitely look hideous on me,  but I also know that I would love them and wear them as often as I possibly could.  And that is probably not a good idea.  Right?  Can I be living my best life if I’m wearing something utterly unflattering?  I will have to seriously ponder that.  I used to wear overalls all the time and I LOVED them.  “Like wearing a hug,” I would say.  “With  so many pockets and a hammer holder!”  But I’ve seen photos, and I will admit it wasn’t a great look on me.  And the hammer holder feature proved useless for my lifestyle.  I rarely carry hammers and it did not turn out to be good for the hands-free transport of a full, or even half full, wine glass.  Plus, nearly every boyfriend I ever had, including both of the ones I married, told me that they looked terrible on me and asked me to please not wear them so often. To be fair, I did wear them reaaaallly often, pretty much anytime I wasn’t at work.  So eventually I begrudgingly stopped sporting overalls and switched to other comfortable and slightly less shapelessly unflattering clothing.  My current comfort uniform is a pair of camouflage capri pants, topped by one of my large assortment of soft t-shirts that say things like ‘Vegas!’ or ‘Pardon My French’ or ‘Having Fun Isn’t Hard When You Have a Library Card’ or ‘Don’t Get Upsetti, Eat Some Spaghetti’ (yes, these are all actual shirts I own). While it is not the most glamorous look, I do not look as amorphous as I did in my sweet sweet overalls.  I guess that’s an improvement.  It’s unlikely that I’ll win a Best Dressed award (is that a thing?) but thankfully, the show What Not to Wear isn’t on anymore, so at least I don’t have to worry about being nominated, then secretly filmed as I walk out of the grocery store looking mortifyingly unfashionable while quickly scarfing down secret M&Ms that I do not wish to share with my children.

Do you ever think about the life you would have had if things had gone a differently at one of your crossroads?  Sometimes I like to think about where I would be and what I’d be doing…and wearing, which (as I said earlier) is probably overalls or swoveralls.

In the summer of 1995, I was living in Boston and my boyfriend of 3 years had been accepted to graduate school in Austin, Texas.  He asked me to move there with him, but I really loved Boston and I’d just applied for a supervisor position at my college’s library, where I worked with two of my best friends.  This job had the very nice benefit of paying for one class of graduate school in library science per semester.  I knew that the librarian life was for me! It was what I wanted with all my heart and soul.  I thought I would miss my boyfriend, but we’d already had a long distance relationship while we were in colleges in different states and that worked out well for me, because I was and still am an introvert who cherishes my own space and alone time.  So I applied and got into the graduate program…but I didn’t get the job.  Such a disappointment!  Cue the sad trombone.  Who is to say why the hiring committee didn’t think I’d make a great supervisor?  Perhaps it was because I occasionally sang over the library intercom system at closing time.  Or maybe it had something to do with the time there had been a picture of me on the front of the B section of the Boston Globe, feeding ducks in the Public Garden on a day when I had called in sick. It’s possible that it was because I’d encouraged my friend to photocopy her butt on the library copier.  It is accurate to say that I was a flaky little goofball at 23.  Today I would probably not hire my then-self.  Or at least I would sit her dumb ass down and tell her to shape up and curb her foolishness in the workplace.  

If I’d gotten the job, I had a plan for my life.  I wanted to rent a cozy studio apartment near my library and fill it with books and lots of comfortable pillow on which to lay against while reading. I wanted to go to museums and wander Boston and hang out with my friends. I also really wanted a smoosh-faced, curly-tailed pug dog to love.  I did not need or want a car, because the public transportation in Boston is good, while driving and parking in Boston is one of Dante’s levels of hell.  

If I’d lived that life, I can’t imagine what my world would be like now.  It would surely be different from what I envisioned, but I can’t see how it would be anything like my life today.  I would probably not have married (and divorced) that grad student boyfriend, the way I eventually did, as he was not as happy with a long distance relationship as I was.  And it seems impossible that I’d have met my second husband, which would have spared me a second divorce, but would also not have produced my children.  Would I be a car-less, child-free librarian who spent a lot of time reading and going to museums and hanging out with friends and my dog in that life?  Would I wear overalls and swoveralls and not care what anyone had to say about it?  Maybe.

In real life, I visited Austin with my boyfriend.  I went to BookPeople and Barton Springs.  I ate a Big As Yo’ Face Burrito at Chuy’s and drank copious amounts of frozen margarita.  And I said, “I could try this place for a while.”  That was almost exactly half my life ago, ’cause I never left.  Austin is the only constant I’ve had in a life that didn’t turn out even remotely the way I expected it to.  The only thing I know for sure in life is that you can’t predict the future.  You can want what you want and hope for things and prepare for them the best you know how to, but there will always be surprises and you may have to change course.  Luckily, it seems we are made to be resilient and resourceful.  Good news, y’all!  I can tell you from experience that if you have a major change of course, it is likely that you will find a way handle it and you’ll be ok.  Take it from me.  I’ve changed course more than once and I’m A-OK!  Hell, why be modest?  I’m slaying on a daily basis!  Sure, my life may not align with someone else’s picture of success, but I know where I am and where I cam from and I feel pretty good about it.  It’s all about perspective.

But sometimes, in the midst of all the chaos of being a single parent caring for three young boys and a crazy (non smoosh-faced pug) dog and a life where I always seem to be rushing,  I think about my quiet, calm alternative life.  In my head, I go to my little apartment and lean against my pillows and read with my snoring pug.  Maybe I could make a life like that when my kids are grown up?  I know that I can’t predict what will happen, but it seems like a nice possibility.  I’m ok not knowing at this point and I’m not ruling anything out. No matter where life takes me, I am absolutely certain that I’ll need comfortable things to wear.  See you soon, swoveralls!

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Haunting

Every time it happens, it takes me by surprise.  I catch a glimpse of a man and he is familiar, sending a zing of recognition through me.  Is it his height or the way he carries himself?  His walk?  His thick hair ruffling in the breeze? I don’t know for sure, because I can’t remember any of those things clearly anymore.  But occasionally I happen upon a man who reminds me of my father and for a moment I can’t help but suspend disbelief.  I’ll pretend he isn’t dead, after all. And he’s here, in my city, to finally reunite with me. I know it’s not true, of course. I’m not crazy.  And I’m not a child – in fact I’m a year older than he was when he died.  But I always let myself believe for just a moment and I feel a tiny flutter of childlike expectancy in my heart.  Does everyone who loses a parent when they were young do this?  See them in places where they cannot be and get foolishly hopeful, just for a few seconds? We never stop wanting our parents to see us, after all. I once read that children need to see their parents’ faces light up when they walk into a room. I always make sure that my kids see me seeing them and loving them from afar.  It’s not hard to do.  They are my favorite faces to see. 


I don’t think of my dad very often anymore.  It’s much too hard to picture him, as he’s been gone 32 years this month.  He was tall and smart.  He was quiet, an introvert.  He had a very dark sense of humor.  He had demons that killed him.  I too am an introvert with a dark sense of humor.  I think I’ve made friends with my demons and I don’t think they’ll kill me.  Well, maybe we’re not friends. My demons and I hold each other at arm’s length, regarding each other warily, to be sure, but we’ve developed a mutual respect.  I’ve become a remarkably productive citizen and a responsible and loving parent.  I feel like I’m faltering sometimes, but still I avoid most of the self destructive bullshit that attracted me when I was younger.  I’m also honest with myself, for the most part.  I don’t know if my dad was aware that his demons were starting to win.  Or if he cared.  But I know that losing him to them was my first and biggest heartbreak.  And the one I never got over. 


My kids ask me what he was like and I’m never sure what to say. The thing I remember most vividly about him is how he could be right next to you in a room, but it would feel like he wasn’t there at all. He was already a ghost to me before he was actually gone.  I fear I’ve inherited this tendency as well.  I’ve been asked where I was, when I was right next to someone, more times than I can count.  I think it’s partly an introvert thing, the need for time and space to process things alone, but it’s also…more than that.  I am working on finding a balance.  I think I still have time.


I dream of him sometimes.  He just appears in my sleep and hangs out with me, like no time at all has passed.  He never says anything profound, but there’s always a point when I tell him that I thought he was dead and we laugh and laugh. Then I wake up and I’m strangely happy.  It would be just like him to haunt me in this way.