The Babbling Boomer

YOGA AND PIZZA

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 01:33:00 +0000

I don't get out much. A few weeks ago I was invited out with the girls after yoga. I haven't done dinner with that many women in maybe 10 years. OMG - the drama and complexity of it all. I chuckled through the meal and was laughing out loud by the time I got home. It had to come out somehow. It came out in a poem.

YOGA AND PIZZA
CASUAL DINING IN THE AGE OF DIETARY SPECIFICITY.
By Micki Suzanne (C)

Lie gently over stripey blankets, rest in meditation.
Feel your body inside out through focus, concentration.

Close your fingers, thumbs in fists.
Shut your eyes and roll your wrists.

Up dog, down dog, warriors 1, 2, 3.
Cool it down and rest a bit and then you find you’re free.

It’s Sondra’s birthday … someone knows.
Join us for dinner? Well yes I suppose.

An easy drive, just down the street.
Slip into jeans and then we’ll meet.

Large round table, big noisy place.
Jockey for seats and stake out your space.

It’s too cold. It’s too hot!
It’s just right. No it’s not!

“What would you girls like to drink?”
Iced tea, unsweet. Me too … I think.

Ice water with lemon. Water lemon no ice.
Ice water NO lemon. Diet Coke would be nice.

“Who wants pizza, what do you say?"
We all have issues, will that be ok?

I don’t eat meat, so veggie please.
I’m lactose intolerant, so hold the cheese.

Gluten intolerant - no pizza for me.
Eggplant parm will be nummy, you’ll see.

One pizza for two. Three pizzas for one.
Rollatini for me - and then there was none.

“Did you save room? Can I bring the tray?”
Well no, well maybe, well yeah, sure - you may.

Too much chocolate … or not quite enough.
Too fried. Too sweet. Deciding was tough.

Is this made with gluten? I need to be wary.
I do too … is that made with dairy?

It took five minutes to have our fill.
And then twenty more to figure the bill.

They smiled when we left but I’m sure I know;
they had to be glad to see us all go:-)

Abuser

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 00:16:00 +0000

Every rage, every pounding of the table, every cruel remark hit like a big knuckled fist with a massive skull ring. People wonder how I had the strength to leave the “security” of that relationship, but he was killing me off one piece at a time.

I moved here for the peace. I found a little townhouse on stilts. It’s quiet here. My windows and lanai door are open almost every day. The Gulf breezes flow through. I can breathe. Deeply.

My neighbor is my age – tall and thin with harsh features softened only by makeup or cocktails. When I moved in she was alone and quiet and I heard nothing. She was a respiratory therapist. She didn’t warm to me, but there was a quiet understanding of some kind. A boomer thing.

Then her daughter moved in, a model in her late 30s. A half-naked predator on the edge of irrelevance. They screamed at each other. The sound didn’t come through the walls, it came in the front and back windows. I started keeping them closed.

Then the son moved in. When Karen was at work, her son and daughter screamed at each other. I considered relocating, but the daughter found a shady boyfriend and the son was sent away for past mistakes.

He wasn’t gone long when Karen lost her job. She freaked, of course. I told her I’d be happy to help her with her resume or anything she needed. I came to regret the offer because she became a pest.

One day she told me she’d found a roommate. Someone her daughter’s boyfriend knew from the bar. I remember thinking “uh oh” but I didn’t say anything.

Around Halloween a pickup truck pulled up with the first load. A middle-aged man was driving, but an older man stepped out the passenger side. A friend was helping him move too many possessions into Karen’s too small second bedroom.

His name was Dick. He said he was 68 years old and in real estate. He gave me his card. It had his picture on it. I sort of snickered. I didn’t need his card, he would be right next door. Turns out I did need his card.

We got to know each other because she made him smoke on the lanai. He was there most mornings when I came out to pee the dogs and feed the squirrels. We laughed that the squirrels were just about tapping their watches and scowling those mornings I fed them later than usual.

At night he’d be out there having a few smokes – and avoiding her – before he left for the bar. He was like clockwork – left for the bar at nine and came home around midnight. Those people were his family. He swore he didn’t have too many beers, but I always made sure I was never out with my dogs around the time he was due home.

We became friends. He was a friendly voice in the morning and evening. My Lhasa loved him. Sometimes he called her over to sit with him while he had his coffee.

It wasn’t long before Karen started complaining about him. “He watches Fox news!” I think I laughed out loud. Days later she said “he doesn’t help out around here.” I said “he’s paying you $500 a month.” She wasn’t paying her mortgage. The unemployment checks had been delayed and she needed that money. She said “he could at least take the trash out.” I asked “Have you seen the way he walks? He’s not in good health.”

She wasn’t hearing any of it.

Dick had a ratty old tumor cat that he loved very much. I know because one day after he left she pounded on my door and said I had to come in and see something. I knew she wanted to have a witness in case things got legal. This was going to get ugly.

She wanted me to witness the fact that his cat was missing the kitty litter. I was supposed to be aghast at the cat’s mess. I was aghast … at the condition of the carpet and darkness of the poor man’s room. I was also upset to be violating his privacy.

Shortly thereafter the sound of stomping and slamming started coming through the walls. Like she was wearing bricks for shoes. She pounded on my door. He had locked the adjoining bathroom door during the night. I said “he’s old, it was probably an accident.” She said “that’s what he says but I don’t believe it one bit.” I asked why she didn’t just use the downstairs bathroom, but she wasn’t in the mood for logic.

The following Sunday morning there was a knock on my door. I had been working nonstop and woke up with a migraine. She stood there expectantly with a file folder. Somehow entitled. She informed me she needed me to scan and email some things for her.

She knew I’d been working long hours. I said I was sick and couldn’t help. Period. She said ok, sorry about my headache, she’d just go to her daughter’s. She would help. As it turns out, Dick helped her get it done.

Thanksgiving came. She wished me a good one and informed me she had given Dick 30 days notice. It was casual, as if to say they were having sweet potatoes as a side. I could not contain myself. I said “you’re throwing him out on Christmas!!!” And she said “you don’t know what I’ve been going through.” I reminded her he had helped her scan and email all that information. She said “yeah, but it took him four hours. It would have only taken you one.”

The next time I caught him on the lanai I asked how it was going. He said she was being awful, but he had threatened to get an attorney, so she gave him 30 more days. Also, her daughter had sent a vicious email about how he was wrecking her mother’s life. He said his friends at the bar had a good laugh about it.

In December Karen went to her daughter’s boyfriend’s place and stayed with them. She returned just before Dick’s deadline. She was spitting venom – stomping, slamming doors and yelling. It was coming through the wall like knuckled fists. She sent Dick into a panic. Most of his stuff was out, but he had to get the last of it himself. I heard him drop something heavy – maybe a TV - on the stairs.

That night he called. He had fallen on his hip in the driveway while carrying something out to his vehicle. He couldn’t feel his leg. I suggested he go to an emergency room. He asked if I could sneak in and get his cat for him. I told him she’d have me arrested. I felt awful, but someone else would have to do it.

He asked if we would still be friends. I said there was never any question we would be friends.

A week ago he pulled up one last time with a friend and I heard her – everyone heard her – screaming at him from her front door. He left his meds and a few last things, but he had his cat.

The dark lanai made me sad. I drove by his bar and nearly stopped. A few days ago I happened to be going out as Karen was coming in. “Did you hear?” “No, what?” “Dick died.” I was speechless. Good thing. I would have said was “you bitch, you killed him.”

She put the last of his stuff on the porch for his kids to pick up. His son drove in from Texas, his daughter from Miami. Two cars out front, trunks open. They were both in shock. They hadn’t been on speaking terms with their dad and now he was gone.

I came outside with Princess. His navy blue blazer was over the rail. She sniffed it and I choked back tears. I told them their dad was a nice man. I told them he loved Princess and she loved him. I hugged them and gave them my phone number.

Then Karen had the balls to come out. It was an Academy Award performance. She talked about helping him move in. How he smoked and that was bad for his health. How his cat had peed on her carpet. While she talked to his daughter I asked his son how old Dick was. “76. He lied about his age.”

They mentioned stopping by the bar before they left. They wanted to meet his friends. Karen said she would go too. When they left she turned to me in an accusing tone and said “he didn’t even have a good relationship with his kids!” I ignored her. I said “do you know he was 76 years old?” And her jaw dropped. “I told you he wasn’t well.”

I thought to warn her not to go to the bar. I imagined her getting a piece of someone’s mind, slashed tires or a black eye. But then I changed my mind. She deserves her consequences.

I’m trying not to be furious, but I hope he haunts her ass.

And I treasure the silly business card with his picture. I will not forget my friend and the fact that he spent the last week of his 76 years at the mercy of an abuser.

The Elusive G-Spot

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 23:49:00 +0000

I was doing occasional work for a furniture company that did warehouse sales. I got in with them five years ago. It was part-time, but it was my first real live job after coming off Lyme Disease. If I could survive their big sales in the Florida heat, I could do anything.

It was a measure of Finnish SISU (strength – chutzpah – balls) to be able to walk the length of that aircraft hangar more times than I could count. I was proud that I could power on smiling as others – older and younger - fell into sweaty piles on distant couches, far from management eyes.

It was like a Turkish prison except they made us wear heavy waffle-weave company shirts instead of rags and fed us pizza instead of gruel. The owners sat among the gaping boxes in the A/C, of course.

The last time they called, I freaked. I knew I couldn’t do it anymore. Put a fork in me, I’m done. I passed some ominous milestone that said “if you go, you will wind up face first on the concrete and bust your nose into teensy pieces.”

I said “yes” but I prayed God would give me reason why I couldn’t follow through. I don’t pray for myself very often, but I was scared.

God always answers the important ones. Sure enough, I got a big freelance writing gig – a rush project. I sent a nice email that I’d received an emergency project and they understood.

I think I’ve served my last time at the warehouse. They were adding salespeople to the floor; we were lucky if we made $10/hr.

Still, I needed something to fill in the gaps. In October I didn’t get any projects until the last three days of the month. I panicked. Be careful what you wish for.

I wished for a part-time job to supplement my freelance writing gigs and omigod, how exhausting my first day was. I came home at 5 and crashed until morning. Maybe I was coming down with something and it’s just now passing, or maybe I have a brain tumor and will be dead by Tuesday or maybe I’m just getting old. For real.

In my case, 60 was the magic number for holy shit. Harder to get out there and exercise, harder to walk 60 minutes instead of 30, harder not to make myself a big bowl of buttered popcorn before bedtime, and way harder to look in a mirror. In the old days I would be considering plastic surgery. Now I can only aspire to Botox.

The most important thing anyone ever said was “the harder I work, the luckier I get.” So my luck should be pretty good because I have SOME type of income-producing work do every day. The variety is pretty excellent and I’ve been writing high-profile Harley-Davidson ads. Not for local dealers, for the corporation. It’s through the agency, though, and I’m not sure which ones get approved. But writing those ads is the most fun I have.

My neighbor followed my example and applied for part-time work at the outlet mall. I told her she HAD to get the job, she looked sensational. She’s tall and thin and she dressed to the teeth that day. Sure enough, she landed the job.

The older I get, the more grateful I am. This little job could see me through some very lean times. My neighbor seems to be getting more demanding after all the hard knocks. At first she was afraid she wouldn’t get the job, then she complained about the starting wage and wondered if they would let her wear the clothes.

I wanted to say “who would want to buy clothes you’ve worn?” but I kept my mouth shut. If she says anything to management, she will set the tone for possible future employment.

Pffft. Not my problem. If she screws herself out of that job and has to leave, I’ll have a new next-door neighbor and that could be for better or for worse. We shall see. Whatever.

The holidays are everywhere already. I would like to go north and be with family, but writing gigs and part-time job come first. What boomer can refuse any kind of work at this age in this economy. We have a responsibility to – at best, be able to help our family members; at worst – to take care of ourselves physically and financially so they won’t have to worry about us. Because they do.

Hopefully I will be too tired to cry from loneliness at Christmas. I did give one friend up north cartes blanche to come down and stay as long as she likes. I know she’s having problems with her husband and doesn’t want to talk about it. She said my invitation meant “more than you will ever know.”

She thinks I don’t know, but I do.

My “g” spot is the “g” as in “grateful.” Grateful to love where I live, that my family up north is all in good health, that my critters are happy and well cared for, that Bodhi’s eye infection healed, that Bobby the Cockatoo isn’t plucking and that I have work coming in. Grateful that my writers group is a lot of fun, that my book is coming along, that I’ll be a little less lonely with the part-time job. I do enjoy people, especially tourists.

There will be a time when I will be forced to “not be lonely” – when my mother will need me to be there for her and I will have to freeze my ass off 9 months a year in Bumfuck U.P.

Way effing grateful.

The Old Deaf Guy

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 17:42:00 +0000

I don't know who said "People live too long and dogs don't live long enough."

I haven't had a dog live a long time since the collie my mom bought me as a little girl died when I was in my 20's. I've always had big dogs; then one day it occurred to me I can't deal with them breaking my heart every seven years. When my Bouvier died, I opted for small, cute and portable. I had no idea how "big" small can be.

This is Bodhi, a.k.a. Bodes, the Bod-monster, Bo-Dee, shithead, my shit-zoo. "Bodhi" means enlightened but she's not. She's growly at her food bowl, grumpy at bedtime and wonderfully cuddly in the morning when she needs to get her speckled belly rubbed. I love her to death.

Princess is my grateful and loving adopted Lhasa and Bobby is my rescue parrot. I love them too, but yesterday it was all about the Bodes. She's seven years old. I'm a little paranoid. Their fur grows into their eyes and they get infected easily. The rescue sites frequently show pictures of Shih Tzus who've had an eye removed.

Bodhi's right eye was infected; again. I can't afford to get her groomed these days. I just learned how to trim her hair short around her eyes, but I think it got irritated before I got that skill mastered. (Close the eye with your fingers, trim the hair that extends past your finger with blunt nose scissors; works like a charm.)

But she already had an irritation. I'm short on bucks and worried about surviving financially to the end of the year. I only buy only what I need. I battle depression when I'm afraid. And now I needed to take her to the vet. She was the top of my worries; if anything happened to her, I would be inconsolable.

Going to the vet is another thing to stress about. I go to Our Hope on Pondella in North Fort Myers. It's a low cost ragtag office with lousy decor and really good people. Most of the people and pets who come here are having a hard time of it. I've seen it all - a well-dressed man making a scene, insisting he be allowed to write a check instead of paying by credit or debit. (Sorry buddy.) People arriving with rescues. One woman arrived with a feral kitten somebody shot. There was a long line that day. Nobody offered to let her go first (except me and I was way down on the list).

She left crying with a silent shoebox.

The drama can be overwhelming for someone who channels the pain of the animals and the people who love them. I was already stressed when I called and made the appointment; I was glad they had an opening that gave me just enough time to shower and go.

Princess was not happy about not being able to go with. Bobby the Cockatoo hates to see me leave, but I heard his sweet "bub-bye" all the way out to the car.

There was no line. I was amazed. I got right in. The vet said I had done the right thing bringing her in. He operated on her eyelid a few months ago, she had a lump removed. I worry about cancer.

I think the vet might be from Jamaica; he's a quiet, capable man. His assistant is a hoot. She's probably in her 40s. She can be hard as nails; I guess she has to be. But I can see the twinkle in her eye.

There was a man I didn't know hanging around; her husband. He was helping out because the squirrel receptionist I always wondered about had been ... um, let go or something.

As I stood there holding Bodes for the vet, the assistant's husband came in and asked me to turn around to see the precious bundle of fur in a cage about eye-level. A baby Pomeranian. He had been found in a home where the breeders just got too old to handle things. The wife died, the breeding pair continued breeding as the old widower got Alzheimer's. The assistant told me the dogs had been neglected and were so flea infested this precious little puppy was in his last 24 hours of life. Of course her care brought him back.

Someone walked in the front door and she walked out to see who it was. I heard snippets ... "feral kitten" ... "walked right in" ... "she's sick, I'm not sure what she needs." The assistant said something about a flea bath and they both laughed about the hazards of trying to bathe a feral cat. I didn't think much of it, I was worried about Bodhi.

The vet was worried about her tear ducts, they might be clogged. He gave me antibiotics and some special antibiotic they create from the pet's own blood. I waited out front for that and saw the person who brought the cat in.

He was a tall old guy, very well dressed. The kitten was orange and white and he had her in a nice red fabric traveling case. We were alone in the lobby, so I looked at him and asked what was going on. He said he had opened the door last night and she walked in. "She was sick. Animals know to go to humans for help when they're sick." I'd never heard that before. I liked the sounds of it.

He turned to look out the window. I asked him something else and he completely ignored me. I was hurt. Then the receptionist walked out and asked him a question and he ignored her too. She looked at me and said "he's pretty deaf" ... so I waved to get his attention and pointed to her.

He and the cat were invited into the vet's work area. I didn't hear what was going on until they walked back out. It was going to cost so much for this and so much for that. Did he want to have the work done?

I wondered how he would respond. He was obviously retired and retired folks are scraping by with fixed incomes and rising food prices.

He said "this is a life, I have an obligation to save it." Lump in throat; some faith in humanity restored.

The assistant - who has her own zoo of rescues - said "this lucky girl picked the right door."

Amen.

He sat again and waited. They must have been running tests. He unzipped the bag and stroked the cat. He had named her "Scooter." What a great old guy name for a cat.

When they left it occurred to me he probably needs her as much as she needs him. Every once in a while God works these beautiful little miracles.

(24 hours later, Bodhi's eye already looks much better. Thank God for good vets: Our Hope Center, 893 Pondella Road, North Fort Myers, FL 33903; 239- 543-7387)

Hanging In

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 22:19:00 +0000

It's October 27 and I haven't had ONE writing assignment all month. I haven't had a lull this bad since the summer of 2010 when I damned near had a nervous breakdown. Fortunately, I was VERY busy this past summer, so I have enough to get by to about Christmas.

So I'm thinking all the stuff you think when you don't know where your next check is coming from. Where would I go, what poor relative would get stuck with me. What relative would I get stuck with. Would I have to go back to the snow??? I have two dogs and a parrot.

The parrot could take the cold about as well as I could. (The Lyme Disease destroyed my inner climate control. I can't even take a dip of 10 degrees ... 90 to 80 ... without severe joint pain that keeps me up at night.)

The threat of cold was the last straw. There was only one thing to do - go to Craigslist. OK, nothing under writing jobs. Nothing under web jobs. I would check retail. Yeah. I've sold furniture for Matter Brothers warehouse sales and I sort of enjoy the action; I do not, however, enjoy hours in the Florida heat running back and forth helping customers in a warehouse the size of an aircraft hangar. There have been times when I thought I would pass out face first on the concrete.

Sales would be OK but I didn't want to suffer. I enjoyed selling furniture because I like furniture. I would do a sales job - and be good at it - if it were a product I like. My existence is too hermity anyway. Need to polish those social skills again, learn to charm strangers instead of mumbling dumb stuff and staring at my magenta toenails.

Craigslist had retail! At the outlet mall within one mile of me! My car could break down and it wouldn't matter! Hooray!

And best of all there was an opening at the Crocs store! I was just in there last month. A few years back a very wealthy client was sloggin' around in ORANGE Crocs like he was hot stuff. It was a mystery. Why are Americans paying so much money for ugly plastic shoes made in China? The day I went in a charming saleswoman cautioned me - I could not leave the store until I had tried on a "toning" type sandal. I had already been to about five stores in the past month and couldn't find anything that felt good.

She was so cool, more like a friend than a salesperson, so I followed her advice. Omigod - floorgasm. And they were on sale. And they weren't ugly at all, black with a touch of turquoise. The nice little Crocs logo made it clear I wasn't wearing just any plastic shoes.

Since putting them on it has been hard to take them off ... except at bedtime when they would probably grab at the sheets as I thrash.

They're so comfortable I HAVE THEM ON NOW.

I am a believer. I could sell Crocs.

I responded to the ad, telling this story (except for the line about paying good money for ugly plastic shoes made in China). And the manager wrote back! And I thought she was just pleased by my story. But no, she asked for my resume. I wrote back that I'm a writer, not a salesperson - although I did sell for Matter Brothers and I did have my own antique shop back in Michigan.

For the next 24 hours I worried that she would call me. This job started at minimum wage and that was hardly worth my effort. Except it's better than no income at all.

Sure enough, she called and wanted to meet me. Then I was worried I'd get hired. At $7 an hour. So I showed up and I had that magical quality; I didn't care whether I got the job. I set foot ... wearing the infamous sandals, of course ... into the store and immediately went into shopping mode. I was dressed as if I were working there ... khaki pants, black top, black Crocs.

Damned if she wasn't charming and damned if we didn't hit it off. Damned if I didn't say I'd work (at a higher rate) and I'll be damned if she didn't accommodate me. If I got a big writing project and needed to adjust my schedule, that was fine with her.

Some of the things I imagined were better than I hoped. Apparently Europeans buy the hell out of these shoes because they're far more expensive across the pond. I LOVE Europeans - especially the Germans. This would be all the fun without having to go there.

I forgot you have to give references. I gave three, then I had to write them - clients of course - telling them what I was applying for. It's embarrassing. Humbling. Whatever, times are SO effing hard for most everyone.

I told my neighbor the unemployed respiratory therapist and she started applying to stores at the mall.

I called my mom. She knew I was getting panicked about work. She sounded relieved.

The manager promised to call me on Monday ... but she didn't. I went from worrying about whether I'd get the job to worrying I wouldn't. I need to stay here, God PLEASE don't send me back to the endless gray and cold of Michigan.

On Tuesday my mother called to see if I got the job. Nope. Giant "L" on my forehead, I can't even get a job selling shoes. I suck.

Wednesday morning I woke up completely stressed out. I actually stood up and prayed out loud to God asking Him to PLEASE let something good happen that day; within 15 minutes the phone rang.

It looks like it's going to work out just fine. I'll still have time to work on my book (which keeps me up until 4 a.m. some nights), I'll still have time for freelance and if something big hits, it can be worked out; although I've gotten used to working longer hours. I think I'm up for it.

My neighbor hasn't managed to land anything yet. She's afraid of losing her condo.

I'm feeling blessed.

Just Say Whoa.

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Fri, 27 May 2011 04:26:00 +0000

Princess

Mickisuzanne (C)

I was a bum this morning. I washed rather than showered, let my hair do what it wanted and wore second tier clothing – a ratty old tea-stained tee that’s not good enough for Goodwill.

Well, it didn’t matter. I had a big project to finish, I would be at the computer all day. I wouldn’t see anyone but my neighbor. We chat through my screen door a few times a day.

Robin's life has gone completely to hell. She did a refi when values maxed and got stuck with a payment she couldn't make. I don't know how long it has been since she paid her mortgage; a long time I think. Someone from the bank tried to deliver a summons last week – but she kept her door shut.

She has two sons – one was living with her. Kyle. When he bought a bicycle I assumed he had a DUI, I didn’t ask. When weather got bad last winter I drove him to work. In Florida bad weather means windy with rain. He was always so grateful, tried to give me money for driving him 2 miles. He was a chef at a beautiful resort across the river from Sanibel. He loved his job and enjoyed his coworkers. He was happy.

His 40 year old model sister was Facebook gold. When she lived with Kyle and Robin, I always had tawdry snarks to post. I went Doctor Seuss on her scrawny ass, called her “the ho next do."

She was loud and arrogant and walked around nearly naked. When my then boyfriend came over she popped out the front door like a cuckoo clock – always in something sheer with a black thong. She would turn around and bend over to slowly pick up her snorty blonde Pekingese. She bent from the waist.

My male Facebook friends fell in lust and asked if our small condo association had vacancies.

She reminds me of that email joke – no matter how beautiful she is, there’s someone who’s sick of her shit. Well, she finally found someone who puts up with it. She has been with him for months. He has a nice home here and they just got back from an extended stay in California.

Kyle says his sister was working a pot farm in California at $20/hr. I was tempted to ask if they were hiring. Not for the pot, for the money. I get nervous when work gets slow.

Anyway.

While I was in Michigan on business Kyle was arrested. Last summer he was one of the restaurant types who lost their jobs because of the oil spill. Work was impossible to find at that time and he wound up smoking some crack. While high, he attempted to steal someone’s purse. Nobody got hurt and he didn’t take the purse.

The authorities waited almost a year to arrest him and put him in jail. He had his life together by then.

I talked to Robin the night I got back and she told me about it. She was so depressed I was afraid she would kill herself. She stayed inside with blinds closed for two or three weeks. I bought her a blank card and wrote that she needs to be strong for Kyle.

So a month ago Robin lost her job as a health professional. Then she was denied unemployment. You know how sometimes you pick up on someone else’s emotions - I nearly broke for her. She persisted with the unemployment. I helped out by looking things up online. She finally got it and she – we – could breathe easier. She would be ok for a while.

So today a summons server tried to serve her for a second time. A blonde. I think she's new at her job because she seemed to be taking guidance from someone who was waiting out in the car.

She banged on Robin's door – which is right next to mine. My screen door is open most of the time. Anyone can walk up to Robin’s door and talk to me. It’s rare for either of us to have company, so it’s no big deal.

The woman poked her head near my screen. She pointed at Robin's door and asked "is this where Robin lives? Is that her car?" She was just here last week, she knows damned well that's where Robin lives.

I said "sorry, I don't want to get involved." I'm not offering any help. Robin tried to work with the bank. Fuck the bank.

The server told me she worked for a government agency, gave me a nasty look and started to issue threats … "well you know, we can ..." … apparently she had no idea what she could do. She turned to look at the person as if to say “help!” and wound up just walking away. I was relieved.

About 5 minutes later a Fed Ex guy walked up to Robin’s door with a big box. It was from Kyle. I assumed they finally let him mail his personal belongings home.

I walked up to the door and said "I'm right here, it's safe to leave it." I do that all the time. Fed Ex does that all the time. He didn’t ask me to sign anything but he asked "does Kyle live here" - I think I said "his mother does." I was not going to offer information to a complete stranger. I’m not going to say "Kyle is in jail." It’s embarrassing to everyone who cares. I care.

The Fed Ex guy left. I knew Robin would be glad to hear from her son, so I knocked lightly on her door and said "it's Micki". She didn’t answer so I went back to my computer.

The phone rang – it was Robin. I told her about the package but she was worried about the process server. So was I, still stressed out from the incident.

Robin thought the coast was clear so she came out - ignoring the package. We were freaked. Can the bank send the sheriff to move her out within 24 hours? She has heard of that. I have heard of it taking months, nearly years, for banks to foreclose.

I encouraged her but I was worried sick. She shook her head and said "they give 24 hours notice before they throw your stuff out on the grass."

I told her the summons server tried to threaten ME. She said she heard of the bank sending process servers in disguise. We worked ourselves into jittering paranoia. I imagined life with no lights next door. No little wall bumps at night, no signs of life. Nobody my age to commiserate with. I didn’t like it.

No sooner had she taken the box inside than three big honking Lee County Sheriff vans pull up. I think there were three or four cops with guns in bulletproof vests - and a canine unit. There was one immediately out front, one on the side and one in the back. We were surrounded.

They BANGED on her door SHERIFF - OPEN UP. Her door wasn’t locked so they burst right in. I heard them yell DOWN ON THE FLOOR!!!

DO YOU HAVE DOGS??? Not any more. The Peke was old and blind and the Ho didn’t pay attention when she introduced her to her boyfriend’s house. The precious girl drowned in his pool.

Nope, no dog to bite the cops.

I freaked and closed my main door. To leave it open was a violation of Robin’s privacy. About five minutes later there was a knock on MY door. They wanted to ask me questions.

Two guys - the Fed Ex guy and a cop in a bulletproof vest. I don't remember the gun being out but I was freaked. Fucking bank – when did they get THIS kind of power.

I thought it was weird that the Fed Ex guy was with the cop. I started explaining that I didn't know it was against the law to NOT help a process server. The cop looked confused. I explained that she had been there twice and was a little menacing earlier this afternoon. He said “oh – the woman who was just here?” His facial expression said the woman was way out of line.

The Fed Ex guy asked about Robin and I told him she has had more knocks than anyone I know. I told him I was worried about her being suicidal. That she's a good person. I asked myself why I was telling a Fed Ex personal details of my neighbor’s life.

And he asked about Kyle and I was suddenly very confused. He said “look me in the eyes - we're not here to hurt your friend and we're not here about the process server. We're here about the package."

Reality began to dawn. The Fed Ex guy was under cover. I turned into a two year old. I may have gasped. "Oh, the box has bad stuff in it?" And he – as if RESPONDING to a two year old - said “YES, very bad stuff.” And I'm thinking heroin.

I told him Kyle’s story. That he’s a good kid who made a mistake last summer. That he was in jail but he would NEVER have anything to do with sending drugs to his mother's house and jeopardizing her life. At that point I was thinking it might have been someone in the prison. Note to self – watch for large scary tattooed guys.

The three cop vans remained strategically positioned while they questioned Robin. The officer with the canine unit let his dog out near my lanai. Princess started barking and I told her there was no way she could take that dog. I asked the cop if his dog needed water and he said that would be great. All of a sudden he was a real person; we were just two dog people who cared about making sure the big guy was hydrated.

I went back inside and waited. I didn’t hear Robin and the sheriff vans left. If they left her, she would have come right over to explain what was going on. I assumed they had taken her in for questioning. I imagined I’d be next – they would need me to confirm whatever she said. I wasn’t worried because neither of us lie.

Shortly thereafter a fast black car pulled up. I recognize people by their cars and I didn’t recognize this one. There were two 40-ish guys in it. I thought maybe it was Robin's other son but then it occurred to me - "anyone who shows up now is the person who sent the package."

And the dark haired guy waved and smiled on his way up the steps. I heard him say “Hi mom” as he walked in her front door. It wasn’t locked. Was she still there?

Before I knew it the vans were back and the guy who drove the black car is suddenly spread eagle over the rail in front of my door.

I don’t know frisking etiquette. I imagine you want privacy. I just sort of shut my door. The drama was overwhelming. About five minutes later I opened the door to let the breeze flow through and saw that the cops were gone again. The black car was gone – everyone was gone.

I decided I had better shower and try to look halfway decent; it could be a long night. I might wind up downtown answering questions.

My hair was still wet when Robin came up to my screen. I expected the process server to appear behind her at any second.

The police hadn’t taken her. The dark haired guy who ran in to claim the box was the Ho’s boyfriend. She was with him in California. Apparently he mailed himself a few pounds of pot - to Robin's address in Kyle’s name. I am aghast that he dragged Robin and Kyle into it. Fortunately, he spent the night in jail.

This is a quiet neighborhood, I'm sure we're quite the buzz. Robin is OK but shaken. Kyle is not implicated in any way; he probably won’t find out about this for a long time. The ho may have been slightly inconvenienced and her boyfriend is crushed by the idiocy of his behavior. It’s also no picnic to see your first offense land in the local paper with a photo of you in all you’re orange glory. He paid $150 bail and he has an attorney now. I think he’ll get a slap on the wrist.

Me? I did a mental tally on the sheriff department man hours, dog hours, gas and surveillance charges. I’m thinking there are better ways to spend Lee County tax dollars. Give pot the same laws you give alcohol – as in driving under the influence of either is exactly the same; and dedicate the really important resources to chasing down the hard stuff.

Are you (gluten) intolerant???

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 15:16:00 +0000

It's like the nutrition experts are bombarding us with information that has the potential to make some of us fat, bloaty and sluggish. They REALLY need to take people who cannot process gluten into account.

Like I LOVE Prevention Magazine. This was their article today "Foods Not to Ditch When You Diet." http://www.prevention.com/foodsnottoditch/?cm_mmc=Eat-Up-Slim-Down-_-04112011-_-Weight-Loss-_-Foods-Not-to-Ditch-When-You-Diet

It includes the foods that I've discovered wreak havoc on my health and welfare - pasta and grains.

I wrote a detailed account of my discovery in the previous blog; this is an update. I ate what the experts said to eat and could not lose weight, did not have energy.

I thought it was weird that beer suddenly gave me an instant headache. OK, can live without beer. Then I was eating mostly fruits and veggies one week and caved for a peanut butter and jelly on premium whole grain bread; THOUGHT I WAS GONNA DIE.

YES there is gluten in beer. YES there is gluten in bread.

I have a friend who is gluten intolerant, so I recognized my symptoms as being the same as hers. I told my yoga buddies about my suspicions and one asked what my blood type is - and if I had checked that diet. I found out rH Negative blood types are NOT good at processing grains.

Eat Right 4 Your Type: The Individualized Diet Solution to Staying Healthy, Living Longer & Achieving Your Ideal Weight

So how am I doing now? FABULOUS. Realizing I have a gluten issue has changed my life. I think if I'd known it when I was a kid, I would have never had a weight problem.It has been about three months now. The belly - and everything else - continue to diminish. The plumbing is starting to work as nature intended - without laxatives.

I had to travel for five days this month; that's the acid test. I just planned for it. Carried my nuts and apples, made sure I never got so hungry I'd eat bread, pizza or pasta. Isn't it weird - those were my comfort foods. My last meal would be Stouffers Mac & Cheese. I was drawn to the stuff that was most toxic for me.

Have I fallen off the wagon? Once. I didn't have much food on hand and decided to see how bad I would feel if I had one of my favorites - buckwheat pancakes. Or, as we used to joke when my son was little - buttwheat panquakes. I used to favor them for their ... uh ... fibrous qualities.

BLOATED LIKE A BALLOON FOR TWO DAYS. Not worth it.

Here's a quick summary as I understand it. If you are gluten intolerant, your body can't process flours and some grains. It blocks our systems from getting the nutrition from the foods; my conclusion - always hungry, never satisfied. You might as well be eating shipping popcorn.

I don't have health insurance. It makes me more aware of what's going on. My advice to anyone reading this is just PAY ATTENTION to how you feel after certain foods.

Do a search on gluten intolerance and see if you can relate to the symptoms. Make sure you know which foods contain gluten. If you're like me, every dollar counts. You don't have to buy a book, find the information online for free.

Believe me when I tell you feeling good is more important than eating baked goods. And there is still gooey, satisfying stuff to indulge with.

Now I'm a normal person, I eat, I'm satisfied; I just can't have flour and some grains. This does NOT feel like a diet, this feels like MYSTERY SOLVED.

Battling Bloat

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Wed, 02 Mar 2011 19:13:00 +0000

Image from http://www.formerfatguy.com/

Despite my years with Lyme, I don’t usually blog about health; but this is really important. It's about boomer bellies; yours may not be some vague middle-age thing. Mine wasn't.

In January I was doing everything the medical community advises to lose weight and feel better. I was seriously worried about my belly and bowels. My tummy felt like it was second trimester or stuffed with sandbags; my bowels would not work without laxatives or mass quantities of prune juice. When the laxatives or juice finally took effect, it was like giving birth to rocks.

This problem has been going on for almost as long as I can remember. Back when I was on staff at ad agencies in Detroit, I had to set aside one full weekend morning each week to activate and complete a bodily function most take for granted.

I can’t believe I’m talking about this stuff in public. Well, you’re not reading it unless you searched for it, in which case my story may be helpful.

I walk, kayak and do yoga. I’m vegetarian, but I do eat eggs and dairy. I was eating fruits, vegetables and whole grains. Breakfast was usually steel cut oats – lunch might be a salad or a whey protein shake with fresh fruit. I had learned to make an amazing pasta fagioli with oil, garlic, onion, tomato sauce, pecorino romano cheese, white beans and whole grain pasta. It was so delicious it had become a mainstay.

So why did I feel like shit? Why did I never feel satisfied? I don’t have health insurance, I can’t just go to the doctor and find out; I can only take care of myself, pay attention and do some research when there’s a problem.

One week I had been especially mindful about what I ate. I know the principles of Atkins, so I’ve always been wary of carbs. But one night I was STARVED so I pulled out two pieces of high fiber whole grain wheat bread, organic peanut butter – crunchy of course, creamy is for wussies - and high quality raspberry jelly. Within an hour I felt like I was going to explode; then it occurred to me. I’ve heard of this before.

I have a friend who is gluten intolerant. I sent her an email – what does it feel like when you eat wheat? She said “bloated and sluggish beyond belief.” So I researched more. If you’re gluten intolerant, you WILL bloat and you may be horribly constipated or diarrheic. (I made that word up – I think.)

If you are gluten intolerant your body isn’t absorbing the nutrition from the food; no wonder I would eat and not feel satisfied. I was eating high quality healthy foods – but they weren't good for me.

After a week at my mothers, with her pancakes, cookies and pies, my bloat was at tilt and I felt like death on a soda cracker.

I read that some people who have this disorder can develop serious problems with their small intestines. My Gram and her annoying adventist sister nearly died from intestinal problems.

I called my mom to talk about it and she vaguely implied I was as much a food zealot as my Gram; who – by the way – lived to 96.

So if I hit a wall with mom, that’s ok. Some of my best friends are nurses. I talked to one on the phone and she said absolutely, it sounded like I needed to be off gluten. And she said it reminded her that she probably should too.

One of my long and lean yoga buddies is also a nurse. We have Starbucks after class and she always gets some weird soy thing because she’s lactose intolerant. While we talked she leaned back and said “Look at my belly. I shouldn’t even be having soy but I can’t give up everything.”

Another yoga buddy suggested I looked at the blood type diet. I hadn’t really thought much about that. When I looked up my blood type – rH negative – I found my type doesn’t do well on any grains at all.

(This blood type thing is fascinating, well worth checking into.)

Eat Right 4 Your Type: The Individualized Diet Solution to Staying Healthy, Living Longer & Achieving Your Ideal Weight

That was a month ago. That peanut butter and jelly sandwich was my last gluten. I feel SO MUCH BETTER NOW. I’m satisfied after meals and my bowels are starting to work on their own.

Gluten is in grains and flours – white, whole wheat and rye.I don't feel like I had to give up that much. I gave up steel cut oats, whey protein, bread and pasta. I read labels on everything now – something I’ll have to continue doing until I’ve got the thing down. I discovered gluten-free products in the health food aisle; the ginger snaps and animal cookies are excellent. I don’t feel like I’m missing a thing.

Food tastes better – I think because I know it’s serving as nutrition now. When I want carbs, I eat potatoes or brown rice. My yoga buddy nurse friend was worried about my protein intake so I've added humane organic chicken to my diet. DO NOT poison yourself with factory farmed meat and poultry. (Please research that.)

The foods I’m eating now are not the enemy.

Beer? Hello my gluten-rich frienemy. I had already learned I couldn’t drink it without getting a headache within an hour; now I know why. If I want a drink I have wine or something with rum.

So if you’re chronically bloated and constipated or diarrheic – it may be that “healthy” gluten rich food and drink you’ve been consuming.

This book looks excellent:

The Gluten Connection: How Gluten Sensitivity May Be Sabotaging Your Health--And What You Can Do to Take Control Now

Pay attention to how you feel after eating certain types of foods. I think it’s a good habit to get into.

Namaste my belly boomer friends.

The Wads of Winter

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 20:28:00 +0000

My friend Connie raises Geese in Missouri. That’s not what she intended to do with her life. She was an award winning landscape designer in Chicago - but her mother was dying alone on the family farm and her city slicker siblings would not step up.

I’m not saying Connie’s mother “was” dying because she died, but because somewhere along the line she started holding her own.

Her brother grudgingly writes checks to make the problem go away as her sister sits back and criticizes.

It’s the traditional American family.

Hospice still comes out – that’s a surprise. Connie can’t get it through her head that they are there for end of life. When death is not imminent, they go away. When hospice saw my Gram was getting better that’s what they did. I joke that they fired her after four months. She lived years past that.

But Connie needs help, she can’t even accept the thought that they might stop coming. She hates and needs them. She rages on Facebook, she doesn’t want to hear the truth about hospice nurses being there to dispense comfort, not healing. I throw my two cents in like a grenade and run for fear of fallout.

It’s not good, it’s not bad – it just is.

I don’t want to get into it with her. Nobody carries a burden as heavy as hers. Her mom has lung cancer and mild dementia and Connie is in her second winter of horrific bronchitis and migraines. She and her mother live in separate buildings on the land and she has to trudge through deep snow to keep her mother fed and medicated and make sure the furnace is working. Not to mention feeding/watering/caring for the geese and the herding dogs and ….

I would break under her burden.

Today she wrote me privately. I have to take a deep breath to open her emails because they break my heart. She explained it this way. I’m not changing one word – just the punctuation because – well, I’m a Virgo.

She wrote “Not to put pressure on you, but I just can’t deal with people right now. And I don’t consider you a person. If you know what I mean- that is a compliment. You are more like a dog.”

The compliment was significant; we both like dogs better than people.

She wrote a very long email and it seemed wads were the crux of it – the straws that broke the camel’s back.

She said she was losing it due to her mother “stuffing endless amounts of kleenex up her sleeves and then my washing her clothes only to have millions of shreds of tissue all over everything, that then falls off when I take the clothes out of the dryer and then I have to sweep the floor.....her home aid brought red washclothes for some unknown reason--- she has millions here already- and so when I washed her clothes all of her whites came out stained pink. I blew up.”

The pink thing made me snicker a little.

But the tissue up the sleeves … that brought Gram back. She did that. She wadded some of it up and stuck it in her ears too; only in the winter.

Back when she was just a dumb blonde – before the dementia started to take her away. Her ears would be full of it and you’d say something and she’d get pissy – annoyed – like “speak the hell up!” Only she would never say “hell”.
I’d point to her ears and she’d double over with laughter. She’d pull them out and I’d say “there for a second I thought you were deef!” That was one of her words.

I think she had a theory that the wads kept her ears warm. Well, maybe the cochlea. I don’t recall ever having cold cochlea. I guess it could happen.

Hats messed up her hair and made her look like “the wreck of the Hesperus” – whatever that was. She was very vain.

We were exposed to the elements more than most because we were Jehovah’s Witnesses. Gram brought out the big guns on Saturday mornings when we went door to door with the Watchtower and Awake. She used COTTON BALLS instead of tissue wads. Maybe they were her “dress” wads.

And she wore an oppressively heavy brown mouton coat with tissues tucked up the sleeves. I’m sure she felt quite elegant, but I hated that coat. One Saturday morning, she caught a heel in the hem and I turned to see her rolling around on the sidewalk struggling to break free. The thickness broke her fall, but it looked like she was being mauled by a bear.

We laughed so hard we cried.

Years passed. I grew up and got married … a few times. She got older and dementia eased in slowly. She got a little testy with people. She bought me dog grooming mits for my third wedding. I’ll never know for sure - dementia or one last lucid shot at my credibility?

Then she forgot who we were; but it seemed like she remembered she loved us. I missed her before she was gone.

Yeah, I remember wads.
Connie ended her tirade …

“I have to get my head back on to seeding the fields and paying my debts off and dealing with hospital bills and sewing curtains, getting to meetings and pretending my life isnt freaking me out of my mind.... NOT lose it over pink clothes. And tissue bits. And hypocrites. And loneliness.”

I wrote back that the days are already getting longer – spring is coming. The snow will melt, the new chicks will arrive and the cycle will begin again.

I did not write that she will get well - her mother won’t and one day she’ll miss the wads and the day the laundry went pink.

The Drafting Compass

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 20:05:00 +0000

I had a friend who wanted to move to Florida except that his parents lived in West Palm. He spread a map, took a drafting compass and drew a circle that rendered 250 miles of comfort zone.

He chose a city on the edge of that zone - far enough to discourage unannounced visits, but close enough to get there quickly in case of emergency. Brilliant.

My situation is not like his. I came to Florida first and my parents – well, they’ll probably never come at all. They’re in Northern Michigan near Lake Superior.

I would need a bigger compass.

I look at my map and there is some satisfaction in being closer to Castro than my mother. I’m about 400 miles north of Havana, 1700 miles south of mom’s.

Both dictators are getting on in years.

Mom is much younger, mid 70s. Castro – well, he has to be ninety by now. I think I’d have a better time with him, but he never calls – he never writes. He doesn’t know I exist.

My mom knows but she doesn’t care much. She had one child - a bastard – that’s me. That was her defining moment. She came home pregnant at 15 and got heat from her mom. Sure, blame the Gram for being upset because she already had her hands full raising three kids while her husband – Grandpa – was suicidal; crazy on his ass with bipolar.

Despite the hardships, Gram welcomed me with open arms. But my mom? According to her current life script, she never forgave her for coming home pregnant. Funny, I don't remember it that way. I grew up with those two and I never saw my Gram dish out anything but food, shelter, love and money.

Some years after mom married – still stalking the ever-elusive happiness - she went into therapy and came out blaming her mother for every disappointment. Her resentments started growing right around the same time Gram started slipping gears.

I told her I thought Gram was getting dementia. Mom disagreed. She said she was playing games.

So - of course - after years of steady decline Gram died of dementia. She has been gone for four years, but my mom continues to claw at her memory like a housebound cat attacks a scratching post.

I have a hard time picking up the phone to make a call. I miss my Gram; she's glad she's gone. Sometimes I prefer email because written words don't cut as deep as spoken words. There is something powerful in a person's "tone."

I’ll bet Castro doesn’t have this kind of drama. He wouldn't permit it. He'd wave it away in a hairy knuckled cloud of smoke.

I’ll bet he embraces his bastards as living/breathing signs of macho.

He would be full of himself – like her – but he wouldn’t give me creepy, judgmental stares over a steaming mug of herbal tea.

She sits curled on the left corner of the great blanketed Collie Couch, with one or two of the great wooly beasts dozing at her feet. If she has food, they huff and puff with desire.

It annoys her that I am vegetarian; but she says she is too - well, except for the bacon. Oh yeah, and the burgers.

Castro wouldn't take my shit. He'd have his chef slap a big bloody steak on my plate and inform me it's that or nothing; at least I could go on Atkins for the duration.

Not so at mom's. She bakes cakes and pies the whole time we're there. She's an incredible cook. Maybe that's how she shows her love. At the end we waddle back out to the SUV with our bags - emotionally deflated and physically fat.

Castro would have a fully stocked bar of prime rums and brandies. I imagine him puffing as he leans back comfortably in a heavily tufted leather chair. It might have some ash burns.

He might have a dog – or maybe even a cat. I could see him with a cat. He probably has people standing by with lint-rollers. In fact, he would have an entourage of trusted friends and cohorts.

My mother doesn’t because she is fierce.

My step-dad hides out with the remotes in his ginormous but somewhat drafty family room. The kitchen is the late-night demilitarized zone where they elbow roughly past each other, exchanging muttered “fuck you’s” in the dim light of the open fridge.

The open profanity usually occurs at the dinner table when the stepdad asks her to pass something and she'll respond with something like "fuck you, get it yourself."

It was unnerving but sort of laughable when he was stronger; now that his health is bad, it's intolerable. We've started taking her aside to tell her to calm the fuck down. Well, not me - I'm afraid. My son does it.

I'm afraid because if I get into it there's a very good chance we will never speak to each other again. Ever. And if I have cause to get into it, I would probably be ok with that.

The dad sleeps downstairs in his own room. It WAS the prime guest room. Mom takes offense to that, but then she takes offense to most everything he does.

I remind her she has a blessed life and it's all because of him.

I sleep upstairs under a dozen glassy eye deer-heads. I get the pull out sofa with the metal rails that bite because I’m the asterisk in family visits to The Great White North. Don’t get me wrong, I like it that way – below radar, with my son, daughter in law and granddaughters out front like the marines.

I make it up there about once a year. I drive to my son’s place in lower Michigan, then we drive another 500 miles past that. We go in my son’s great guzzlin’ SUV with sleeping kids, spilled Cheetos, farting dogs and The Little Mermaid on DVD.

My first daughter-in-law misses us. During delivery of Emma, my first granddaughter, she discovered the joy of pain meds and drugged herself right out of a perfectly beautiful family. Today she has a new family but she misses the life she had with us.

We've hooked up on Facebook and it's like old times. She asked if she could list me on as her mother and I said OK. I always loved her. She was young, she fucked up. We all fuck up sometimes.

She's sorry.

This week she sent an email asking me to tell my parents she misses them.

I understand how she feels. I miss my ex-husband's parents, they are awesome. But I knew what was going to happen.

I sent an email and my mom wrote back: "We will NEVER forgive her for what she did.”

I wrote back saying that doesn't change the fact that Becky will always be Emma’s mother. I envision my mother making some unforgiveable comment that will offend Emma for all time.

It seems like my mother has become the mother she manufactured in her head, the mother she THOUGHT she had. I half-think a person who has never met me or us will read this silly overview of our family's maternal dynamic and have more clarity.

Maybe one day I'll have that. I wish I could understand.

I'm pretty sure my Gram would have accepted Becky’s apology. I think she lived 96 years because she knew how to forgive and accept.

So I’ve got my map and I’ve got my drafting compass.

Let’s see … only 400 miles to Castro’s; 1700 miles to the mom’s. It takes a lot of gas, forgiveness and acceptance to go there.

Open Letter to Fox News

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 04:04:00 +0000

Dear Ms. Kenney:

Tonight I accidentally stopped on Fox as I was flipping through. I briefly heard that a person can still weigh in on that hate speech thing. I'm sorry to be bothering you, but if you don't know who to write, write to the top.

Do I believe the hate speech factor is valid? Absolutely. I've read up on the shooter and I have little doubt he has some form of autism. I have a friend who has Asperger's Syndrome. That person is emotionless and sometimes horrifically inappropriate; he has tremendous difficulty fitting in socially. Is he affected by the media he sees and hears? You bet - if it's in his "script." These people "script" themselves to squeak by. They can only manage one - maybe two.

The shooter had a vision of hate and death; if he needed encouragement to follow through, all he had to do was turn on the radio or TV.

We've been banging this around on Facebook since Saturday. Today someone asked "how many people would be influenced by that sort of thing?" Well, I did some research. They say approximately 20% of the adult population has mental health problems. I didn't take time to find out how many are smoking pot, drunk on their asses or strung out on Hillbilly Heroin. Let's say another 10% are strung out on drugs - liquid, prescription and otherwise.

That leaves about 70% of the adult population to watch you and your commercials in a lucid state. Well, at least half of that adult population thinks like me. Fox News is Faux News, a freakshow of hate and venom. If I knew someone was advertising on your network, I would go out of my way to NOT buy from them.

I had a friend from up north who spent a night here last year - on the heels of another guest. She came out the next morning and whispered "did you know your guest TV is set to Fox News?" Embarrassed, I said "Omigod no, I'll fix that right away."

I have unfriended friends who parrot the Fox hate rhetoric - online and in real life. I've known some of those people for 30 years.

Your network has been ugly and divisive since before the presidential election. When I think Fox I think bigots, christian fanatics and KKK. I think that evil crying clown Beck.

It would be amazing to see you initiate some renaissance of working together across the political divide; to see Fox become part of an intelligent solution instead of the loaded gun that it is.

(Sent to Fox 4 News in Fort Myers 1/11/11)

Buddhism 101: The Four Noble Truths

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 20:54:00 +0000

(This is by special request.)
In my own irreverent words:

Truth #1 - Life always has been and always will be a pain in the ass
Truth #2 - Our suffering is caused by attachment to ego, others, clothes, jewelry, houses, cars, foods, booze, drugs, sex, experiences, etc.
Truth #3 - It is possible to rise above the suffering and find inner peace.
Truth #4 - That inner peace can be found by learning and adhering to the eight-fold path.

The eight-fold path:

1 - Right view (be real, be honest, no sugar-coating; it is what it is)
2 - Right intentions (approach others - and self - with love and acceptance)
3 - Right speech (use words to heal or strengthen - not harm or diminish)
4 - Right action (demonstrate appropriate compassion/generosity of spirit)
5 - Right livelihood (does what you do help or hurt mankind/wildlife/the planet?)
6 - Right effort (work on detaching from those things that bring you pain)
7 - Right mindfulness (be aware and fully present at all times)
8 - Right concentration (meditate; some say God speaks to us in the silence between the thoughts)

There is way more to it than this. I highly recommend "Awakening the Budha Within" by Lama Surya Das.

Happy Channukah, Merry Christmas ... namaste.

Joint Custody and Early Onset

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 18:24:00 +0000

I just got a wink from this guy. I swear to God.

He's my son's age. I should have sent a nice email explaining I wasn't interested, but then he should have had the good sense to not wink in the first place.

I like your lizards (bearded dragons?) but the next time I get attached to a man and his pets, I want legal papers granting joint custody after the inevitable breakup.

Maybe he's just looking for someone to play video games and smoke pot with ... like my last BF, Mr. Hyde.

This year's romantic journey is in it's last fiscal quarter. Like my bank account, my romantic bottom line is bleak but I have reached a point of happy acceptance. This is where I was emotionally when I met Mr. Hyde in February.

He was tall and handsome, smart and funny but I was completely ambivalent. He played cat and mouse for two months - calls/dates - no calls, no dates.

These old red flags from failed relationships have become today's instant dealbreakers. I fucking walk now; it doesn't take much.

I saved Hyde's last voicemail from March; it was him trying to be cute after a long silence, alerting me to a Monty Python marathon. As if it mattered. He was Monty Python, I was Jon Stewart. But I returned the call and the rest is history.

After two months of on/off we did two months of 24/7 and I was in heaven, TOTALLY in love. The happiest I've been in probably ten years. Then he flipped or snapped or realized I wasn't what he wanted. I still don't know. I don't think he knows. I suspect some combination of pot and prescription meds.

I do know in the past few weeks it no longer hurts to hear that voicemail; in fact, it makes me a little angry. This week I finally deleted it. That felt pretty good.

I still have his motorcycle glasses and a feather from his Cockatoo - who I miss desperately. I tamed the untamed, cuddled with the bird who wouldn't let anyone close. I still love the bird. His beautiful yellow feather is in my organizer and it tears me up every time I see it.

I need to let it go. I need to return the glasses, deposit them in his mailbox in the morning before he wakes up; like me, he stays up most of the night.

I have dated since. Men my age either bore me to death or they have accepted OLD without a fight. If my criteria included "must be able to do my 60-minute beachwalk with me" I would be screwed. OK, not screwed. Never screwed again so long as I live. Whatever. What would we do without porn.

We're not talking a stroll, we are talking walking a good pace without breaks. If I held to that criteria, I would ... well, I'd be considering the guy with the bearded dragons because 90% of guys my age can't cut it; and those who can are mostly egomaniacs who date arm candy.

Or they live like MORMON HUSBANDS with meek passive types waiting for their turn at bootie call. As Grandma would say - if she knew what a bootie call was - Pffft.

OK, one first date could have been something. It lasted six hours. In hindsight, it could have been a relationship but it definitely would have led to an annoying breakup.

He was tall and dark, smart and classy with an elegant accent. Not funny, but interesting. Ask him where he's from and he does that thing I hate ... he skirts it. "I'm from Chicago." Where before that? Well he explains, his mother was from Spain and his father was from France and he was born in Cuba.

I don't need your family tree, I just want to know where you got that accent. Isn't it just easier to say "I'm from Cuba?" I would be proud to be from a dramatic time and place.

When someone doesn't honor where they've come from, it's a red flag. Not a deal breaker, just a warning. A man who has issues with his nationality probably has lots of other issues.

I wasn't sure how I felt about him when we met at the coffee shop. There was some chemistry. He was pale with a receding hairline, good strong legs and a thick soft waist tastefully camoflaged by an expensive shirt.

He critiqued my physical attributes like he was choosing Sunday's roast off the cow graph meat chart at Kroger's.

Red flag - but I shrugged it off as Cuban.

He wanted to talk about sex. I was extremely uncomfortable, but he insisted, saying his last relationship ended because she really didn't really like sex. I'm thinking "maybe she didn't like sex with you." He said she just laid there - like call CSI, do the chalk outline and take photos.

OK. I talked about sex. That was me being open, not a green light for future phone sex. After we talked he said "don't you feel better that we have this out of the way? Now we know we are compatible. We do not have to wait two months to find out."

His lack of grammatical contractions was starting to bug me but the "two month" thing resonated.

He convinced me to go see his house so I would know more about him. He was a total gentleman. When we got back to the coffee shop he said he wanted to "do this." Try a relationship on for size. I was freaked, trying not to be freaked.

This was going too fast.

He called the next day - sounding uptight - and asked if I had been on match. ?? I said if I had, it was only to write a polite response to someone who had written.

What is this jealousy? A Cuban thing? Did not compute, I don't know guys like this. I don't know how to deal with jealous people.
He said he would call the next day to decide where we'd meet the day after that. He didn't.

Early onset alzheimers or disrespect? Both are red flags.

KABOOM - gone motherfucker. No pain, I felt empowered.

He called a few more times; I muttered fuck you under my breath and hit mute.

He dropped in at a public place he knew I'd be. I was polite, talked a bit. He looked good. One of my girlfriends was ready to put a move on him. Maybe I had been too hasty.

Then he said he'd been thinking about my sexual fantasies and he liked them. Moving too fast guy, inappropriate topic in an inappropriate location.

That was it. Go away, there are plenty of predatory women who will happily do anything to get their manicured claws on your home and income.

Yesterday - two weeks later - he called again. He left a message and sounded upset. Sad. He asked why I "disappeared". He asked that I call him back. He said "if you do not call I will know what that means."

I waited a few hours, then I sent him an email that I've been very busy. That was true. I also said "I've made a conscious decision; I have no desire to complicate my life with a relationship at this time."

I am the man.

I don't want to hurt people but I have these bright, shiny new boundaries and not many people earn the right to enter the front gate.

I have a date tonight. Well, not a date so much as a hangout with a sort of a friend - a guy I met on Facebook. Like me, he's from southeast Michigan and he worked most of his adult life in the auto industry. (Translation: plenty of stuff to talk about.)

Unlike me, he's allowing his joints to rust out from lack of use. He parks his electric car in handicapped. This isn't convenience, it's necessity.

He looks great but he hobbles. I have a date with a hobbler.

The doctor asked him about his activities and he responded "investing." I tried to picture the doctor's face.

The Hobbler suggested we meet at Casa Blanca.

There is no Casa Blanca Mexican restaurant in Fort Myers.

I corrected him ... "Cabasca's?"

"Yeah" he sez, "that's it. Let's meet at Casa Blanca at 6:30."

Red flag Bogart.

Early onset ...

###

The Ancient Places We Call Home.

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 22:10:00 +0000

A sunset across the street - two miles from Punta Rassa.

Last week I caught part of an interview on local TV. A woman was talking about Lake Okeechobee - how she feels the spirits of the place and the lake must be honored and protected.

I admired her courage. Most of the time, we're afraid to talk about these things.

The first place I lived among the spirits was in Algonac, Michigan. My old victorian cottage was on the river, on a great international waterway - the St. Clair River broke into North and South Channels and smaller inlets.

There was native land across from me - and native land beneath. I felt welcome and wanted.

There was an old bar/restaurant 9 houses down from mine - also on the river. I think it was built in the 30s - maybe earlier.

I used to love going there because my grandfather hung out there before I was born. He fished with the natives on Walpole, went duck hunting with friends and probably got peeks at the earliest Chris Crafts that came out of the local factory. I could imagine him swapping tall tales at that very bar.

Henry's was a wonderful old place that had never been remodeled - only added onto. The walls seemed to speak.

The new owner renamed it, but she left it as it was. One night she told me she thought Henry (long since deceased) was still hanging out. It was nearly midnight and she asked if I wanted to see what she was talking about; I did. Despite the fact that some of her employees were afraid of the place after dark.

She took me back through the kitchen. The stainless of the stoves gleamed, but the floor was uneven with age.

In a dark hallway she opened the door of a big storage closet and asked if I felt anything. I didn't. She dared me to go inside; I did and she turned off the light. Alone in the darkness with paper towels and tomato paste - I started feeling stupid.

We walked out into the back portion of a dining area - she only opened that when she had big crowds. That hadn't happened in a while. I walked towards the big glass windows closest to the river. There was some natural light from the moon over the river.

Still nothing. She walked back towards an interior wall and said "try this way."

As I approached I could feel electricity tingle up my fingertips, into my fingers, up my arms and shoulders to the top of my scalp - which positively crawled. I received a visual impression of a native warrior, feet towards the river. I received the emotional impression of a warrior priest. This was a sacred space.

It was like he was still very much alive; he was a potent psychic force. My scalp crawls just describing it.

I told my friend "it's not Henry you're feeling." Then I told her what I saw.

Later other customers told her the old-timers talked about "hearing horses" and "seeing an Indian."

I started sneaking off to light a candle when I was there on quiet nights.

I told a knowledgeable native man from Walpole's cultural center about the experience and he said I'd had a vision many full blooded natives spent a lifetime in sweat lodges trying to achieve. He asked if I had native blood and I said my family thinks we do.

He said I needed to find out who from, which tribe. He wanted me to abandon Buddhism to explore native spirituality, but I saw no reason why I couldn't do both. Truth is truth.

That space in the back room of that darkened restaurant was sacred. My home had a connection to the spirits. I expected I would be taken out the day I died.

But it didn't happen that way. I lost my home along with everything else due to Lyme Disease. I remember gathering the last of my things and kissing my doorway goodbye; I cried all the way to my boyfriend's house.

Fast forward five years.

Somehow I wound up in this quirky little area of Florida. This condo fairly leaped out at me from the ads. It's the only one I clicked with, the only one I saw.

Oddly enough, I have that same sense of peace and protection I had in Algonac. I always wondered about that. I am one mile from the Caloosahatchee River, three miles from Bunche Beach and five miles from Fort Myers Beach. Of course these were all native land at one time - but I had no idea to what degree.

The Sanibel Causeway meets the mainland in a place known as Punta Rassa. It's walking distance.
I'm broke, I have something like six watchable channels left. Last night I happened on a local history program and learned how important this area was to the natives and those who came after.

The Calusa Indians used this area as a central location for tribe members who lived on Estero and those who lived up the Caloosahatchee River.

Pirates docked at Punta Rassa. Cubans came in the winter to fish for Mullet for lent. Crackers came with cattle for Cuba; they were paid in Spanish dubloons and celebrated payday ... here.

Union troops - including two colored divisions - set up camp here. There was even a fort, which was totally washed away in the Hurricane of 1840 (?). Historical fiction author Bob Macomber is an expert on local Civil War history. He says back then the people gathered at Punta Rassa couldn't understand each other. Soldiers included ex-slaves from the south, some from Georgia, white troops from New York - and Crackers.

I don't think they ever had any battles here. An acquaintance lives on the Caloosahatchee on the site of another fort; he said there were little skirmishes, but nothing serious.

Some ancient places have a horrible vibe. I did not do well in Sedona (I believe the new agers are pissing off the spirits) and I could not wait to leave the Coloseum in Rome; you can still feel the violence.

But here ... this land feels good. It was nice to catch the program and know why. Once again, I live in an area that was home to ancient native peoples.

(I believe it was WGCU Program 122 on Punta Rassa; I'm going to buy it when I get a chance:-)

Boomer Bastards; I Got You Babe

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 15:40:00 +0000

I was a shy kid, sheltered by my mother and grandmother and cut off from the mainstream by my mother’s chosen religion – Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Once in High School some kid told one of my girlfriends I was a bastard; she promptly volunteered to kick his ass. Well, she didn’t say “ass”, she said “butt”. Nobody swore around me, I was pretty darned pious.

In the 60s being a bastard was a HUGE deal. I couldn’t figure out why someone would say something so hurtful. Of course, back then I didn’t KNOW what he’d said was true.

My mom divorced when I was 7 and I never saw my dad again. He was an Italian jazz musician. A good man. I wondered why he stopped seeing me. When I looked him up 18 years later, I found out why.

He was “expresso” - black hair, green eyes and olive skin. His second wife was as blonde and white as my mother – pale as cream. The children of my father’s second family were varying shades of mocha latte. They invited us to dinner and I said it was strange that we didn’t match.

Later that night he called and told my husband the truth. He and my mother married when I was 2 and he had adopted me. I was devastated. My entire life to that point had been a lie. Not knowing who my father was, somehow I didn’t know who I was. I could have picked up the phone and called my mother or grandmother, but they’d gone to so much trouble to hide the truth, I wasn’t willing to burst their bubble. I would continue the charade.

OK, so my dad wasn’t my dad. I became more spiritual, figuring if I didn’t have a father in the flesh, I had the mother of all fathers in spirit.

My life progressed just fine. I was more sensitive to others because who knew what they were going through. Even my career was going well. My company was sending me to Europe and I’d need a passport. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother, I expected her to be proud.

And by the way, I would need a copy of my birth certificate.

She invited me to lunch at a favorite place and I could tell she was worried sick. She said “I have something to tell you.” I said “about what?” She said “about you.” And I said “don’t worry, I already know.”

She was afraid the birth certificate would give her away. It was so painful for her, I only asked a few questions. Who was my father? What did he look like? What nationality? I assumed Jewish because most of my friends were. She said “No! His family would have lit the ovens!” She told me he was a German named Karl (Carl?) Smith. After getting her pregnant, he had married her best friend.

I left it at that and never asked for more. I walked away thinking “OK, at least I know what nationality I am on that side. German.”

I found Karl’s number and talked to him on the phone, but he pretended not to know me. I know he did because his voice shook. To be denied by my real father, to know he never cared to see me, was a crushing emotional blow.

“OK, my biological father never wants to meet me. I’ll get past it.”

And I did.

In the years that followed my mother went into therapy and came out the other side firm in the belief that having a child out of wedlock had wrecked her life. She was glib about it, as if I weren’t involved. This is me waving my hand saying “hey, that’s me you’re blaming. And I was just an embryo.”

This is me wanting to put a bag of flaming poo on her therapist’s doorstep. Except that knowing my mom, that is probably the conclusion she reached after the therapist tried to convince her otherwise.

It didn’t stop there. Her story changed as years advanced. She started saying she was raped. I imagine that’s good cover for anyone with a checkered past. I took it with a grain of salt. I preferred to think of her as a teenager with passions rather than a victim.

Today mom is excited that I’m working on the book on the family tree. She dedicated 20 years of her life to family genealogy and damned if she didn’t hit pay dirt. Since then she has been obsessed with pedigree. D.A.R. and all that.

Yesterday we were talking about some of what I’d learned about William the Conqueror – a.k.a. William the Bastard. She piped up “I’ve started thinking about your father. I wonder if ‘Smith’ is English. You might have another English connection.”

I said “well, you told me he was German.” She said “I don’t know.” I asked her to describe him. She said he was 6’ tall with a rosy complexion - an exciting guy with a nice car. In fact he raced cars. His family lived in a nice area - 6 Mile and Gratiot in Detroit was once fairly elegant.

To my dismay, Mom was in the mood to talk. She said he was going with her best friend Dottie – “a ditzy tramp with big boobs.” I wondered why my mother chose a best friend like that. Don’t birds of a feather ….

Then she said “I got you the night he drove me home from Thanksgiving dinner.” (I got you?) She concluded “and he raped me in the driveway.”

BONK. I don’t remember what she said after that. I was stunned, picturing my Grandmother’s tree lined gravel driveway and the little white house in the distance. I guess it’s an ok place to be conceived. And it was probably a nice car, after all.

OK, I’ll get over this too. I’ll learn to tell people I am English, Finnish and ???

The rape thing? I don't know if I'll get over it. I know saying that makes her feel better, blameless, but it makes me feel guilty for being born.

I remember my Grandmother getting a little more open as she got older. My mom is about 75 right now. Heaven help me if this is the start of what’s to come. Fortunately, I know from my research on the family tree that – if shaken – at least one history-changing bastard will fall out.

I like to think we boomers will be the last generation to give a shit about this crap. Our kids and their kids will only get some sense for it from old-time movies like “To Each His Own”.

They won’t have to live it.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_Each_His_Own_(film)

Free Singles Sites and Stalkers.

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 20:55:00 +0000

I always like to use a photo. This was my second choice - the other one could probably get me sued. At the very least, it would wreak havoc on my karma.

One week last year I made a four picture photo montage of the people who contacted me on the free singles sites. (Those being plentyoffish.com and I think it's mingle.com). One was headless and sideways in a dress shirt, the second was headless but upright in camoflage with a beer belly holding - what else - a beer, the third was a broomstick legged old guy on a kid's rocking horse after what was probably his seventh jack and coke - and the fourth was a guy in a wheelchair and his wife; they were looking for another woman to share the love.

Getting a sense for the creepiness of it all??

I learned my lesson when I met someone who had a photograph of himself next to his yacht (that he lives on). To take a photo of a boat that size you need to back off quite a distance. You couldn't see him clearly, but his height appeared to be decent. His profile said he was in his late 50s.

I love boats. People who live on them are typically gypsies at heart. I like them too.

He walks in and late 70s was closer to the truth. It was like lunch with Grandpa. He said he likes Plenty of Fish because it's free.

I bought him lunch and went home feeling defiled, like a cat after a bath.

Still, when I see someone has written I have to check out the photo. It had been a long time since I bothered.

About six weeks ago someone wrote. He had a nice face. The photo looked recent. (Grainy photos = vintage photos.) He's an RN in Fort Myers. Professional and local - score two points.

The long-term exBF of 8 years was an RN before he found out he could make more money with a landscaping business. The long-term exBF was a hoot. Smart, funny ... eventually horrifically mean. Still, he had taken care of me while I was sick with Lyme Disease.

Caring types go into that profession. Nurturing people. And this guy had stuck with it. He had to be ok. Inner dialog - Let's break a pattern here Mick, give a good guy a break.

We exchanged a few emails. He was off the job, recovering from back surgery. OK, shades of Mr. Hyde. Still recovering from the repurcussions of back surgery. I ignored it - this guy sounded like he was going to have full recovery and would be going back to his job in a few weeks.

At that point my summer was just about scrambling for work, starting work on a new book and walking the beach at sunset to keep my calm. I made the mistake of telling him where I park, what my starting point is, how far I go and how long it takes.

He said he wanted to join me for a walk but I know better. Most men my age can't walk further than the fridge and this one had just had back surgery.

He wanted to talk on the phone, "it's easier." I don't like giving out my phone number, but WTF. I was feeling uncharacteristically open that day.

He talked about his surgeries for an hour and a half. I shit you not. He's like serial surgery guy, has a buddy who's a surgeon and apparently they have a lot in common. One likes to cut, the other likes to be cut???

I dunno. I was bored out of my gourd. His goal after retirement was to sell his stuff and cruise the country in a motor home.

He was losing points fast; that's not how I want to spend the rest of my life.

I've seen skits where people grab tin foil and crumble it, claiming there's a bad connection. My connection is already truly bad, but I was doing the Michigan thing - being polite. Fortunately, my battery died around the same time as his.

He sent an email apologizing for cutting the conversation short, saying he had really enjoyed talking to me. "Talking to" being the operative term. Put a fork in me, I was done.

Then he called again - I can't remember if it was after his phone recharged or the next day. I didn't have his name stored and I made the mistake of answering. I said I'd have to call him back; and I didn't. I wrote that I was working on my book.

His next voicemail said "YOU'RE SCREENING ME!!! DON'T SCREEN ME!!"

This trailer immediately ran through my mind - but I shrugged it off.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZHe3GYQp_8&feature=related

This is about a month ago.

The emails continued. "What have I done"? I responded just once: "You came on too strong." And I left it at that.

He begged me to meet him for coffee at Starbucks on College, but I ignored him. If you ignore them, they'll go away - right?

A few weeks later I did my beach walk and each of those nights is absolutely exquisite. It's dark by the time I reach Time Square and there is usually live entertainment, silly stuff that draws kids.
http://www.fortmyersbeachfl.gov/index.aspx?nid=112

All the benches were full, so I sat on the edge of a concrete planter about 8' behind some guy who was watching the performer. He turned around and I recognized him from his photo.

I nearly launched off the planter and took a different direction back to my car. I thought "I must be imagining this."

Two nights later - darkness fell as I walked off the beach and there he was at Time Square again. There was no eye contact, but I knew he was scanning the area and would see me. I pretended to go to Dairy Queen and hit the side exit back to my car.

I checked the other cars in the area to see if there were any "medical type" IDs. Totally creeped out, I took a photo of the plate parked next to mine.

Then - again - I thought it was my imagination. Nobody does this. I've been stalked in public but never in private.

The next email says "We can meet for a smoothie if you like."

I continued my walks, but I never went through Time Square again. Satisfied that I had solved the problem, I started to relax a little. I was still pushing to get work - posting notes on Craigslist for websites and such.

Yesterday he wrote he has a friend who needs a website.

He seems more persistent than tech savvy, but I suspect he's going to find this blog.

There is a lesson here for all of us trusting types. His name is Sam, I won't give his last name in case he's just an innocent overly needy kinda guy. If not, there should be enough information here for the cops to find him.

I'm going to be more careful with my personal information from now on. I hope you'll be more careful too.

My Last Saturday Before Sixty

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 06:46:00 +0000

There may be typos, I'm having a second gin & tonic.

Yeah, I absolutely DO NOT feel like someone who's gonna be 60 on Tuesday. That's the day. This is the countdown. I expected to be upset.

I'm not.

The freak flag is gonna fly just a little bit higher. We are still the most significant part of the U.S. population goddamit, we are the pig moving through the python. Let the rest of 'em kiss our drooping asses.

One of my "aha" moments in this aging thing is the fact that my (BELOVED) Grandmother lived 36 years past 60. Those last six years of hers were ... not pleasant to watch because of the dementia. Gram - who had been excruciatingly proper, who wouldn't even leave her bedroom in a full slip in front of "just us girls" was sneaking off to shit in the pantry at the nursing home. Gram - who had been an icon of self-sufficiency and restraint, was also crawling into bed with the other old ladies for ... I dunno, comfort?

I once jokingly referred to her (to my cousin) as "our pantry pooping lesbian grandmother." She would have been "mortified". She liked that word when she had all her senses.

She was a Gabor, a glamour puss. If the wind was blowing, she'd walk in claiming to look like "the wreck of the Herperus." Whatever that is, I've never looked it up.

Gram had always cared more about looks, clothes and physical fitness than mental fitness. I don't know if that's a factor in alzheimers - they say it is. You can't build those neurons and dendrites by cracking a BH&G for 15 minutes a week.

But fit? At 96 that woman could be standing and put the palm of her hands on the floor. She could out-energize half the aides in the home. She didn't have the brains the Good Lord gave broccoli, but she'd wear you out just watching.

I miss her a lot; but she overstayed by about five years. I do not expect that will happen to me.

So I'm going about my last week in my 50s proud of how agile I am at this age, how strong after a long illness; then I'm washing my face and my neck hurts. I have a giant lump under my jaw. The last time I felt a lump like that was 14 years ago. The lump was under the ear of my 3-year-old Bouvier and the poor sweet gentle baby was dead within a month.

I am proud that my first thought was not "omigod I'm gonna die" but "omigod, who will take care of my dogs if I die!!!" Also "who will call my son"; like he's not stressed enough.

I reigned the imagination in. I figured the swelling must be from the grinding. That's what always happens. I grind, I crack and loosen my teeth, my jaw swells and the dentist winds up taking about half of whatever I've earned for two months.

My only remaining "gift" from Mr. Hyde is the bite guard he went out and bought me "that time" my jaw swelled and I was in pain. I never told him why I needed the bite guard. My libido was bigger than his. I guess that's fairly common in our fifties and sixties.

Anyway I think of him every time I put it in at night. The bite guard. If you have one, you have to check this trailer for Date Night. It's so authentic I nearly peed my pants ... yeah, we both had bite guards.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aspBKFz2dBI&feature=related

The good news is I think I'm finally over him. Went out with him weekly for about a month - at which time he bored the living crap out of me; then he had company for a week or two, then there was another week of nothing, then he came back and something clicked and it was incredible nonstop for two months.

If only it had been real.

So my math is getting better in my old age. Went with him like three months out of four and - wow - only took three months to get to the point where I'm happy with my life again.

Only a lot warier. (Is that a word? It is now.)

Oh, the swelling. So I went to my dentist. He looks more like he should be in a flour doused apron making pizza at a strip mall or coaching high school football than doing crowns in Fort Myers, but he's a great guy.

I was in the chair one time and I confessed that I couldn't stand his one assistant. She is so inappropriately fawning and sicky-sweet you just want to spit on her shoes. (She's like Izzie Stevens on Grey's Anatomy). I hinted at the extreme annoyance factor like "how do you deal with that???" And his shrug and shake of the head implied he knew exactly what I was talkin' about.

I imagined him saying "Yeah, but you can't fire someone for perky; unfortunately."

Turns out the swelling wasn't from grinding or a tooth and he was genuinely worried. He whipped out a prescription for antibiotics and told me to go straight to an emergency clinic if it got any worse. "Or the swelling can close your throat."

He said to call him if there was a problem even as he was apologizing for not being able to do anything because he's a dentist, not a doctor.

Visit was free, prescription was free. Thank you AARP dental insurance through Delta Dental. A visit to a clinic would have cost about $80 or more.

I don't have income right now. The income I earned last spring went into ... you guessed it, assorted crowns and root canals. I vary between "fuck it" and "omigod, start packing because you can't afford to live here any more."

Bottom line is "on vacation with furniture."

I took the girls out for their last pee around 1 a.m. and the sky is incredible. A near-full moon and great swirls of milky white against deep midnight blue.

I remembered the day I pulled up with the Uhaul and all my possessions 3 years and 3 months ago. My feeling then was utter despair. Now it's just total love for where I landed.

Went out with one match guy since I got back from Michigan. He made some sexual joke that could have been taken as an invitation and I passed; haven't heard from him since. Good riddance play-ah.

Getting ready to go out with someone who was really intriguing. That could happen Sunday - wait, it's already Sunday.

I had it in my head that God would give me a meaningful relationship with a wonderful man before I turned 60. Like Woody Allen says "God is a Jewish waiter with too many tables."

Whatever. I don't "do" expectations any more.

About a month ago an acquaintance on Facebook posed the question "is life fate or is it random?" And I wrote "if you have faith in a higher power, I believe it's directed." A combination of faith, guidance and karma.

Because it seems like every time I just about freak out or give up, something good happens.

I think when you believe (and you work on being a good person), life is pretty much what it's supposed to be.

Is Looking Cheating? The Singles Sites

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 18:07:00 +0000

I joined Match about 4 years ago. That was sort of inappropriate because I was in my seventh year of a relationship.

I had been sick for a long time and He had taken care of me through crushing illness and brain fog. He moved me in and fed me. He rented movies and made me laugh.

Sure there were moments when he lost it. One time he said "I wish you would just die." There is a lot I don't remember from that time period, but you don't forget words like those.

When I finally remembered pulling a "bug" out of my leg before my illness, we had my diagnosis; Lyme Disease. He took me to the hospital for installation of the "stent?" that would (hopefully) blast the hell out of the Lyme bastards.

I started to recover somewhat after IV treatments. Somewhat. Mostly, they blew the cobwebs out of my brain. I felt like Rip Van Winkle. I woke to find a few years had passed and my body was a mess. I was incredibly soft and weak.

I woke to find my beautiful, smart, funny boyfriend had turned into a monster.

Abusers are interesting people; they can make you feel like you're going crazy. They wear you down and tear you up from the inside. They'll criticize your appearance and follow up by preparing calorie packed meals "for you" as an apology. They'll make sure the refrigerator is stocked with your favorite desserts. They'll criticize other things about you in order to send you to food for solace.

They set you up to fail. They gain weight too, but it doesn't matter because he or she is in charge.

I remember the week I joined match. It started with a Sunday in Cape Coral, Florida. Sunday was boating day with friends. Boating was all about drinking, which flipped his personality and always resulted in emotional violence; yeah, and fear. I feared for my life.

Sober he was a master boatsman ... drunk, he was oblivious. Deliberate even. I remember one time he seriously injured a passenger by hitting a wake HARD at the wrong angle. His reaction was frightening; there was no remorse - just dark satisfaction.

I was having recurring "drowning" dreams and I didn't need Freud to know they were inspired by a physically and emotionally dangerous relationship.

He was packing the cooler to go - a ritual. He really wanted me to go that day for some reason. I was embarrassed by how fat I was. It was hard to tell him the truth - I didn't want to go until I lost some weight. He patted his Buddha belly and said "I'm no skinny minnie either, don't worry about it." So I threw on a black swimsuit with shorts for a cover-up and went along.

We were with a friend I liked and respected - and his date, who I really didn't know. I remember that she was very smart. I cared about what she thought of me.

Boating ensued. Beer ensued. Down the Calloosahatchee River, through the miserable mile and left through the Sanibel Causeway. We got to Fort Myers beach and anchored in the smooth white sand near Lani Kai.

By the time we got to shore, we'd both had too much to drink. I called him on his constant rage and he called me a cow.

I walked away. I waded back out to the boat and waited for everyone else. I was stone silent on the trip back and then again, at the house. The friend was no stranger to my ex's abusive ways, he had seen it all before. He put a hand on my shoulder to comfort me as they left.

I flipped my laptop open and caught my reflection in the monitor. I had been crying. Who was this tragic old woman? I thought "this man is killing me."

I was 56 years old. Fat, sick and weak. Dependent on a man who victimized me. A total loser.

The match ads were everywhere. I went in to see the faces and read the stories. There was comfort in it. There were other single people out there - my age. Skinny, fit and fat. You could tell from the descriptions they'd been through hard times like mine.

What is that line in Broadcast News? Something like "Wouldn't the world be a wonderful place if insecurity and self doubt made us more attractive?" It didn't add to their appeal, but it made me realize I wasn't alone.

I joined with what little money I had. I posted a photo that looks much older than I look now. It's amazing what being true to yourself can do.

Some men expressed interest and I had my first taste of having something left to offer. I got my hope back. It helped give me the balls to leave. Not right away, but eventually. I could most certainly do better than him.
In fact, alone but free to find the right person was absolutely the way to go. I'm still looking and I've been hurt along the way, but I don't regret leaving for a second.

When is it ok to look? Probably whenever you're sad. Married, separated, divorcing or single. I don't believe in acting on it. I believe in ending whatever you have and mourning that loss so you don't carry the baggage with you to the next relationship.

If you're in an abusive relationship, please consider buying "The Emotionally Abusive Relationship". It helped me sort it all out.

Most important are her worksheets. One has you make a list of the strengths and weaknesses of the parent who had the most influence in your life. Then you compare those strengths and weaknesses to your abusive partner.

And have your epiphany. That's where I found mine.

***

I am currently on two singles sites.

Plentyoffish.com is free - but you get what you pay for. I don't take anyone I meet there seriously. In fact, my last contact - who seemed bright and honorable - turned into a cyberstalker.

Match seems to hold the most potential. I met someone I really like this week, someone who seems to believe as I do. Maybe I have a friend I can relate to. Maybe more. Maybe he will be nothing but a blip on my radar - someone to fill my fantasies for a short time.

No harm done. Fantasy is good ... sort of a subset of HOPE.

I don't think any of us want to be alone.

Be honest in filling out their forms so you'll have a real chance at a decent match. I live among the conservative right but I describe myself as I am - liberal. It limits my prospects, but it also spares me potential grief down the line.

When browsing these sites, be mega-aware of old photos and remember that descriptions usually represent people as they THINK they are. Self awareness seems to be a rare quality; honesty even more so.

Don't give your heart (or anything else) too quickly.

NOTE: I've tried eHarmony; it's the high fructose corn syrup of social connections - sicky sweet, so automated you'll be linked to anyone with a pulse; and even if there is someone interesting, their processes prevent meaningful communication. I think it's a waste of time and money.

Whatever you do - if you're sad and lonely with or without a relationship, don't just sit there.

Do something about it.

Drive Therapy: My Month in Michigan.

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 18:50:00 +0000

Emma, Ella and Princess; well, actually, they're all princesses.
Photo taken shortly after my arrival.

It was the end of June and I was hell bent on leaving South Fort Myers to see my son, DIL and granddaughters in Michigan. Then we would drive the rest of the way to Michigan's western Upper Peninsula to see my parents and stay about a week. I would be gone a total of two or three weeks.

I drive because I WILL NOT travel without my dogs during hurricane season. They're all I have in this cold (no HOT), lonely world.

I was going to rent a car, but my freelance work had dried up and I didn't have money for anything beyond gas and motel rooms. It was drive my 15 year old Saturn POS (piece of shit) or don't go at all.

I was getting severely depressed. Staying home alone was not an option. I was coming off an intense relationship where Mr. Wonderful had turned into Mr. Hyde overnight. I don't think I've ever felt more blindsided.

The travel adrenaline started to kick in after an oil change and a night spent packing my bags. In the morning I grabbed the dogs and hit the road. I abandoned all hope of resolving things with Mr. Hyde. The burden of that load did not lessen in the miles that lay before me.

One of my friends suggested I do the drive in three days and two nights. He called to check my progress and said "it's time to pull over and get some rest." I listened to him. He was right - but it took more time and more money.

Still, it's a good idea to get there alive.

The heat was intense most of the way. In the Smokey Mountains I had to choose between AC and third gear. It didn't seem a little cooler until the morning we woke up in Ohio. My girls developed a true affinity for motels. That morning Princess stepped into the tub to take a shower with me.

I was packing them back into the car when my purse banged into the door; my phone auto-dialed Mr. Hyde. I freaked in my urgency to end the call.

A few moments later I got a text. "Change your mind?" Like he was sitting on the phone.

Was this random dial some act of God? Was there any hope for us? Understand that I'd spent two full days listening to country music. If you like country, a two or three day drive is not so bad. If you're recovering from a breakup, it's therapy. I cried, I let it out, I got my mourn on.

Take a moment to listen to these. Imagine driving 1350 miles with this as the soundtrack of your life ...

Kelly Clarkson & Reba McEntire - Because Of You
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tYQYFbn0ag

Colbie Caillat - I Never Told You
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_YtzsUdSC_I

I texted back a lie - I was fine. I apologized for the "butt call".

Understand that there had been no communication for several weeks. And none of my attempts to ease his hostililty had helped.

He responded that his life was "rotten" and it seemed like he thought I'd be happy about that. I said I was in Ohio (where he's from) and was sad to be there without him. We had planned on driving up together.

I opened a floodgate of love and sadness that would have softened a heart of stone; then I felt the "snap" of the trap.

He unleashed incredible venom. I responded with honest words that guaranteed finality and was still shaking when I pulled into my son's driveway four hours later.

Shawn was in the middle of remodeling. He had just put hardwood floors in and everything else was up against the walls. He took one look at the dogs and I could tell he was upset. They would scratch the floors or pee on the floors or gack on the floors.

THEY WOULD NOT.

I didn't realize he was just generally upset. They'd been going through the remodeling nightmare for four months and had been living like mice surrounded by boxes in two crowded bedrooms. I joked to Asha that's what it must have have been like in Communist Poland.

Asha and the girls were delighted to see me. Emma is taller, going through a bit of a dorky stage with her braces. She was also engaging in some drama that was causing problem for her parents. We had a little chat about that. Ella is going through a stage of beauty and attitude. She's deliciously devious.

We attempted to relax with each other for the next four days. Then we headed out to see Grandma and Grandpa. The drive from Grass Lake to Bruce Crossing, Michigan takes about 9 or 10 hours. We left around 7 p.m. in order to miss the Fourth of July traffic jams; three adults, three dogs (my two little ones and Shawn's gassy lab), and two girls. Shawn has a big SUV so it's movies and garbage food all the way. He and Asha drive, I talk them through.

I stayed up all that dark, moonless night. The horizon was growing light when we pulled up to the folks' house on 80 acres bordered by state lands. This is the land my Finnish great grandparents bought in the early 1900s.

It should feel like home, but it doesn't.

The headlights of the SUV exaggerated grass that had grown knee deep. My heart sank. Mom's about 75, Grandpa (my stepfather) is about 85 and in poor health. They're getting too old to do their own mowing in the summer; it will get worse when the snows come. Snow falls so heavy some people have to shovel their roofs or they'll collapse. My parents have plow blade gouges on the siding of their outbuildings; Grandpa's driving isn't what it once was.

Mom was smiling at the porch rail in a big poofy chenille robe. I wondered where Grandpa was ...

The dogs poured out of the SUV and peed like racehorses. Shawn and I got out stiff from sitting - everyone else in the vehicle was still half asleep. I think it was 5 a.m.

We walked in and Grandpa was slumped in a soft chair gray as death. I nearly walked back out to cry. His face was limp like a corpse and he raised one trembling hand, so happy to see Shawn. He was in his second month of an infection - too weak to stand, so Shawn bent over to give him a hug.

Grandpa loves Shawn more than anyone in this world. Grandpa was God's gift to me and my son. He was the only responsible male role model in Shawn's life.

My stepfather was in the Navy, stationed at Pearl Harbor immediately after the tragedy. He helped the Reuther brothers establish the UAW. He carried a gun in the old days. He marched with Martin Luther King in Selma. (That picture hangs on my wall.) He was close friends with Victor and Sophie Reuther at Black Lake; Shawn's first song as a little boy was "Solidarity Forever."

Mom at the Fourth of July fireworks in Bruce Crossing.

My stepfather is also the best thing that ever happened to my mother, but she's slow to admit it. She would not be living her easy life without him. She would not be living in a beautiful home with beautiful new cars. She would not be living in Bruce Crossing; that was her idea.

There is a strange denial when someone close to us is very sick. She pretty much refused to see that my beloved Grandmother had dementia for many years, claiming she was playing games. During our visit she resented all of my stepfather's requests for assistance. The man could not stand or walk without help. When she snapped at him, Shawn and I exchanged glances like "we can't take too much of this; one of us is going to have to say something."

I asked her about his illness when the timing was right. I said "he doesn't seem like he has long to live." Once I actually cried while talking about it and she said "I'm not there yet." (??) Sometimes I was able to shake her back to the truth of what is, but it never lasted long.

Fortunately, our visit made him want to regain his strength. By the time we left he was moving with a little more confidence.

Grandpa (middle) with cronies after the Fourth of July parade.

Ella, Asha, Shawn & Yours Truly after the parade.

We just generally hung out in Bruce Crossing for a week.

Shawn and I fought twice - which is unheard of. We haven't fought since his birth. Once it was about my dogs, the second ... I can't even remember. Both fights were loud and ugly. Our excuses to fight were more of a reaction of the stress of what was going on around us (the obvious frailty of Grandpa) our own sense of responsibility for them, our own fears as to how it will end up and Shawn's stress about contractor issues and returning to a half-finished home.

I had nightmares. I don't like it there. Nature is nature, but this is wilderness. Bears ransacked their porch a few months back. We took a gun when we walked because there are cougars and wolves. I could not live in a place like that.

If/when my stepfather dies, my mother will probably want to stay. She has a large antique shop and quite a following; but she's 1700 miles from me. Do I sacrifice my life for hers? Or will she move downstate.

I searched match for signs of intelligence and was surprised by what I found. Maybe that's where the real men hide. Who knows.

Who knows anything.

I took the time to go through her extensive genealogy records. Years ago I had promised that when she was done, I would take her "bones" and put meat on them. She devoted 20 years of her life to research and it was all there in front of me. Nothing so easy as computer files, of course!

I took notes, made copies, made sure I had the line right. I started my research there. Mom suddenly came to life, laughing and smiling. Someone - me - was actually going to take her work to the next level.

It's exciting work and I'm learning so much. Please check my blog for tease bits and pieces -http://www.americanwyatts.com/

I read some actual content to my writers meetup group and they said it was interesting whether you're related or not.

We left Grandma & Grandpa better than we found them. When we got back to Shawn's house I kept saying I was going to leave and Asha kept saying "no you're not." So I stayed another 2 1/2 weeks.

I had a long talk with Shawn. I told him no 90 year old ever looked back on his life and mourned scratches on his hardwood floors. I said stuff is stuff. He should try living somewhere where it could all blow away. That mindset puts your priorities where they should be.

I left about five days before their departure for Poland to see her family.

I wasn't sad on the drive back, I was going home. For some reason, none of the stations had sad songs and Tennessee (which usually scares me a little) felt like hills instead of mountains; I got the drive done in two days and one night.

I was so happy to be home I gossiped with neighbors for a bit before going to bed. One gave me my mail. During my absence Mr. Hyde had dropped one of my DVDs in my mailbox. I sent him a quick thank-you. That drama may continue for a time. I don't now and now I don't care.

I have just enough work to squeak by financially for the time being and a wealth of research and writing to satisfy my soul.

It's weird to say "home" is a place where your family isn't. I wish they lived here. But we have skype and I'll be ba-ack.

Master of my (new) domain: babblingboomer.com

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 16:38:00 +0000

OK, it goes like this. Blogger is free, but if you want to make things easy on your readers, you buy a domain name. You don't need a website, you can buy a domain and POINT IT to your blog (or web store on eBay or Etsy or whatever); or you can buy a domain from Blogger, which SEEMED like the easiest path to take.

Well, that path led to a cliff.

DO NOT buy a domain name from Blogger.

Damned if blogger didn't change their URLs and they left it up to their VICTIMS to try to figure out how to reattach. Which includes finding out who THEY buy THEIR domains from. They made it nearly impossible to figure out.

OK, I'm letting them hold my old domain hostage - I bought a new one. I don't like the name that much either, but it sort of sums up what this blog is. A whole lot of boomer babbling. It sounds silly and sometimes I am.

Here's the thing, then, if you have a blog and you want to attach a domain, do it the easy way. Go to Godaddy, purchase a clever or catchy but mostly memorable domain name for about $10 for a year and POINT IT TO YOUR BLOG.

It's very easy.

And if your blog host changes domains, you just go back to Godaddy and change your "forward."

It's the cheapest way to be master of your domain.

Liberals, Bigots and Hate in General.

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 22:09:00 +0000

Fort Myers Beach looks like this most every night in the summertime. This photo is from last night.

The Gulf is five miles from where I live. I head out around 7:30 p.m. and park for free under the bridge. I walk up to Times Square, remove the flip flops and sink into the warm sand with the joy of a 12-year-old.

If I turn right, it's a 30 minute walk to Bowditch Park, the north end of Estero Island. I can see Bunche Beach from that vantage - it's near my condo. One day I'll kayak across from Bunche, but not alone.

I'm doing this walk almost every night lately, it's combination exercise program and walking meditation. Who couldn't use a little more peace, a little more calm?

Thursday night there were dolphins. Last night the colors were incredible. The sun will set and THEN the colors EXPLODE from every direction. Pinks and purples - last night the bridge to Sanibel looked like it was on fire.

The surf was warm as bathwater.

It was a Friday. It's party night. The beach is alive - they say we're getting the tourism New Orleans lost to the oil spill. Good for us, bad for them.

I decided to walk past SOB's - the Steaming Oyster Brewery. It's a local favorite. The breeze roars through three open sides like nobody's business and the live entertainment is usually excellent. One guy, one guitar, one appreciative audience.

I spotted one of the few people in this area who's always a pleasure to hang out with and before I knew it there was a cold Coors Light on the bar and an empty stool with my name on it. Forget that I was hot, sweaty and sandy - everyone else was too. Well, hot and sweaty anyway.

My good friend was sitting to my left with his new girlfriend. On my right was an old drunk cracker with bright blue bloodshot eyes and long blonde oily hair.

A cracker is a Florida native. I believe the term came from whip cracking because many of the original Floridians had ranches with cattle. (See "The Land Remembered" - an excellent history of this area. I live near Punta Rassa, where cattle were herded for shipment to Cuba.)
Understand also, that being a cracker does not automatically mean you're a bigot. I know some awesome crackers.

When you live down here you don't necessarily want to know where people stand politically.
You just want to like everybody. They're usually easy to like.

So the cracker leans forward over my right hooter to talk to my friend. He buys my friend and his girlfriend a beer. My friend asks him how he's doing and the old guy starts talking about how much life sucks.

"My father would roll over in his grave if he knew there was a nigger in the white house."

Gasp.

What is this 1950s Macon Georgia??? Where are the white fountains?

I didn't say anything. I don't know what to say any more. If I see bigotry online on FB or something, I'll say something; but not when I'm out alone, in a place where I could get my tires knifed.

I ignored it.

Then he sez. "Yeah man, FUCK those assholes who voted for the nigger."
I quietly raised my right hand as I lowered my head to sip my my beer.

And as drunk as he was, he totally changed his tune. He apologized and was sweet as pie.

It's hard to know when to shut up and when to step up.
A few weeks ago I defused a situation on FB. I stopped a conservative friend in her tracks by saying "Love you, hate Palin. That's just how it is." She was so flattered by the "love you" that she just laughed it off.

I try not to talk about who I hate any more because there's too much of it. I've decided to stop hating Palin. I'll diminish my opinion to "that phony bitch who creeps me out." I'll reserve real hate for people who harm animals and kids and old people and the environment.

But then there are a few people on FB who will not leave me alone. As if putting "liberal" on your profile is some invitation to bang sticks on your cage. Or maybe it's just the challenge they like. Maybe I look soft and indecisive.

A week ago I "shared" the president's birthday on FB and a "friend" posted "your president doesn't even have an American birth certificate." I wrote back "Believe what you want."

Another guy convinced me to friend him. I don't know him. Facebook thought we had mutual friends or something. Turns out he's a smart guy, a good photographer, a solid writer. A cracker, a Vietnam vet.

He said he was a redneck and I told him I didn't think we'd get along. He persuaded me to try. He said "we probably have more in common than you think."

It's that curse everyone from Michigan seems to have: POLITE.

That's what being so close to Canada'll get ya.

In five days he has worked his way up the political-emotional chain of what I can handle one aggravating link at a time. Each email gets more and more upsetting.

People like him almost make me wish there would be another civil war so they could just blow each other to bits. Running out of stuff to say - and being steadfastly polite in replying at ALL - I wrote back suggesting that violence may have more to do with gender than race. It's MEN of ALL races who enjoy violence.

Today I woke up to five paragraphs on why blacks are naturally inferior.

I wrote back "stop".

He wrote back "You liberals CAUSE our problems with niggers by ..."

I wrote back "FUCK OFF."

And I unfriended him. It feels icky to unfriend someone at first, but then it feels pretty damned good.

There are a few more people like him lying in the weeds. I'm tired of waiting for the next attack.

And I'm tired of liberal friends who keep trying to drag me back into the fray.

Engulfed; what it's like to live with fear of oil on our shores.

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Sun, 13 Jun 2010 18:19:00 +0000

At sunset - when I take my walks - water temp, body temp and air temp are all the same; it is surreal.

THE GULF IS THE TIE THAT BINDS.

When we were invited to Hands Across the Beaches in the spring, the joining together of young/old, rich/poor, conservative/liberal, Christian/non-Christian was INSPIRING. We did not want drilling off our shores.

Those of us who participated SAW THIS TRAGEDY COMING. It was inevitable. It's math. The potential for human error times how many wells?

Anyway.

There are two things that inevitably calm me down when I'm stressed. Walking the beach at sunset and going to yoga. Walking the beach, you can't help but wonder how long it will stay the way it is. You pray - otherwise the feeling of helplessness is overwhelming. The Gulf is the reason so many of us moved here. Those who were born to it - I can't imagine what it feels like to have home threatened.

I went to yoga at Health and Harmony yesterday. In season, Sondra's classes are so popular it's hard to find a space. But season is over - the snowbirds have gone home.

Still, something told me to go early. I arrived 15 minutes before it was to start. On the bright side, I was able to nab my favorite mat before turning the corner to a ROOM THAT WAS ALREADY FULL. I found a space that put a stranger's toes 3" from the top of my head. There were a LOT of people I had never seen before.

It's nice to see new people, but it can be awkward to be that close - finger to finger, toes to head! The instructor was nearly overwhelmed. Two people gave up and left.

A friend planted herself next to me and I made some comment about "why do we have so many people! It's not even season!" A woman's voice answered my question. "We're all stressed about the gulf."

Aha. How is it we always think we're the only one taking a thing to heart?

Smooshed as we were, yoga was wonderful. It started with quiet meditation. Sondra guided us through balancing poses and we rested again. We left feeling refreshed and restored.

The Gulf issues remain; what we CAN do is take care of ourselves so we're mentally and physically able to help if and when the time comes.

Alone Again. God this sucks.

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 05:55:00 +0000

Happy Birthday Emma:-)

Wish I was there.

(Save that frog - maybe it's one I missed.)
Being alone again can make you:

Swear more

Or less

Sleep all day

Stay awake all night

Pursue causes with extreme prejudice

Center your text

Change your font

Clean; or not

Drink more beer
If you had any

Read maps

Order pizza

Call your mom

Text an ex; or two

Aspire to a better kayak

Despite the fact that there's no one to kayak with
Get weepy about aunts, uncles and cousins

Check emails with ridiculous frequency

Spend more money on birthdays

Ship gifts so early they arrive on time

Tell the people you love that you love them

Redecorate your condo (in your head)

Provoke socio-political shitstorms on Facebook

Avoid friends who might care enough to ask how you are

Think about adopting a large tropical bird

Look at beachfront real estate you could never afford

In case you ever get off your ass and finish that best-seller
Volunteer for charities you admire

Which will, of course, get in the way

Should you meet someone

But that's not going to happen

So you do it.

http://www.crowclinic.org/index.html

Check out "Patients"

They have birds there. Of course these could

take your whole arm off, but - what the heck.

Body language, breakups and movin' on.

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 19:07:00 +0000

What do these hands say to you? Hold that thought.

They say we should dance like nobody's looking and love like you've never been hurt. Well, my dancing is just fine but ... it's two weeks to the day since I packed my shit and came home to sort it all out and lick my wounds.

Color it sorted. On the bright side you learn a lot about yourself when you try on a new relationship after a long time alone.

I had given up on match.com. The only man I'd met in the past year who seemed APPROPRIATE and fun and spiritual was visiting Fort Myers Beach from SEDONA. I figured "if I have to relocate for the real thing, will do."

So I had changed my match range to 3,000 miles thinking nobody will notice.

Someone noticed. A local sent a sweet email that concluded with "and I'm within 3,000 miles." I laughed out loud. My sense of humor - EXCELLENT. And the happy, relaxed smile in his photos took my breath away.

The little voice in my head that said "but he looks a little drunk or buzzed" ... I shoved that aside because he was absolutely dreamy. I told myself to buy the marketing - this was obviously a relaxed, happy man.

I wrote back "how cute are you!!!"

And the wheels started turning - despite the fact that part of me didn't want to try again. I didn't WANT to love like I'd never been hurt.

We met for a Starbucks coffee that lasted through dinner at Outback. We ate outside. The night was cold, but he was warm. Conversation was great, his eyes were great. He was so tall. So handsome.

Then he caught a cold that lasted three weeks. We couldn't kiss or hug, he was afraid I'd get it. We watched TV and hung out. When I finally got a hug, I thought I would die of happiness. Then I caught his bug, of course.

We spent a few more weeks with him attaching, detaching, sizing things up. Then we took the plunge and did something I still wonder about. I hated to leave him and he hated to see me go. He didn't just give me a drawer - he cleaned out half of his LARGE closet AND a chest of drawers.

I was blown away by the leap of faith. I was welcome in his home. My dogs were welcome to bond with his dogs. We were a family ... for a while. It was wonderful. Mostly.

He lives exactly one block from my ex-BF's Florida home. That is one block from the place where I was yelled at, criticized, ridiculed, humiliated in front of friends. That is the lawn where the ex threw my possessions onto the grass and ordered me out the night before I was supposed to start a new job.

I had been screamed at in the driveway of the nearby Subway for not knowing what he wanted on his sandwich. I had been yelled at, roared at on nearby crossroads for my driving - he had jumped out of the car to storm home in a rage. There were old wounds at every turn.

The ex had missed a lot of what happened because he was in blackouts. His moods flipped like letters on Jeopardy.

I didn't realize the scars hadn't healed completely. I discovered to my horror - three years later - that I was still a beaten dog, braced for blows that never came. This was my first "real" relationship since that time.

It took a while to calm down and relax. But I never relaxed completely. Something wasn't quite right.

Dreamy had his own scars and there were a lot of them. If I put my hands on my hips, he pretty nearly freaked and - like me - braced for blows that never came. Same reaction for any instance of using the word "should" or the expression "why don't you." A dark wall shot up and took a while going back down.

One time I asked if he wanted to talk - he seemed upset and I wanted to see why - and we went outside by the pool. I leaned back and pressed my fingertips together. It wasn't a conscious thing, I was really genuinely interested in what he had to say.

Plus it felt good on my hands and wrists, I type a lot.

He said "your fingers say you're judging!" And I thought "no I'm not!" And I said "No, I'm anxious to hear what you have to say." I put my hands on my lap and tried not to be alarmed at how sensitive he was.

I just looked up my exact body language and that hand position is called "steepling." Per Forbes ... "Steepling your fingers means you are confident and focused."

I learned more about my personal peculiarities in my two months at his house. After going through loss of everything I owned from an intense battle with Lyme Disease, I have a new sense of the value of things. I buy carefully and avoid waste at all costs. CALL ME CHEAP.

I was sick for a long time, so I worry about the food I eat. Garbage in, garbage out. CALL ME ONE OF THOSE IRRITATING ALMOST VEGETARIANS.

I love the environment - I am a recycler. I have seen videos of the plastic ocean. CALL ME A SEA HUGGER.

I am aware of my ability to annoy people with the limitations I put on myself, so - from day one - it was like I do things this way, you do things your way. "I'll feed myself, you feed yourself." It was fine; I would still buy and prepare steaks for him.

The affection was forced on his end, but I was happy waking up with him, kissing his shoulder, taking the dogs out into the suffocating heat that can be morning in Florida. It was great having coffee over the paper, sharing one roof, knowing he was in that house somewhere. Staying up talking til all hours.

The spontaneity was great too - we'd decide to do something fun at the drop of a hat. We knew we had a tendency to spend too much time "on the couch."

The differences came from the core. I knew up front he believed in God but saw Him as the enemy. That was disturbing. That was a red flag.

I would say we were blessed to have amazing lives and he would grunt.

We had our scars. I was ready to run at the drop of the hat; having been thrown out so many times just one block away. He ran from life by altering his reality.

I am no stranger to mood swings and/or blackouts. They always preceded the worst of what I experienced one block away. I know the emptiness in the eyes, the black curtain that drops like death.

Two weeks ago I saw it and ran. I was suddenly unwelcome. I had not meant to end us, I just wasn't going to hang around someone else's house through "awkward". I remember saying "I don't DO awkward." I was certain the distance would do us good and we would fix it.

In hindsight ... he told me up front he was prone to depressions. I didn't want to hear that, so I didn't plug it into my memory banks. Well, I rummaged around I found it. I found other supporting comments and behaviors that I deliberately ignored because I enjoyed him so much.

We exchanged emails in the days that followed. I apologized for my assorted weaknesses and weirdnesses and made sure he knew the door was open, would always be open. His first emails were confused, then angry - then ultimately hostile.

I stopped rising to the bait and accepted we were over.

At one point, very, very confused and hurt, I did something I've never done before. Something very Buddhist. I pictured his face in my hands and my cheek against his in an act of unconditional love. And my pain went away.

He was supposed to meet my family in July. My mother wrote to tell me they had decided to give us the downstairs bedroom - cool, with company I don't have to sleep on the metal rails that are the hideabed.

But I had to confess we broke up. Another failure. Alone in paradise. Again. Still.

I was expecting something disparaging about my selection process. (Which is actually more of an acceptance process.) Instead she wrote back "it's a good thing you lived with him. You learned a lot in a short period of time."

I learned I do have the capacity to love and be with someone, that it is something I want in my life.

It's hard getting used to being alone again. Hopefully the real thing is still out there somewhere; having a hard time being alone.

How does that make you feel?

noreply@blogger.com (mickisuzanne) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 16:10:00 +0000

It's a soft, coolish gray morning here in South Fort Myers; kind of refreshing.

How does the photo make you feel? It nearly made me laugh out loud, it made me feel silly and light. It's the canine version of the intro for Sex and the City.

Our bodies tell us what we need to know. I never thought of that until I was coming off my years of emotional abuse with the exBF. (A beautiful man I will always love who cannot get out of his own way and will ultimately crush anyone who attempts to get close.)

I first learned of the concept while reading "The Emotionally Abusive Relationship." The author says when a victim starts dating again, they should pay attention to what their body tells them. Your body will alert you to danger. I've started practicing this body awareness with a lot more than dates. These are stressful times, we're all on overload. Some of what we take in is unnecessary.

Try this new awareness with acquaintances, phone calls, all communications really. Do a body check - queasiness in the tummy, shoulders headed up towards your earlobes?

Does the intereaction make you feel better or worse?

Is it essential or can you let it go?

After the election, I went from political junkie to political hermit. Well except for some health care skirmishes that strike me where I live - and would like to continue living - in this body for as long as it lasts.

But mostly, post election it was time to put my head down and let the shrapnel fly. I knew change would take time; you don't turn an aircraft carrier on a dime. It was going to get ugly because a lot of people would be angry for a very long time. I would wait it out.

I had no idea that so many of my friends, while growing older, had become bigots and haters. I guess it's like nose and ear hair, the reality of what's in a person's heart is revealed with age. Some cloak their waning "personal power" by embracing Christianity, which - to some - grants instant implied spiritual superiority with a hot steaming side of judginess.

I continue to remove those people from my life. It's a painful process. I'm up front, I give warning before I close the door, but ... well, at this age, people are pretty much who they have chosen to be. I was feeling like crap about it until I read this in one of my buddhist books, The Dhammapada (this thousands of years old text translated by Ananda Maitreya with foreward by Thich Nhat Hanh):

"Should a traveler fail to find a companion equal or better, rather than suffer the company of a fool, he should resolutely walk alone."

I think the two concepts - how a thing makes us feel and who we should associate with - are crucial to our emotional well being. We should associate with equals or better - people who make us feel good. We walk away from these people feeling the warmth of love and acceptance. The lessers wear us down.

It's the same with media. The media we choose is "a companion".

This morning I did what I did pre-election - turned the TV on the second I woke up. Meredith Viera, my favorite, is looking too thin, gaunt. Much older. Has it been that long since I watched? I guess so. I hope she's not sick.

The stories were either sickening, saccharine or stupid. I wonder if the Today Show's planners have those three in a pie chart every night before the next show. Today it was the little girl who has been lost for a year - her father's girlfriend was arrested under drug charges and they're hoping to get information from her. The ex-girlfriend (now ex-wife) looks like a little girl herself.

And there was some silliness about office irritations - dirty microwaves, food stealing and the like.

And the scorned other woman who was plastering photos of herself with her married man ex BF on BILLBOARDS ACROSS TOWN! It did not escape notice that the scorned woman is a model or actress - what a great way to screw your ex one last time while promoting yourself. Sure, throw his wife under the bus and ruin his life while you're at it.

What a horrendous waste of my time. What a crappy way to start the day. And how did I feel? HORRIBLE after watching the little girl's grandmother cry. TWITCHY with empathetic discomfort at the stupid questions she was expected to answer. AWFUL for the cheating man's wife. DISAPPOINTED at the Today Show for granting the conniving ex-mistress priceless press coverage.

The last time I watched a few minutes of the Today show was in the aftermath of the earthquake in Haiti and there was the man whose daughter (?) was caught there somewhere. He was pleading, yelling at Obama to do something about it.

That made me ANGRY. They kept cutting to the man ranting ... you know what? If my son went to a foreign country and there was a natural disaster, I wouldn't assume MY country had an obligation to go in there and find him. Our children make choices; are their choices the responsibility of this country? I don't think so.

Much of the media is lesser. My role in actively WATCHING the programming left me nauseated, depressed and hopeless. Here's the quote again:

"Should a traveler fail to find a companion equal or better, rather than suffer the company of a fool, he should resolutely walk alone."

So, Today Show, two strikes and you are out. I will get my news online and from NPR. NPR gives the news in an informative way that keeps you apprised without making you feel like a quivering mass of hopelessness.

I turned off the TV and took the dogs outside. You know what? QUIET is a beautiful thing. Birds. The breeze in the trees. No radio, no cell phone, no TV. That feels really good.

The hopelessness a lot of us feel sometimes? It goes away when we help someone else.

I was driving out to the beach yesterday and there was a skinny, bearded old man (my age probably) with a cardboard sign "veteran needs help". There were about 8 cars at that light. I scrambled in my purse for a few bucks and honked to get his attention. I gave him the cash and he said "God bless you" - I said "God bless you too."

As I drove away, I realized he looked a lot like a man I had seen lying on the grass on San Carlos one morning. Passed out, drugged out or homeless? Would my little bit of money go for food or booze? If it goes for food, it sustains him. If it goes for booze, it will numb him from the shameful reality of a country that really doesn't take care of it's veterans. I'm ok with that.

Helping one person eye to eye in my little world made me feel really, really good.