SINGLEMARRIEDGIRL

The Great Lie

Tue, 10 Jan 2017 12:26:00 -0600

The term "Silent Majority" was coined by Richard Nixon in a speech, Nov 3, 1969, to justify the break of his campaign promise to end the Vietnam War, as he called on his silent majority to support his decision to continue the war. 500,00 protesters gathered at the Washington Memorial Nov 15. Nixon, confident in his support, informed the press he was watching a football game. It was a myth then just as it is now. The President Elect never had a silent majority, he had an immensely vocal minority. We are the silent majority, the silenced majority, made silent Nov 8, 2016, made more silent and invisible daily. We must be silent no longer.

The Longest Night

Thu, 29 Dec 2016 17:51:00 -0600

There is a gathering storm. It’s palpable, a fear which collates in the streets, a quickening of steps, an avoidance of shadows; keep moving, look ahead, don’t make eye contact, hold close, walk briskly, do not run, do not draw attention to yourself, know your exits. It is a collective fear that is gripping the country not as we approach the solstice which passed without incident but rather as we approach the inauguration. In ancient times we used to burn fires through the longest night because we feared not what was in the dark but that the light would never return. Today, we don’t burn fires and dance by moonlight, we hide and speak in whispered tones about the loss of our liberties, about how best to fight, about what we fear lies in that darkness, that gathering storm. We lie awake at night and cry throughout the day and with each passing moment we grow weaker and weaker as the night grows longer and the darkness slithers across the land. Illness, fear and anger are contagious, they spread like disease. We have to rage against the darkness. Evil is easy, kindness and empathy take work. We have to return to the time of lighting fires, but they aren’t literal fires, they are the fires that burn within us, and as we share our love, our passion, our kindness and compassion, we burn so brightly that we cast a light in every dark recess of those too ignorant or blind to know what is coming as we draw like to like. We have to stop hiding from the shadows and gather our own storm of brightly burning soldiers to cast away the darkness. Don’t wait until the longest night to be a beacon for others. Don’t be swallowed by the darkness.

Seraphim

Tue, 13 Dec 2016 23:29:00 -0600

This Christmas season I am finally going through "the boxes", the ones which were damaged a few years ago when my father's basement flooded. For the past two years, I've opened them, smelled the damp, musty, mildew smell and put them away for another year. Tonight I started to go through them and discovered that all was not lost. There were some video tapes beyond hope but no great loss based on the titles, two table top white Christmas trees that are not so white but still quite salvageable and beautiful when lit (the lights are red so it doesn't matter that the trees are a little brown) and the transformer for a fiber optic angel I had never seen lit. To my surprise, not only did it work, but it is animated. Suddenly with a bit of grinding the wings began to beat, slowly, majestically, for the first time in my memory. I felt like an archeologist uncovering gifts left from my mother, some of her treasures which even after all these years beyond her death held secrets to be unearthed. I sat mesmerized by that angel, feeling my mother's presence so close, until she could flap her wings no more. I turned her off, let her cool down and when next I turned her on again, she began her seraphim dance once more. Like so many things we treasure, like the memories we hold dear, we will have to enjoy our angel sparingly so as to preserve her for what I hope to be years. We cannot hold too tight or she may yet go silent. My father watching me just smiled and said, “So like your mother.” And now I feel as though I have made whole something that was lost. Her angel. My heart.

Veterans Day

Fri, 11 Nov 2016 16:48:00 -0600

For my Father on Veterans Day-

Every year I post something for my Father, usually the same thing, a story about our trip to the Vietnam Memorial. But this year is quite different. Today I have been inundated with messages of, “It's Veterans Day, can’t we be civil? Can’t we be respectful? Can’t we take 24 hours to put politics aside and honor our Veterans?” And any other time, I would absolutely agree. But not this time. Because four days ago, in a historic and devastating turn of events, we somehow elected an Autocrat to the highest position in the land. I don’t need to rehash his campaign rhetoric; that is a much longer post. But this infamous election is the reason I cannot simply take today off to honor my Veterans because taking this day off does the opposite. Our complacency and our trust in this system is what has put us at the edge of this great precipice with a candidate who has manipulated the dialogue from day one.

So today, I honor my Veterans not by remaining silent but by remaining vigilant. I will not close my eyes and shut my mouth for the sake of ceremony when the very rights which our Veterans have so valiantly fought for are at stake from a man who spent his entire campaign maligning our Veterans, mocking our Democracy and dividing our country. I will not refrain from the free speech and peaceful protests which our Veterans risked their lives to preserve, often in other countries where these same rights have been systematically restricted, refused and criminalized. I will not refrain from holding our elected officials including our president elect accountable to their constituency and to maintaining basic human rights, constitutional freedoms, environmental protections and fortifications against threats to our national security. I honor my Veterans by doing all I can as a private citizen to prevent their children from going to war. I thank you for your service and sacrifice and I promise I will remain vigilant, today and always.

Porte Ouverte

Sat, 14 Nov 2015 19:59:00 -0600

Apologies dear readers, I've been absent too long. I wanted to come back with something light but that is not our world tonight.

Tonight my heart is breaking and my cheeks are stained with tears not only for the atrocities we have weathered in the last 48 hours and those we have lost and continue to lose throughout the world but for the polarizing of our breathren, each seeking to raise his or her own agenda in the wake; which tragedy is the worst, whose nation is most under siege, how quickly can we close our borders and stockpile our weapons?

I was meant to write a comedy tonight, a comedy about healing and laughter in a world quite literally gone mad; my world. But I don’t feel like laughing tonight. No, tonight I am angry. Angry not only that violence begets violence, but at the swift nature our fear so completely clouds our judgement.

Tonight is the democratic debate and already the candidates are scrambling to address the need for tighter borders and more guns, more weapons, more, more, more, knowing that isn’t the solution but terrified that these newest attacks will result in a turn of the tide by a petrified, shell-shocked constituency fearful for their safety and the lives of their loved ones, desperately clinging to any agenda which promises to keep them far from tragedy and willing to provide them a common enemy to blame.

The blood is still wet, the wounds still fresh and already the rumblings have become a cacophany to close the borders and turn away the thousands of refugees fleeing certain genocide in their homeland. How often have we heard the beat of this same drum? “Of course it’s terrible, but it’s not our problem and we have to protect ourselves.” Tibet, Laos, Iraq, Guatemala, Croatia, Rwanda, Northern Ireland, Somalia, East Uganda, the list goes on and on and these are not even in our history books. Even after Katrina, when our nation came together under the worst national disaster in our modern time, after the dust settled, it was easier to ask that the displaced (poor) American refugees be housed somewhere else, somewhere more appropriate than our backyards, somewhere we didn’t have to feel so uncomfortable.

I have been blessed in my lifetime to never have had to flee for my life and I cannot even fathom the terror Syrian families are facing now at the hour of need when they are looking at being turned away at the border and returned to a country in chaos and an existence of suffering and possible death. But in a very small way I can relate to the choice which we face as a nation and as members of the human community.

When I worked for a cruise line whom I shall not name here for the sake of deniability, one day at sea, we encountered a small boat in distress waving a white flag. Aboard this humble, home-made inflatable tub were five men wearing wet suits. Their motor had stalled and they were too far out to swim to shore. Pity for them, they were also Cuban. We circled them for several hours keeping watch as our managers met behind closed doors trying desperately to find a way to discretely bring them aboard as we all silently prayed they would swim for shore. They were so close but too many people had seen, guests had spotted the little boat, photos were taken, statuses posted, bloody great internet that day so close to shore, and our managers were left with no other option than to call the Coast Guard who reluctantly obliged with a rescue. We all knew what lay ahead because the rules were very clear. If they could set foot on American soil, of their own volition, they could seek political asylum. But once the Coast Guard intervened the law was clear, they had to be returned to Cuba.

Our managers called us into a meeting that day to explain why they would not be following up, why there would be no meetings, no inquiry into their status or welfare, why we would never in fact speak of it again. We had condemned these men to certain death. Well, not certain, that window of doubt was our one vessel of hope and we clambered aboard. But that night, alone in my cabin I cried for hours. I wasn’t in management, I wasn’t making the decisions, I didn’t have the power. But I felt in collusion, even in my silence. I cried every night for several days, every night trying to convince myself there was nothing I could have done, each night feeling the gentle whisper kiss of doubt upon my cheek as I drifted off to a troubled sleep. I don’t know what I could have done, but I know that if a simple act of courage, if opening my door had been an option, I would have taken it. Closing the borders will only give us a false sense of security but at what price? Our humanity cannot be bartered for the sake of convenience. We must keep our hearts and our borders open for ourselves, our souls, our children and our humanity.

Porte ouverte, Je suis Paris. Je suis coeur ouvert.

St. Patrick's Day

Tue, 17 Mar 2015 09:28:00 -0500

Why is it every St. Patrick's Day, all the "in-the-know" psuedo news sites feel the need to "reluctantly" tell us all the non-Irish things we do to celebrate? Yes, St. Paddy's Day is an American fabrication but it was also a way for Irish Immigrants forced from their homes to celebrate their link to their heritage. It has also become a symbol of the change in status for the poor Irish immigrants who when first they reached the American shores were far from welcome. Now, on this one day, everyone is Irish. I long for a time when we have a "St. Patrick's Day" for every immigrant, celebrating the growth and love we have for the vibrant immigrant population who not only founded this country but who continue to pursue that ever elusive American Dream. What a wonderful future if for a day we were all Irish, then Polish, Australian, German, Cuban, Rowandan, Russian, Guanaian, Chilean, Mexican, French, Japanese, Chinese, Portuguese, Costa Rican, Brazilian... Instead of fighting to keep others out, we celebrated our inclusion in their new lives.

It's true, much of what we celebrate in America today is purely an Irish-American fabrication but how wonderful that we've kept our love, link and pride in the home country so much so that for one day, we want to welcome everyone to be a part of it. How wonderfully American!

I am a dyed in the wool, third generation proud Irish immigrant. I've been blessed to return to Ireland several times and each time I felt like I'd come home. The people of Ireland welcomed me as though we'd never left and asked about people in America, as if they lived next door. This is what I celebrate.

Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone! I'll be wearing my green, drinking my Guiness and making my soda bread with pride.

The Mindf*ck That Was My Miscarriage-Part I

Sun, 1 Mar 2015 18:51:00 -0600

It’s been a while my loyal readers so I thought I’d come back with a bang…so to speak. As you may have gleaned from the title, I ended the year on a low note but I finally feel like I want to talk about the whole experience, because the way we deal with pregnancy and the loss of pregnancy ‘round these parts leaves a lot to be desired.

First off, let me preface this by saying, I’m fine. I’m actually doing really well. I’m in a pretty good head space all things considered. And thank you for your concern. These are all statements I’ve gotten really good at saying, because I’ve been saying them ad nauseam for two months, to soothe the worries of my aural audience because dear readers, I have been talking about this. A lot!

Let’s rewind to four months ago, mid-October, when I first started to notice that my boobs were on fire. That was a sign. Now my husband and I have been trying for a few months, having spent more than half of our first year as husband and wife in two separate countries so despite my age, I wasn’t exactly panicked that it didn’t happen right away. Your odds go up exponentially with proximity so once we were in the same state and OMG, the same bed, we made it happen. I knew two days after what should have been the start of my period but for the sake of due diligence, I headed off to the drug store to pick up confirmation in the form of a $12 urinary litmus test.

I wandered that store for well over half an hour, retracing my steps, back and forth the sexual aids aisle, the feminine products aisle, the makeup aisle, the candy aisle (I was pregnant after all), upstairs and downstairs but to no avail. At last, having exhausted my ideas, I headed to the pharmacy counter and asked where they might be hiding the pregnancy tests. A nervous young woman explained that they were kept behind the pharmacy counter, next to the hard core drugs and the meth lab known as Sudafed. Confused, I queried at the reasoning for such a decision. After all, I am in a major metropolitan, liberal city in the arts district, not some backwater district full of politicians who don’t know the difference between the digestive tract and the reproductive system. She could offer no reason nor would the manager speak with me. Now understand, I am a happily remarried, confident, able-bodied, independent woman with an incredibly supportive husband and family, with no fears or trepidations about discovering I am with child. However, even I had reservations about proudly strolling up the pharmacy counter and loudly declaring to an anonymous audience my assurance that I was most likely knocked up; a fact I wouldn’t reveal to my own family for another two months. I couldn’t imagine some poor girl, scared out of her wits already trying to muster the courage to timidly ask permission to confirm what she already feared. Trust me, the condoms, lubricants and other sexual aides were all out prominently displayed on the shelves, next to the treatments for UTIs and Yeast Infections. It is hard to not feel judged and I was pretty high up on my high horse. Needless to say, I registered my complaint, paid my money and headed home, little brown bag in hand.

I waited until the next day so I could utilize that most magical elixir, the elusive early morning stream. I found my most graceful yoga pose and let it flow, aiming my stream with the accuracy of a fighter pilot into that little well of prognostication. Use the force Luke. I put the stick aside, set the timer, wiped off the seat and washed my pee soaked hands because my fighter pilot was apparently still flying on a learners permit and by the time I returned, BAM, I was pregnant. I thought for sure it would be a minute or two to register or that it would appear slowly like Brigadoon from the mist, but it was a matter of seconds. Holy crap, I must be super uber pregnant!

The next few weeks alternately flew by and went at a snail’s pace, depending upon whether I was fighting the urge to tell my family or throw up. Luckily, I didn’t have much in the way of morning sickness, other than the occasional bit of nausea and my nearly constant fiery hell knockers that would not be contained by any artifice known to man. Wearing a sports bra became my nightly ritual and my husband in his zeal to celebrate our upcoming bliss was learning the necessity of tenderness approaching me like a cornered baby tiger. And then there were… the “baby rages”…

To Be Continued

Intervention

Sun, 14 Sep 2014 10:04:00 -0500

When I was a child, my father hit my mother. Not a lot but enough. It was awful, painful and at times terrifying. It is also ancient history. This isn’t an article about lambasting my father. He is a good man who put all those demons behind him. He is also one lucky guy because he had a good woman who gave him a second chance, an ultimatum and forty years of a mostly happy marriage.

Dear NFL, you’re getting this wrong. Don’t misunderstand, I appreciate that you are taking strong, if delayed, extraordinary actions in response to the Ray Rice domestic violence incident which as we are all aware is a symptom of a much larger problem. Like so many others, I was shocked, horrified and nauseated by the video which played endlessly on every media source like some sort of macabre Vine. The issue for me is that you are attacking it for what it is to you, a public relations nightmare. Firing Mr. Rice from the Ravens, suspending him from the NFL doesn’t alleviate the problem, it simply hides the evidence.

So what do you do? Well, a lot has been said about whether or not it is appropriate for a job to act on behalf of a domestic dispute and I’ll admit, I don’t really want my place of business to have domain over my non-business related activities beyond the role of intervention. However, American sports isn’t simply a job. When you are a sports superstar, you are a hero, an icon and role model to hundreds of thousands of fans, many of whom are children and teens longing to fill those cleats one day. Sports stars need to be held to a higher standard. That huge million dollar contract isn’t just to cover time on the field.

So why isn’t a suspension an appropriate action? Yes, you are hitting him where it hurts, in the pocketbook, but guess what? Nothing has changed except that you have put his spouse in graver danger because now he’s on his way to rock bottom and guess who’s going to be held responsible? What is the undercurrent message hidden within the penalty? Don’t abuse or don’t get caught? “For g*d sake, hit your partner in private. Don’t touch the face. And make sure he or she apologizes for any inconvenience.” Sending an abuser home to his or her spouse without a paycheck is not putting him or her on the road to recovery and more importantly it isn’t providing any resources for how to stop the cycle.

Maybe it’s time we got back to our previous standards of conduct for athletes as role models. Make Ray Rice the face of reformation. Why not make his contract contingent on anger management training? Have him speak in schools, take that ugly video to every high school in America and explain to a sea of young men and women and their educators how one moment of violence almost ruined his entire life. Let him face the consequences of his actions head on, every day, in public and make him stand up as a positive influence. Have him stand there alone, in front of this crowd and explain how he put his hands on another human being, knocked the woman he professes to love unconscious and then unceremoniously dragged her lifeless body out into a hallway like a bag of trash. Let him face that demon head on and say it was wrong. Fund this school outreach program from the money which he isn’t losing from a suspension.

Give him the opportunity to change the minds of fans world-wide, not by taking a little time off and losing a little money but by facing them, apologizing, and saying “I will do everything in my power to make this right.” Make it his job to change the hearts and minds of fans, to change theirs boos to applause. And if he won’t do that, then he should be fired because he isn’t doing his job.

Ray Rice is 27 years old and can make a very positive change for a generation. Don’t let this define him and the NFL. Hold every player to a higher standard. Every time. It’s time to end the glorification of sports heroes’ bad behavior and use their celebrity for good. NFL, it’s time for an intervention.

The Graduate

Sat, 5 Jul 2014 18:23:00 -0500

Tonight I had an interesting exchange with my father. He was talking about a former teacher in college and said something to the effect of she was 40 and had a couple of kids but she was still beautiful. I asked him why he felt the need to qualify that she was still beautiful despite being a whopping 40 years old and realizing his error he back-peddled a little and said he meant that's he thought when he was in college. I was intrigued because he said it not to hurt or shock me but without thinking about it, in an unguarded moment. Now I realize my Dad grew up pre "The Graduate" before Anne Bancroft made sex with students sexy. (Only the legal ones ladies, under 21 is not ok) and I also know he finds older women very attractive now in his sixties but it still gave me pause. So I wonder, at what age do men think women aren't beautiful anymore. Or at what age are men surprised a woman is "still beautiful." Ladies, are we guilty of this ourselves? Also, as this is the second time this week a male member of my family has said something mildly to severely offensive about women to me, I am officially not a woman to my family. Maybe that's why the GOP keeps throwing their spouses under the legislative bus. "That's no woman, that's my wife!"

The Mystery

Mon, 3 Mar 2014 15:28:00 -0600

I am attempting to put into words the inexplicable. Today was a funeral. Difficult, sad, uplifting, humanizing; all the things you’d expect a funeral would be. But the funeral was only a catalyst for something greater, something intangible. For years screenwriters and directors have tried in vain to capture the inscrutable relationship of women; women who love one another at a visceral level. Through marriages and divorces, births and deaths, there is a kinship, a calling and commonality that seems to reach across distance and time, mending all wounds and infractions rendering even the major blowouts moot. I have had the privilege of knowing such a group of women. For two decades, these women have passed in and out of my life; we’ve moved across the country, across the continent and beyond. Between us we have I think seven marriages, three divorces, children from infants to high school and an immeasurable love for each other that leaves me humble.

Today marked another milestone, not one which any of us felt like celebrating. The loss of a friend is often unbearable, the loss of a family member often irrevocable, but the loss of a mother is tragic and confusing. There is a bond between mother and daughter, whether you honor her memory or reject her methods, which leaves this scar on the heart. It heals but is never the same. My one friend said it best. “She is a member of the club none of us wished to join.”

It had been years since we had seen each other, and the first time we were all once again together since the last funeral when we put one of our own in the ground, not the reunion we had wished for but today, we answered the call, circled the wagons.

I wish I could express what happened today. It was a Catholic service, which is always a little unsettling to me, having been raised a lapsed Catholic and armchair Christian myself, but the Father was gentle, kind and a bit provocative, hitting just the right notes of humor and shame to leave everyone slightly uncomfortable and yet relaxed at the same time; like a family dinner, tense but familiar. Then came Communion. It’s a funny word, communion. It means the sharing or exchanging of intimate thoughts and feelings, esp. when the exchange is on a mental or spiritual level. It was a transmogrification of a different kind, not the mystery of death or the mystery of Christ, but the mystery of women, women who are getting a little older, women who promise to see each other more, women who are busy and struggling, succeeding, failing, fighting but women who answered the call, even when they were not asked. It is the strange beauty of a funeral and the death of a parent. The final sacrifice which brings us together, makes us stronger, braver. There are no words of solace that make the transition easy but the love, laughter and loyalty make the pain a little more bearable. I did not know her mother but I can’t express what a wonderful gift she gave me in her daughter.

9 Most Annoying Things About Listicles

Sat, 18 Jan 2014 23:07:00 -0600

1) The disappointment you feel when they do not, in fact, blow your mind!

2) GiFs that will not load

3) The use of pop culture GIFs from two decades ago that have nothing to do with the list in the first place

4) Typos. adn bad, grammar

5) I’m gonna say it; Jennifer Lawrence. Love her work but girl, please!

6) Journalistic Unemployment

7) The Presumption that Buzzfeed always knows what’s “Hilarious”

8) Exclamation points!!!

9) Cats. No that’s a lie, cats are always awesome!

10) People who get their news from Listicles

On The Brink

Wed, 16 Oct 2013 09:54:00 -0500

I have held off on any political postings of late because I had nothing good to say and because I like so many have watched in numb disbelief the continued ineptitude which daily I thought would be righted by our all mighty checks and balances system however today I woke with a sense of foreboding and defeat fearing that for my fiance's birthday which this year has the distinction of falling on the debt ceiling deadline, he along with the rest of us would be gifted a crippling debt and a country thrown into chaos by the will of the few, a corrupt minority who's endgame and tactics continue to baffle me. Moreover, I cannot overcome the sense of helplessness which has been spreading like a pox over the last several elections as I've watched my reproductive rights repeatedly called into question, the marital rights of my friends and loved ones repeatedly put to heated public discourse, legitimate rape, the end of affirmative action, Creationism and Christianity as required learning, the systematic stripping of rights earned, fought for and hard won by our predecessors all while fighting fervently for the right to stockpile weapons and violate each other in the name of some misguided frontier notion of self preservation. Whatever your feelings about socialized medicine and national healthcare, which ironically the Affordable Care Act is neither, it is clear that this fervent push to defund a program made law three years ago has nothing to do with the will or welfare of the people whom our representatives claim to represent. While the wealthy one percentage mock and misinform, and change the rules to get their way, we pay for it again and again. Private citizens and philanthropists are opening national sites where the government has failed. I don't know how to overcome this feeling of helplessness and rage, mirrored by so many. How can we fix this? And how are so many still supporting the actions of this House of Reprehensibles? You can no longer claim ignorance. And for those who have told me "if you don't like it, get out of the country," guess what, the world is watching, and they don't want us. Once we were the protector on the international playground, then we were the bully and now we are the nameless victims, beaten and ridiculed by our own family.

The Lie We Tell Ourselves

Wed, 25 Sep 2013 18:14:00 -0500

You know, I am spending a lot of time feeling blessed lately, like Charlie winning the golden ticket. Only my chocolate factory is a gratifying future. It's amazing what you can accomplish when you are supported and embraced. For many years, I felt like the ideal platform to showcase my independence was to overcame, to persevere even when I found resistance from others. And yes, I am very proud of my accomplishments despite the obstacles which stood in my way.

But one of the greatest obstacles, one I never wanted to acknowledge was my ex-husband who supported the efforts which benefited him most. I never wanted to see it, to believe it or to acknowledge it because I was collusive in the lie which said, “We do our own thing and that’s good. He pursues his interests and I pursue mine. And I don’t need anyone to be successful.”

See, my generation in particular has been taught that as women, we should seek independence as a badge of honor, that marriage and family were early on career suicide having been raised by amazingly overworked mothers who were sold a bad bill of goods with the supermom myth. I never really believed that career and family were mutually exclusive however I did believe that it was understandable to have a partner who did not actively support my interests and endeavors because I was an independent woman and I was in love. All I wanted was to have him in some small part of my life and to immerse myself in his.

Here’s the trick though, the thing about love that kind of sucks. Just because you love someone and they love you doesn’t mean you are good partners. You might even be good companions, we were brilliant travel buddies, compatible in many ways. But for me, the biggest problem was until I was in a relationship with a true partner, I didn’t understand the difference. Because we don’t approach love and marriage like we approach business; it’s unromantic, it’s unchivalrous, it’s uncivilized. Or so we’re led to believe by the fairy tales and the magazines.

Funny thing is, I’m very business-minded and practical in most of my life; always have been. Always had a can-do attitude. I just had a blind spot for love. So my solution when I got resistance from the one person who should have had my back was to just do it all myself. Which I did. For a long time. And to my credit, pretty effectively given the circumstances.

But, here’s the big reveal…removing that caveat, “Given the circumstances”, I have accomplished more in a year alone and in two years with a partner than I did in ten with a spouse because I stopped fighting an uphill battle and instead starting working on a level playing field. It’s still a lot of ground to cover, but there’s a lot less standing in the way and two people conquering the obstacles together.

So should you approach marriage like you approach work? Maybe, maybe not. But I do think that once you have a partner, where it isn’t just about him or her supporting you or you supporting him or her and instead you spend time with someone sharing mutual respect, understanding, sacrifice and support, it is amazing how much more you can accomplish. We learn this in kindergarten, “work together”, “share”, “raise your hand and ask for help” and yet so often we short change ourselves in love and in life because we put the other person’s needs and wants so far above our own. Sacrifice is not the enemy but it has to be mutually beneficial. Eliminate the obstacles, work together and you become a force to be reckoned with. You don’t have to be the same, but you should be a compliment. And on this point, don’t compromise.

Check out the definition of a relationship: “the way in which two or more concepts, objects, or people are connected, or the state of being connected” and “the way in which two or more people, groups, countries, etc., talk to, behave toward, and deal with each other.” But a partner is “a person who takes part in an undertaking with another.” Don’t we want to stop settling for romantic relationships and instead strive for life partners, someone who takes part in the life of another. How awesome would that be?

How awesome would that be, you ask? Well, give me time, I’ll tell ya!

Equilibrium

Wed, 28 Aug 2013 06:20:00 -0500

In the past year I have had a lot of time to contemplate my love life mistakes. I have all too often made myself the sacrificial lamb in the relationship, thinking somehow that if I was willing to sacrifice, it meant that I loved the person so much that I would do anything for him. Sound familiar? Worse yet, I still punish myself for allowing it to happen and feel the weight of responsibility despite the fact that I was likely dating a douc...not nice person. But in a partnership, there has to be equilibrium. Nature abhors a vacuum, and yet as women, we are often taught to seek one; an empty vessel which we can can pour all of ourself into until there is nothing left. And guess what? When you're done pouring all of yourself; your love, your life, your dreams....your money and time and energy into this other person, they walk away with all of you and you are left an empty vessel. Sometimes we seek someone else to fill us up, sometimes we find resources to rebuild and replenish, sometimes we even have children or pets but still we seek out that other person whom we can pour all of ourselves into.

Never allow yourself to be made less. Never mistake comfortable for convenient. If someone says they love being with you because they are so comfortable, make sure that isn't code for "I don't have to work at it. I don't have to compromise and I don't have to commit." Relationships are work and if they are not, then likely they are not working, either. Don't make the mistake of making yourself convenient. We are all far better than convenient.

A Life in Review

Mon, 12 Aug 2013 08:12:00 -0500

So, as many of you know, I’m in the middle of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in Scotland, 3000 miles from home bringing the message of SINGLEMARRIEDGIRL to the masses and strangely enough, the masses aren’t coming. It is by far, one of the hardest things I’ve ever done and as you’ve been along the journey thus far you know what came before. I’m not disappointed by the slow numbers, truth is it’s hard to build an audience here where you are just a drop in the sea of offerings across the city. No, what is troubling me is simply the tepid response. I suppose it is in part because I am so close to this and I believe so much in the message of this show and the blog, that anyone can change his or her life with baby steps and the absolute resolve to be open to everything the world has to offer.

I’ve been told my show is too much life a self-help book, not sexy enough, not Avant guard enough, not angsty enough or in your face enough.

Well, enough is enough. All those people miss the point of this show, this blog and this time on earth. The whole point of what I do, what I write and what I want to convey is that we are enough. Now. In this moment. Ok, maybe there are times I seem like I’m out there saying things can be better but the truth is, I’m just relating my own experiences, my own challenges and my own goofy, messy choices. It’s like the penny jar on the counter. If you are in need, take it. If you have enough, spare it. And if you don’t have a stake in it, shut the f*ck up.

Ok, yes, I know that they are reviewers, to be fair, that’s their job. But the fact is, we all have critics in our lives, those little niggling voices who evaluate our every thought, choice and decision. Problem with critics these days is there’s no way to delete them; much like the lesson of cyber space, everything we hear lives in the archive of our brain. So maybe the key is to take the bad review and find the quote.

‘Engaging and amusing…this is the show for you!’

‘Touching…intriguing…a heart-warming performance.’

Forget the naysayers and bring on the reviews. Just make sure you do a little creative editing of your own!

Glamous Life

Sun, 4 Aug 2013 08:53:00 -0500

So taking a page from my own life which is now entirely currently engulfed in running the show in Edinburgh, I was emailed a guide to surviving the Edinburgh Fringe Festival including such gems as make sure you pack lots of condoms for all the sex you will be having, drink lots of water to offset all the alcohol you'll be consuming and make sure you give yourself just enough to sober up before your show. Do you think this is a tip list, or a wish list? Where are these sex parties? Should I go there and flyer? Is it sad that at the end of the day all I want is a cup of tea and a scone? And maybe a nap?

Sometimes I really do feel a bit like a saucy virgin in a brothel. Ah well, beat of our own drummer, I suppose. Journey on, you party animals.

The Signs

Wed, 24 Jul 2013 16:52:00 -0500

Recently, I was asked to compile a list of ten signs that you are on your way to SINGLEMARRIEDGIRL status. Ok, first let’s get a few things out of the way. I have become rather an expert on this field, this way of the SINGLEMARRIEDGIRL, not by design or desire but through years of practice. It isn’t something that happens overnight and there is no easy path so if you’ve been following my exploits thinking, “Wow, that is so who I want to be,” then I have to warn you, you have some work ahead and you better be ready to commit. This is no fly-by-night program, there is no magic pill or prescription rub to being alone in a relationship, but there are some indicators to let you know that you are on the right track! So here follows, the top ten signs that you, yes you, are a SINGLEMARRIEDGIRL.

Just a few rules and regs before we get started. First of all, you do not need to be married to qualify nor do you need to be a girl. There are a lot of us out there thinking we are alone with nowhere to turn but consider me your official SMG-GPS. So here’s a quick and easy list to see if you rank as a SINGLEMARRIEDGIRL.

When at your place of employ, do the other people in the office just shake their heads and look at you doubtfully as you confirm, “No really, he’d love to be here but he works so far away.” Sweetie, you’ve worked there for five years, they think you are dating your hand.
Do you own more than two cats or more than two outfits for your pet (s)?
Have you ever been hit on by a Carnie? Did you kind of enjoy it?
Do you ever sometimes think, “Just finish already so I can get back to Facebook?” Are you nodding your head in understanding?
Do you ever reach out for a hand that simply doesn’t reach back?
Have you ever worn kitten heels with skinny jeans just to see if you still could? Men, this applies to you too! (Bonus points if this was a funeral, wedding or class reunion.)
Do you ever wish your spouse was just your room mate because you really do have fun vacations and love eating ice cream while watching old movies on the couch, and he’s such a good caregiver and really does do a lot of things like the laundry and the groceries and cleaning and he’s so good with the pets and…why do you suddenly feel like you are making excuses?
Do you ever wish maybe your parents had put their foot down a little more?
Do you ever feel like you’re working just a little too hard to hide your awesome?
Do you feel that pang of recognition in the pit of your stomach when you hear the phrase, “This is just how it is. Accept it”? Is the voice saying it yours?

If you answered yes to any of these, congratulations, you’re human and normal and not alone. And you just might be well on your way to being a SINGLEMARRIEDGIRL. So what now? What’s the next step? Well, buy my book, naturally, but until I write it, why don’t you start like I did? Take yourself on a date and see what happens. Plan it, pay for it, dress up for it. Spend an evening with yourself and rediscover the amazing person that you are. You just might be surprised what an incredible long-lost friend you’ve forgotten about. Oh, and take yourself somewhere nice; you never get a second chance to make a first impression.

It's So Simple

Mon, 22 Jul 2013 06:36:00 -0500

I don’t know about you but every so often I need a good kick in the pants. I start to feel overwhelmed and lost, all over again, like the world is closing in and I don’t know in which direction to turn. It is at these times that I return to my own words, not because I’m some sort of guru or something but because, well, I’ve been documenting my own journey for the past five years. And I have to say, over this expanse I have hit on some pretty decent kernels of wisdom, and few posts that I leave for the sake of balance despite my cringing when I read them. Ah, being human!

It’s strange at these moments when I reread my own advice I have this otherworldly experience, seeing myself through my readers’ eyes, reading my own words and taking my own advice in the third person. And often, my reaction to something I read is, “That’s so simple, why didn’t I think of it?” I mean I did but I digress. Or I’ll think, “That’s so simple, how could I forget that?” or, “That’s so simple, why did I stop doing that?”

Are you starting to see the through line here? Today was just such a morning and this train of thought, this phrase, “that’s so simple” got me wondering, why is it that something so intrinsically simple is often incredibly hard to do? It occurred to me that it is so ingrained in our culture to suffer, to feel like we have to work and slave and sacrifice, that we often dismiss something out of hand if it’s “too simple”.

“That’s so simple, it’ll never work.”

We even sort of hold it in low regard, unworthy of our time or attention; a simple construct, a simple person, a simple lifestyle; that simplicity lacks any sort of complexity or depth.

But here’s the mistake in that kind of thinking. Simple isn’t the same as easy. Marriage is simple but it isn’t easy. Honesty. Death… Geometry. Often simple ideas can even sound sort of trite because we dismiss them without considering the work involved in bringing them to fruition, impossible fantasies and the stuff of children’s stories.

I don’t necessarily think we should disregard something because it’s easy either, but I will confess to often approaching it with caution because nothing is ever that easy. But it is often that simple.

So maybe it’s time to stop denigrating simple and embrace it a little. Make a simple list. Take a simple step. Make a simple change.

And today, why not commit a little to the real work and let yourself be happy. It’s so simple.

Should We Say "Happy" Instead?

Fri, 12 Jul 2013 08:27:00 -0500

June 26, just a few days before I headed overseas to this beautiful country which is all too briefly acting as my home away from home, the land that I love righted a wrong of nearly two decades. The Supreme Court of the United States, by a shockingly narrow margin of 5-4 overturned the Defense of Marriage Act, declaring it unconstitutional, a watershed moment in LGBTQ rights and a gateway to legalizing marriage equality nation-wide.

I cried. I celebrated. I am not gay, but I am also not unaffected. Like so many, I immediately turned to social media to share my love and excitement and support of my friends, family and community. And I was shot down by a friend of mine, not because he didn’t support marriage equality but because he took issue with my use of the term “Gay Weddings”.

I considered taking down my post, concerned that somehow my distinction of gay marriage or gay wedding was somehow defamatory, some sort of disguised or misguided discrimination that I wasn’t aware of. I actually spent several days germinating on this. And then it struck me why I was so bothered by his response and why I simply don’t agree. “No,” he said, “Just weddings. Let’s not call them gay or straight.”

Here’s the thing, DOMA was never about marriage or weddings or who was entitled to love whom. It was about politics, money and dehumanization. The abolishment of the Act doesn’t actually legalize unions of any kind; that is still controlled on the state level. What it does do is require the federal government, law enforcement and military to recognize the rights of legally married couples regardless of gender or sexual orientation.

Immediately following the Supreme Court’s decision the Department of Defense issued a statement saying that it “intends to make the same benefits available to all military spouses — regardless of sexual orientation”. Imagine only twenty years ago you could be court-martialed for coming out. Now you might actually be able to get married in Uniform at the Academy, and have military housing and benefits. Yup, all equal. Look at that!

So why am I making such a big deal about saying gay marriage, gay wedding, or same-sex couple? Who cares, right? Because the distinction is important, because for nearly two decades this country has said that gay couples were lesser citizens, that gay officers were not entitled to the same rights as straight officers, that lovers and companions and committed partners, often of decades were not recognized as even having a right to exist under the eyes of our legal system. And because this struggle for equality stretches well back beyond DOMA and still has miles to go before we rest.

I mean, women got the vote like, a hundred years ago. Totally equal, right? And Civil Rights? Hardly worth mentioning anymore with all this equality and open-mindedness. DOMA was like two weeks ago, so Gay Marriage is so last season. The fact is, this event is too important, too far reaching and far too hard won to simply sweep it under the rug with a quick mainstreaming because some people are uncomfortable with the term “Gay.” It is just a little modifier but it represents a lifetime of struggle. Maybe someday we really will be equal and the modifier will be unnecessary. Maybe one day, gay marriage will be legal in every state of the Union and every country of the world but until then, every Gay Wedding is a celebration of victory. Don’t ask us to slip it by quietly.

A Face in the Mirror

Wed, 12 Jun 2013 12:16:00 -0500

This morning I looked in the mirror and was frustrated with the woman staring back at me. She is an older and somewhat heavier version of the woman I keep expecting to see. I started down that old familiar path, telling myself how I had failed, how I had disappointed myself, how I had let myself down.

Now I know a lot of people who really believe that tough love is the only way to improve, that you have to beat yourself down to build yourself up, but for me, that kind of derisive self-talk has never done anything but fuel my own self-doubt into an overwhelming downward spiral of defeat. I stared into that mirror, searching for the woman I knew was there under two dress sizes, remembering the story I had read about how we, particularly as women, focus on the flaws and completely overlook the wonderful things which make us who we are. I know I will get back to where I'd like to be, but it isn't going to happen by next Thursday when I get together with my girlfriends. It isn't going to happen by the next dinner, or wedding, maybe even the next class reunion so I need to be happy with who and where I am now so that I'm not just living for some far off tomorrow, frustrating and defeating myself at every turn.

I went back to the old “Three Things I Love About Myself” exercise I devised years ago when I got tired of trying to out-flaw the women around me, foolishly arguing about who was the heaviest or the shortest or the most flat-chested. And I realized as I sat staring at this beautiful, bold, seasoned, intelligent, able bodied, well, Goddess, that I did have one enormous blemish; my own self-doubt. My own self-loathing. So I decided to give myself a mental makeover. I decided to rid myself of my own self-loathing, a trait which was never beautiful on anyone. And guess what, it’s the one thing you can get rid of right now!

Death of Service, Part II

Mon, 3 Jun 2013 21:17:00 -0500

It is time for the next installment of Death of Service, the Midwestern saga. When last we met, I had suffered an assault at the hands of the vicious and judgmental window monitor at the as yet unnamed fast food restaurant, the reigning monarch of burgers let’s just say, only to leave hungry and empty handed. My next trepidacious attempt took me to a healthier state of fast food but with little improvement on the experience though I did come away with an amusing anecdote. I walk in this time, no longer trusting the anonymity of the drive thru and walk up to the counter. As this is one of those sandwich shops where you choose individually each item, there is a plain faced girl behind the ineffectual sneeze guard repeating after each option, “Anything else? Anything else? Anything else?”, in a zombie-like cadence which would make George Romero jealous. There are actually three employees visible, though it seems only zombie girl is working. There is a second ponytailed blonde girl in the back, leaning heavily on a counter writing and talking on her cellphone and a third, this one young man, with a bright Manager badge blazing gloriously from his chest. He assesses the situation, the two customer to three employee ratio and says loudly, “It’s a good thing I like you guys or you’d all be fired.”

I complete my order, three items at a time to avoid the hypnotizing drone of the zombie girl and suddenly from the back appears a delightfully energized young black woman, smiling ear to ear, who completes my order at the register. My heart warms a bit as she wishes me a nice day and as I turn to go, she turns to her coworkers and says, “I am just forcing a smile today.”

I haven’t actually moved yet, but apparently the air which fills the gap between us is soundproof.

I walk away, slightly defeated but with prize in hand. Tomorrow is another day. I shall not lose all faith in humanity, though my trust in the fast food industry which sustained me through my youth is faltering.

Connections

Fri, 31 May 2013 09:50:00 -0500

In this age of technology sometimes we get lazy or forgetful or just plain careless. I admit to this. I have become complacent about things because I use facebook to track dates which I used to keep track of myself. I have a calendar which, if a birthday, an event, an appointment doesn’t appear on it, it does not exist in my mind or my schedule. I rail at those who can’t do simple math, relying on calculators and iPhones and yet I cannot read a map. Our schedules are busy, our lives complicated.

But it wasn’t always this way. We used to look forward to special events, marking them on our wall calendars, tracking them in our minds, planning and anticipating rather than logging on in the morning to see to whom we need to send a bit of good will. Technology can be a wonderful thing, but it isn’t a replacement for human interaction or thoughtfulness.

I was reminded of this yesterday, when a dear friend of mine voiced her disappointment at having been completely overlooked on her birthday. It was a VERY important birthday because this time last year it did not look as though she would still be with us. I felt awful, knowing that I had let her down. I went to facebook to see if somehow I had overlooked it. It wasn’t there.

Now I will admit, I am someone who doesn’t chance it myself. My family forgot my birthday once, everyone did…when I turned 21. Those who remembered were annoyed with me because I didn’t want to go drinking. See, I wanted to go dancing because I was finally old enough to get into the clubs but since that wasn’t what they wanted, I spent the night alone. Molly Ringwald style! My brother has a history of NEVER knowing when my birthday is but feeling very guilty when he remembers a month later. So years ago I developed the habit of calling my mom to ask her to “remind my brother” and that way he knew, she knew and everyone knew. When she passed, I let my Dad in on the family secret and he continued the tradition. For many years my best friend and I wouldn’t admit we had no idea when the other’s birthday was…we’d been friends for so long that it seemed reprehensible not to know until one day we both confessed and it turned out we were in the same boat all along.

The temptation of course, is to let oneself off the hook, to beg forgiveness and let it go. But this experience brought up a larger issue in my mind. Complacency. The willingness to give over any responsibility and accountability to a machine, that ever encroaching void of anonymity that makes it ok to be just a little meaner, a little more thoughtless, a little more complacent because we are just sooooo busy! Well, it’s bullsh*t. We should never be too busy to show a little love to our friends. I am truly sorry that I missed this, that I can’t fix it or salve it or make it better. But I promise to be better, to make myself accountable and present as a friend. And maybe turn off the computer and pick up the phone. Maybe we all should once in a while.

Subject to Interpretation

Sun, 19 May 2013 18:43:00 -0500

So here it is, my 100^th entry. Oh, I know in the end it may not end up being so, we shift things around and such but for now, this marks three years and one hundred (published) entries. And it seems appro po that this should be my topic.

Coin-cidence. It's something my father talks about all the time. Not coincidence, which is events unrelated which happen together but seem to have some connection. His interpretation, coin-cidence (pronounced ko in ‘SI den(t)s) is two things which happen together with the intention of some higher power or force beyond reckoning. Things that were meant to happen, people we were meant to meet, whether it was from some unseen outside force, guiding us toward each other or the overwhelming power of our own subconscious minds.

It is something in which I strongly believe, as someone who has spent the better part of her life making plans which I had no idea how I was going to bring to fruition but believing that somehow I would find the means or it would find it’s way to me. It was on my mind quite a lot yesterday, having spent the afternoon with two women who were gifted to me in a time when I really needed them. We were colleagues and friends who became partners and sisters. And something happened. We all had our own challenges and it was like we were each there, in each other’s lives for a purpose which would not reveal itself until later. But that sort of thing isn’t coincidence, it is coin-cidence. I would attribute it to our astounding Artistic Director but unless she had precognitive powers, she could not have foreseen the events which were to unfold. I don’t even know if they would have had this perfect partnership not happened. Coin-cidence.

Coin-cidence is when my father, who, steadily finding his new role in the world absent my mother and absent the job which he held for 35 years decides to join a group on public speaking is asked to make a speech on ethics to a company who’s questionable and criminal practices have directly impacted him. Some would even call that justice, perhaps others divine intervention, but I call it coin-cidence.

Coin-cidence is a powerful and palpable force. But I do think it is something you have to believe in, to want, because it isn’t the same as destiny because destiny is unalterable. And in some ways, destiny is kind of lazy like waiting for something to happen but taking no active role in it. And it is an easy excuse for inaction; “Destined to fail, destined to falter, destined not for greatness but for mediocrity.” It makes the assumption that our actions, our thoughts, hopes, dreams and the relationships we cultivate have no impact on our future. Coin-cidence though is the coming together of people, events, etc in a way to make things easier or more possible but it still requires an active role. Rather than praying for something to happen, praying for the tools to make it happen. Understand, I don’t generally pray. I do talk to the Universe, the angels, even my relatives who have passed; particularly my Great Aunt who is in charge of all last minute parking emergencies. No, I don’t hear voices, but I do get answers. Some would say it is coincidence but to say that is to dismiss any effort on my part.

It’s funny, though I rarely pray because of my own issues not with a higher power but with organized religion and ritual in general, I still would never dismiss it because praying can be a very active exercise and as I sat down to write, feeling this swell of joy and happiness in my heart, I received a message from a friend of mine, someone who reached out to me, literally from the Abyss, at a difficult time in my life. The message was personal, detailing her struggle and asking for prayers, for healing thoughts and for strength. I had it in spades. Coin-cidence.

There are times when we have to reach into our empathic reserves, like an adrenaline rush which allows a mother to lift a car from her injured child, into a well of love that so often we feel sure is dried up and cracked with age and abuse. But here is the wonderful thing about love. When you dip into the well, often and deeply and with the best of intentions, regardless of the outcome that well replenishes itself. It is an endless resource which strangely enough becomes more plentiful the more it is shared.

As I look back over the events of the last three years and take stock of how much has happened and even, giving myself some credit, how much I have made happen, I can’t help but be a little overwhelmed and grateful to be able to add a little more to the well. But I know this quest of self-discovery, though an independent journey was hardly done alone. All along the way I have met people who have guided me, supported me, even challenged me to clear this beautiful path I am on of all the obstacles which I had put there. Of course the road is not always easy, it is not always clear, but for the first time in many years I can say with certainty, it is mine. Coin-cidence, you were just waiting for me to call on you.

Now if this was a movie, this would be the end. There would be a swell of music, a long slow fade of some young woman’s fit and lovely backside clad in a white dress, as the titles rolled by. I’d like to think I’d be played by someone younger and ethereal, far more attractive than the reality and massively talented; not just another Hollywood name to sell the tickets.

But this isn’t a movie, this is real life which means it has no end. Well it has a rather definitive end but hopefully not now. Instead, I simply close one chapter and begin another. It doesn’t mean we forgot, it just means we move on, hopefully forward, but at least not backward. Maybe sideways. But we keep moving. Yesterday as I was wrapping up with one of my friends, we were comparing notes on how our lives have changed since that initial meeting. We’ve stopped sweating the small stuff because cliché or not, life is too d*mned short. But as we were talking it occurred to me that an awful lot of people sleepwalk through their lives, fearing the path before them, regretting the path behind. Every minute of that is precious. Even in the hardest moments, there is beautiful and love and grace. If I have learned nothing else, that message has been ingrained in me time and time again. That and there are no coincidences, only coin-cidence.

Seven Days

Tue, 14 May 2013 20:22:00 -0500

Today I was thwarted in my efforts to get to work, so much so that at last I gave up this fruitless exercise, preferring to return home and get a few other things ticked off the ever growing preparation list for Edinburgh and for life, the next chapter. I spent a productive and eerily satisfying afternoon working with my senile, octogenarian cat sleeping contentedly on my lap wrapped loosely in the folds of my sweater.

It’s hard to watch him aging, edging ever closer to the abyss which took his brother less than a year ago. Each day I see his world grow smaller and dimmer, as his sight and senses fail him and now, his own body. He stopped jumping on the bed; today I think he even fell down the stairs. I have to place him in front of his food bowl or he doesn’t know it’s full and now, sometimes, he cries, lost in the shadows of a house which does not grow more familiar until I find him and hold him and reassure him that all will be well.

I don’t speak cat. I don’t know how much he understands; I only know it must be terrifying at times to lose control of that which once was so simple, to not understand how or why it is happening and my only mercy is that he probably lacks the memory from moment to moment to be truly afraid.

It isn’t like that for people. I was reminded tonight, as so often I am, of my mother. Her passing was not quiet, it was not simple and it was not natural. There were times when she was sick where we felt helpless, hopeless even; times we were sad, times we were angry, and many days where I don’t even think she knew anymore what was happening.

My mother’s disease was insidious. It had no outward symptoms. It had no predictable time table. It didn’t really have a name. Yes, there was Lupus. Yes, there was Diabetes. Yes, there was even Alcoholism. But there was something else there too, something soul crushing and confusing, the symptoms of which were not a disinterest in life but rather a “F*ck all” attitude about death.

My mother wasn’t simply one day unhappy but disappeared over time, backed from the light and retreated into the shadows of despair. I didn’t see it right away and forever I shall probably bare guilt for that. But that isn’t what I was thinking about tonight.

Instead, my little kitty, so small and frail, lying in my lap reminded me that in the midst of the worst moments in your life, there is still beauty and joy. That’s what I was remembering.

By the time my mother went into the hospital, never to return, she was already in an altered mental state and went into a coma. That was hard to see but that week at the hospital, sad as it was, was filled with joyful moments celebrating my mother’s life.

The day after my mother arrived in the hospital, my best friend showed up. She walked into the room and said, “Polly, I need you to pay attention. I need you to hear this. I wanted you and Laurel to hear this at the same time. We’re pregnant. So you need to get better, because you are going to be a grandmother again.” She’d driven two hours to tell us this. I still tear up thinking about it.

The priest came by to give my mother Last Rights. We were never a terribly religious family, my parents both equally lapsed Catholics but we figured at this point, it couldn’t hurt. Father Patrick. A good Irish Catholic. A good man too. We also had a Rabbi and a Priestess…yes, even in her dying hours my mother was having the last laugh.

The next day the Priest came by and, noting the remarkable change in my mother, she had gone from yellow to human overnight, he said, “She looks better.”

“I know,” I replied.

“It’s a miracle.”

“You’re telling me.” He came by three more times to visit and three more times to give her the last, last, ok probably this will be the last Last Rights.

My father came from work; don’t judge him, he had to go to work for a bit of normalcy, and gave her a big kiss, telling her about the Raccoon he saw in the garbage can and we all watched with perhaps too much hope the heart monitor take a little jump. The doctors kept telling us not to read too much into it, they never want to raise your hopes or expectations, but there was Father Patrick, telling us to have faith and praying with all his might for this wonderfully flawed woman. I don’t think he was praying for her recovery so much as for her acceptance of whatever was to be, and for the love of our family to carry us through.

My sister came home for what was now a death vigil. On the third day, we noticed the sad state of our mother’s fingernails. Now one thing you should know about my mother, she loved a good mani-pedi…and she was fearless with them. She would get little pictures painted on, wear the brightest colors imaginable, did not match her fingers to her toes and loved anything shiny! So we decided that what she needed was a coma-induced day of beauty. We brought in all the supplies, snuck in as contraband because it occurred to us that they probably wouldn’t approve of the fumes while she was on oxygen but it was pretty clear we weren’t doing any more damage. We cleaned her hands and washed her feet. We buffed off the dry skin and rounded the rough edges. It was the first time we, as sisters, were taking care of our mother. It felt like a ritual, like we were returning her to some earlier state, and although she was very young, it felt right for us to now take care of our mother in her time of need; repayment for the years of love and service she had given us without condition or limitation.

And for a few hours, she got better.

Day four was the worst. That was the day the doctors pulled us aside, asked who wanted to be present for the discussion and confirmed she was not coming back. We had to decide, what measures were to be taken?

I have seen my father cry only three times in my life, and each time was when someone in his family was in danger. He cried when I lay sick in the hospital though he thought I couldn’t see him. I know him to have cried over each of us at some moment, frightened he would lose us, but this time was different because he wasn’t crying out of fear. He was crying out of despair and regret. He was crying because he was losing the love of his life and nothing would ever be the same. And he was crying because he couldn’t not cry. And it was strangely beautiful. It was this incredibly intimate moment between us and I was able to comfort him. Through me, my mother was able to comfort him, because on our last outing, in the midst of her impending dementia, she had two lucid hours, and in those hours, she told me exactly what she wanted. My mother was never one to waste an opportunity.

The papers were signed, the decisions made. There were two more days and another round of Last Rights. And finally, the moment arrived. Our family gathered around. They turned off the machines. We held her hands and said our goodbyes. The room was so quiet. The nurses turned off the sound of the heart monitor so that we could watch as the beat slowed but were saved from the torturous slowing beep, beep, beeeeeeeep. We held each other and watched our mother slip away. I brushed the hair away from my mother’s face and whispered my goodbye. But I did not kiss this vessel, not after she was gone. Many times before, but not after. We left. And wept. And began the strange dance of mourning. But even in this, there was celebration.

Death of Service Part I

Thu, 2 May 2013 13:23:00 -0500

I’ve recently returned from a very eye opening adventure through the Midwest. Now I will admit, I probably live in a bit of a customer service excellence bubble. I grew up in the service industry working my way through college at the local dinner theatre, honing my craft while slinging drinks, paying for school and a wedding with a smile and a wink. I ran an arts studio, reliant on reputation and service and the creation of a community that felt they were making an important contribution to the future and getting a much more cultured day care in dance and music than sitting at a TV. I worked on a cruise ship, the ultimate in indulging every whim of the uber rich. And growing up in cities that were tourist dependent meant even on the worst days, the service was far from adequate. So I will confess that perhaps my expectations for an average, all-American small town community service industry might be skewed but oh my g*d, I don’t think I had any idea of how far we have slid.

I suppose in my brain, having visited every summer the small town of Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, I had this sort of nostalgic 1950s fudge and sweet shop, soda jerk, penny candy colored glasses view of the world. So when I rolled into town, famished beyond reckoning, I never expected to be so hindered in my efforts. I had to resort to fast food, something I am vehemently opposed to, but time wasn’t on my side so I pulled into the local DQ to get a blizzard, one of my great weaknesses. I used to always stop and get a blizzard on the way to the beach each summer, sort of my own travel tradition and the only time I actually bought one. So it felt right at the end of this long cross country trek to reward myself with this little vise. I pull into the drive thru and place my order and when I pull up to the window, there is a girl there leaning half on, half out the window, looking ever so much like a victim of some sort of zombie apocalypse. Her dead hand takes my money and returns to me my frozen treat but my companion and I make a pact never to return. Not to be defeated, we journey on to another of our fast food locations to order some actual sustenance. I order a chicken sandwich sans mayonnaise due to my illogical fear of secret sauces of any kind, a victim of early onset urban myth.

“No mayonnaise? So you just want your chicken plain? Without anything?” comes the disembodied voice, the disdain clearly present even through the thick Midwestern tongue. Timidly I ask for barbeque sauce, fearing the retribution on the other end of that machine. We complete our order and start to pull around as we hear, “That’ll be $17.49” We pull up to the window, which does not open, as the angry, bored girl purposefully ignores us, then notices that the coffee pot, which was meant to have held my companion’s fresh cup of coffee is empty. She sighs and starts to empty the grounds. They have not even begun making the coffee yet!! I shift uncomfortably, waiting to address her as to the origins of a $17 fast food order for two and she walks away, presumably to get new coffee grounds and refill the machine. At last, we give up and pull away, hungry but reassured, we will do better at our next location…we do not!