Skirtfire

Sisters from another mother

2012-02-29T19:11:00.000-06:00

Through Facebook, I renewed friendships with women that I had known for over 30 years at a time in my life that I had never been lower. I was planning our high school reunion and used FB as a tool to keep classmates up to date on events planned for the weekend. The reunion was planned for October 2009. By then there was a core group of us that communicated regularly. Some of us had been closer than others of us throughout life, and I had not been in touch with any of them over the past 30 years, but as a group we struck up a friendship. It was a throwback to high school - funny, giggly, silly but also filled with wisdom, compassion and grown-up women issues of family, love and life. In March, the reunion planning committee arranged a mini-reunion at a local restaurant/bar near our hometown. Five of “the girls” (as we dubbed ourselves) showed. Pam, Erin, DeeDee, Drury and Laura. We moved from our Facebook friendship to something real that night. Erin and her husband Jim owned a house on a lake in North Carolina. She invited us all, including another classmate, Kelley, to come that summer for a ladies weekend at the lake. Miracle of miracles, we found a weekend that worked for us all. I hadn’t been working but was lucky enough to have FF miles to use. And so it was that the end of July, I boarded a flight to Charlotte. Aside from the mini-reunion, I hadn’t seen Erin in 30 years. We weren’t particularly close in high school - we rode the same bus our senior year and always sat next to each other and I always liked her but we ran in different groups. Upon my arrival, I went outside to meet her - she drove up to the baggage claim in her mini-van and when she got out of the car, I knew her immediately. She was as beautiful as I remembered, her smile was big and lit up her face. We threw my suitcase in the car (Full disclosure - suitcases, plural! I admit that I ridiculously overpacked for a long weekend at the lake where all I needed was my bathing suit, shorts, t-shirts and flipflops) and we we off! The lake house was about 90 miles from the airport. I remember the conversation like it was yesterday. We talked about life and love - the men in our lives. It would be the theme of the weekend. I shared with her the story of Charles’ illness and death from cancer and all the accompanying drama fostered by his ex-wife and the “prayer circle”. She talked about her failed first marriage and we shared our individual dating nightmares - most of mine from online - she got lucky, she married her first online date and what would be the love of her life - Jim - end of story. Really, how does that happen?! We drove up to her house in the middle of God knows where - I’m a city girl, for heaven’s sake - when I got out of the car, all I could hear were crickets. Thousands of them singing; a concerto of welcome. It was loud and musical and yet calming and you could hear the quiet beauty of the lake underneath the song. We ate potato salad, chicken salad and pasta salad that night. We sat in the living room and I met Jim and we watched TV and I remember laughing at how many used car commercials we saw. Later I got a tour of the dock. A gorgeous bar with hammered aluminum, festive lights strung across; music hooked up, chairs, couches, a porch swing and the lake shining in the moonlight. Behind me were steps up to the house. Erin and I sat on the screened-in porch later and talked some more. The crickets chimed in their opinion of our thoughts. Happily tired, I retired to the guest room and claimed a top bunk on one of the two bunkbeds in the room. The next day the rest of the crew arrived - DeeDee - senior superlative winner of “best dressed” and “most talkative” as voted by her classmates, a fellow Drill Team member; Drury - beautiful, tiny, wisecracking Drury - the end of the Drill Team line; Laura, thin, lovely wisp of a woman aka the “saucy minx” - the center of the Drill Team line; Kelley - loving, centered, athletic; and me - damaged but authentic, funny - center left on the Drill Team line. Six women (and Jim) about to embark on a weekend of water, wine and whatever else was in store for us. Everyone brought something. The cars were loaded with food and liquor. Cookies with mini Reese’s cups baked into them. Turtle Chex mix that I became instantly addicted to. Salads, chocolate. Wine, Tanqueray, and beer. Bottled water and diet coke for me. I love when women get together and eat, really eat! We do, you know. We graze through it all. No thoughts or care to our waistline or who is watching or what anyone else thinks. We fed more than our bellies that weekend. We fed our souls. We ate unabashedly. And the lake! The joys of the lake! The pontoon boat, Captain Jim and his first mate, Miss Belle, their little dog that was without a doubt the belle of the ball - she sat in the co-skippers chair or marched up and down the length of the boat ensuring that we all knew who the alpha female was in this group! There was a thunderstorm on Friday night. We took a sunset/rain cruise. The sky was blackening with streaks and pockets of orange, magenta, red and pink. Stars peeked in and out from behind the dark clouds and nightfall. We marveled at the beauty and talked together or in little huddles of girls depending on where we sat on the boat or who we were next to. We were in sweatshirts and shorts, our hair unstyled and dried with lakewater in it. No makeup. No purses. Our smiles the only accessories we wore. We jet skied that weekend, Jim the master of making all water sports fun, scary and exhilarating, threw us back into our teenaged selves. We were all 16 years old again - squealing, laughing and screeching! A few of us were brave enough to ride a huge tube behind the boat and held on for dear life as Jim made it his mission to terrorize us into peals of laughter. DeeDee flew off the tube and hit her mouth on Drury’s head. On my turn, after hitting huge waves in the wake and bumping along at what felt like 100 miles an hour, I flew off backwards and as I slammed into the water, my bikini bottoms were ripped from my body; an upturned foot is all that kept the girls from having to haul my nude lower half back onto the boat (Thanks, God!). We floated around the dock, paddling ridiculous rafts and tubes attached together in a line by hooking our feet over the edge of someone else’s float. Laura manned the chain of silly girls about the lake with an unwieldy kayak oar. Drinks were spilled. One of us (okay, me) decided that it was perfectly logical to step 2 plus feet from the dock’s edge into a rubber raft. The ensuing spill into the lake was worthy of a America’s Home Video grand prize. Too bad we didn’t capture it on film. But it is all memorialized in my head. Sitting on the dock in our pj’s every morning talking and drinking coffee. The shrimp boil. The “drunk dial” aka “DD” calls to the boys we liked in high school. Sleeping in bunk beds in one room. Laughing at our pictures in the yearbooks from high school. Wondering where our other classmates had disappeared to. Discussing the merit of any hairstyle that included “wings”. Who we kissed. Who we wanted to kiss. Who we would secretly kiss today. Trying on each others clothes. What would we wear to the reunion? And always the silliness and the giggling. The giggling was the signpost marking the weekend I turned the corner in my healing. I was loved, safe and secure. I was surrounded by a group of remarkable women who had each shouldered life’s burdens with grace and dignity. These were women with children at home now - the same age we were when we met. It didn’t seem possible that so much time had gone by - thirty years and still we were still the same girls inside but happier, braver, more loving and infinitely wiser and kinder. I felt the barrier I had put up against the pain of my life of the last five years break that weekend. Surely as the pain, rage and fear bound me to the darkness, the weekend on the lake baptized me into my new life. If I had been dressed in white and dunked in the water on the banks of the lake, I could not have been more reborn than I was that weekend. I hope that these beautiful women know what they gave me that first weekend in August, what they brought me, how they helped me to let go of the past and trust in the love that only women can give each other. I love you, ladies.

What I Found under the Christmas Tree

2011-12-23T23:21:00.001-06:00

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A Weighty Matter - Manufactured Beauty - Part 2

2011-10-08T11:21:00.002-05:00

When I think about the last 30 years of my life and how much of it I spent worrying about my weight or how I looked, I realize that it was almost all time wasted. My battle with my body was a war that occurred on the front lines of my daily life and also as an ever-present undercurrent of my inner life. We are told in a thousand different ways through the bombardment of media and entertainment that in order to be beautiful we must strive to be anorexically thin. I am somewhat grateful that the Super Models of my youth - Christie Brinkley, Rachel Hunter, Kim Alexis, Carol Alt and Cheryl Tiegs - they each projected an image of beauty, strength and health and had what seemed to be, at the time, reasonably attainable figures. Those days are long gone - the image projected by today's models is excruciatingly thin and impossible for most women to even attain - and we won't even talk about the airbrushing that is standard in the industry today.

I lived in Los Angeles for 20 years where the obsession with beauty and weight is legendary. I remember talking to a friend once who had lunch with a famous socialite/actress. The woman was incredibly thin - my friend said that when she ordered her lunch she asked for a grilled piece of fish, no butter or sauce, no more than 4 ounces to be brought out with a cup of steamed, fresh veggies. That was her lunch. She had ordered the same thing at lunch to be polite and couldn't believe how little food it was. She wanted a piece of bread but her lunch guest had banished the customary bread basket from the table. My friend left the lunch starving and grabbed something else to eat when she got home. I recently read an interview with the beautiful and hugely talented actress Julianne Moore where she said she was always hungry - morning, noon and night but that the Hollywood obsession that actresses represent a certain size and thinness didn't allow her to eat very much...I can't imagine always being hungry by choice.

Once I was in line behind Renee Zellweger at Williams Sonoma in Beverly Hills. She was the tiniest thing I ever saw - she probably came up to right underneath my breasts and her thigh looked to be as big around as my upper arm. I am dead serious. I felt like a behemoth. Most actors are notoriously small but look much bigger and taller on film. Tom Cruise is 5'7" tall and towered over Zellweger in Jerry Maguire - I don't know why I was so surprised at what a small woman she is. The same with Eva Longoria of Desperate Housewives fame. She was on a soap I used to watch before becoming famous, and I saw her at Disneyland. She is so petite and thin it's shocking in person. Neither woman represent any version of beauty that I could ever attain given our genetic differences.

I saw Cheryl Tiegs in Ralph's grocery store in LA a few years ago. She looked terrible, she was losing her battle against the aging process. Too much work and injectables can actually give you the opposite effect of what you are going for. She was 60 trying to look 30 and looked exactly what you think 60 trying to look 30 looks like. She had much too much work done and it wasn't sitting well on her face. Also, she had become so thin, she looked horribly ill. Her wonderful, curvy figure was totally gone and all that was left was a brittle, thin shell.

The other problem with this bullshit image of beauty that we are fed is that these women have spent thousands, if not tens of thousands, of dollars on attaining this unattainable image of beauty. They starve themselves and then because they are too thin and have lost all their body fat, they have no boobs...so they get implants. They botox, inject, liposuction, nip and tuck themselves into Barbie doll perfection.

I had a friend in sobriety who had a nosejob, eye lift, breast implants - then bigger breast implants - and then had those taken out and had smaller implants put in (she was tired of not being able to button her blouses or having to buy them in a larger size and have them taken in at the torso and waist); lip implants, lipo on belly, arms, knees, back, butt; tummy tuck, facelift, a second eye job, veneers, hair extensions and also managed to get her 5'9" frame down over 50 lbs to somewhere around 112-115 pounds via lots of juicing and protein shakes and veggie soups with negative calorie count. She was horribly thin but when I mentioned my concerns, she told me she was in perfect health, worked out everyday and knew what she was doing - but I thought she looked anorexic - from behind I could see the outline of her pelvic girdle, not a pretty sight. But she was thin, by God and in LA, that's gold. People coo over you when you are that thin. All the women want to know how you did it. What's your secret? Once we were out to breakfast in Brentwood and the waiter inquired as to whether my 45 year old friend was a "starlet" - she looked so familiar. She giggled and batted her eyelashes at him - that compliment made her day. I didn't even know there were such things as "starlets" anymore. She died of pneumonia 3 years ago. I think she got so thin and had so many surgeries that when she got so sick, she had nothing to fight it with. Her maid found her dead on her kitchen floor one morning shortly before her 50th birthday. She was a hugely successful, self-made businesswoman, funny, smart, irreverent and gorgeous - even before all her "work". She became obsessed with perfection, literally rebuilt herself from the ground up in some false image of beauty and I think it killed her.

You see all these (aging) actresses who claim to get lots of sleep, eat well, exercise and take supplements and that's why and how they look so good/young. It's all bullshit, people! They've all had work. They all have botox and filler....you can't get into your 40's without a wrinkle and certainly cannot be striding towards fifty with a smooth face, full lips, firm breasts and wide eyes without a lot of help. To be clear, I don't care what they've done - it's their business, their body - but to try to make the rest of us think that they are circumventing the aging process through common sense alone should be offensive to all women who are fighting their own battle against Father Time. (Notice how Time is represented as a man? What's that about?)

How do I know this? Through my *own* common sense and my (some of them costly) attempts in my quest for a semblance of external beauty and also to slow the aging process....

Part three of this series will bring the focus back to me and my struggle to discover what truly makes me beautiful. Full disclosure ahead - the good, the bad and the ugly! ;)

Pax

A Weighty Matter - Go Figure - Part 1

2011-10-07T09:37:00.000-05:00

I can't remember a day since my mid-teens when I wasn't worried about the weight or size or shape of my body. Prepubescent, I had that awkward pre-teen girl's body - a kind of lumpy roundness that almost looked fat. My mother Penny was on a diet her entire adult life. Always. On. A. Diet. She gave birth to me when she was 21 and then in rapid succession had two more children so that by the time she was 24, she was a mother of three and diagnosed with diabetes. She never got rid of the baby weight in between pregnancies and she "lost her figure", as the old saying goes.

When I was six, my dad sent Penny to her first "Fat Farm" (as my dad called it) at Duke University Medical Center. She packed up and was gone for two or three months. A wonderful, elderly woman, Mrs. Freeland, came to live with us. She took care of me and my sisters, my dad worked while my mom was in search of her health and her figure. From what I remember and the stories I heard and pictures I saw, the fat farm seemed to be more a huge party than anything else. The diet was better known as the Duke University Rice Diet. You were fed a couple of cups of white rice each day with a few veggies and fruit thrown in for color and the doctors made you walk everywhere.

Once, my sisters and went to spend a weekend with my mom at the Fat Farm. All the "patients" stayed in a motel near the medical center. I remember a big kidney-shaped swimming pool, a whole bunch of poolside drinking with Johnny Mathis playing on the record player or radio incessantly - it all felt very glamorous - to this day, my sisters and I still have a fondness for Johnny Mathis. Lorne Greene, of Bonanza fame, was at the fat farm too and he and my mom became friends. I still have an autographed photo of Lorne with a lovely note to me and a 45 record of one of his hit singles - who knew Lorne had a singing career? Make your own judgements, people! Every day, the patients would walk to the "Rice House", eat their rice breakfast, walk home, walk back, eat lunch rice, walk back to the motel, walk back to the Rice House, eat rice dinner, walk back and proceed to spend the rest of the night playing duplicate bridge and drinking. I have deduced the only reason they lost any weight at all was all the walking and the starvation diet they were on. I think my mom and the other "patients" stayed smashed for three months.

My mom made the front page of the Durham newspaper once. She sent us a copy. She was beautiful in the photo - she had lost a lot of weight and it must have been autumn - she was dressed in a long, dark purple leather trench coat that belted at the waist, she had on matching sunglasses with dark purple frame and lenses, her hair was done up with a "fall" and she was wearing uber-cool boots. That outfit would be hip today and I'd give anything for that leather coat. Using her as the Rice Diet ~~fat farm~~ model of success, the article went into the details of her daily regimen - the walking, the food, the top notch medical care. The article mentioned nothing about the copious amounts of vodka and grapefruits consumed by the pool. Alcohol consumption be damned, she still came home three months later slim, gorgeous and rested.

But not happy. Never really happy. The closest representation of my mother I can come up with in pop culture is Betty Draper from Mad Men - in a bad marriage, seethingly unhappy, perpetually discontent, patently selfish and always looking for something more. She was stuck in that time before women were allowed to have different choices or roles and she resented it. In due course, the weight returned and she returned to the fat farm the following year. It became our little dysfunctional family ritual for about three years.

We called it the "fat farm" because that's what my dad called it. It was a colloquialism that wasn't considered offensive at the time, but I still felt some shame - I don't recall telling anyone that my mother was at the quote-unquote fat farm. In fact, I don't remember ever telling anyone that she was gone. We all just pretended that this was a normal thing that all families do. I learned to keep secrets at a very young age.

My mother's battle with her weight never ended. Her diets were insane. It was usually something really horrible like 2 cooked hot dogs, no buns and sliced tomatoes or cottage cheese. I don't know why she ate those particular foods, even today it's horrible to remember. But along with the hot dogs were the vodka grapefruits and they must have made ~~her life~~ the diet tolerable. There I was, a mother in and out of the fat farm and a father who was sure to let you know if he thought you had gained even the tiniest amount of weight. You can see where this is going, right? I remember my first diet was my junior year of high school. I don't know why I decided I was fat. I was 5'8" and 132 pounds. I was athletic and fit but when I looked in the mirror I didn't see that. I saw FAT. I went down to 125 pretty quickly by basically starving myself and in retrospect, I think it was more about the discipline - that I could do it if I chose to and that there was at least one thing in my life I could control.

When I arrived at Southwest Texas State University, I tried out for the dance team - the Strutters. One of the first things you had to do at tryouts was get on a scale and be weighed in front of all the other girls. By then, I was almost 5'9". In front of 100 girls, none of whom I knew (I was a Virginia transplant, remember) I stepped on the scale. The scale read 142 - a not unreasonable weight for someone of my height and bone structure. I'd bet dimes to dollars that my body far was pretty low back then. Ms. Tidwell, our director, announced my weight to all the world, as she had every other girl's, and commanded that I be down to 132 by the time two-a-days were done. (Yes, like the football teams, the Strutters had their own two-a-days.) Thus began my first truly bad dieting experience. For the next two weeks, I ate one small meal each day and took 4-6 ExLax every night before bed. It was horrible and without going into detail - use your imagination - I was under 130 at the end of that two week period. It was an almost impossible weight for me to maintain, and I lived in fear of that damn scale - we weighed in every Friday before game day and if we were over our directed weight, we couldn't dance.

The thought that I wasn't thin enough coupled with the "stranger in strange land" mentality, decimated my self-confidence. Being from Northern Virginia, I stuck out like a sore thumb in Texas. I didn't know how to do my makeup or hair - it seemed to me that the other girls were successful beauty contest contestants and knew all the secrets - and they weren't sharing. They each were perfectly groomed and coiffed and they seemed to know each other regardless of their age or class. Unfortunately for me, I arrived on campus in a pink metallic Cadillac Seville that my dad gave me stuffed with a wardrobe from Neiman Marcus and Saks. They probably thought I was a pretentious Yankee and I was so shy and uncertain in this new world that I isolated. I didn't have one friend on the dance team except my "big sister" but for reasons not important here, she was gone from school most of the year - so I was basically alone. My dance mates shunned me and it was crushing. I didn't understand Texas and I understood this group of girls even less. I was an 18 year old pariah. My dancing career was doomed and the next year, I would not be a Strutter. But by then, I had made friends, wonderful friends - women who are still in my life today.

In my junior year, I went from my dancing weight of 130 to 155. I felt terribly fat. My roommate Alisa and I joined a gym. We were going to Puerto Vallarta for spring break and wanted to be thin. Alisa brought home a new, amazing diet book - The Beverly Hills Diet by Judy Mazel and that diet rocked our world. For the first ten days we ate pineapple, mango and papaya - that's it, I think. A potato thrown in here and there. Corn on the cob once in a while. A banana before bed. It was all about food "grouping". No laxatives needed on this diet, trust me! Alisa and I went from skinny bitches to super skinny bitches. I wore a green knit string bikini in Puerto Vallarta - Alisa and I still talk about that bikini - but the overwhelming feeling I had on that trip was one of being uncomfortable in my body and still feeling fat. This is how I felt at the thinnest, fittest time of my life. It was the beginning of yo-yo dieting for me.

I was twenty years old and doing my own version of Penny's "fat farm" without even realizing it.

To be continued......

Eye of the Beholder

2011-10-01T12:27:00.003-05:00

I am enamored of the Hipstamatic camera app on my iPhone. The original Hipstamatic was a camera invented by two guys in the early 80s who wanted to create a cheaper camera for the masses, so they created one in which all the parts were made of plastic (good for the masses, not so good for the environment.) Anyway, different combinations of film, lenses and flash were used with the end result being an old-timey feeling or otherworldly photos. You never knew what you would get when you took a picture and the iPhone app manages to capture that and in many cases, the results are breathtaking.

I am drawn to these photos because to me, they are a reflection of a fantasy world. The vibrant blues, greens and yellows enhance the reality of what you actually see in the viewfinder. The resulting photos spark my imagination and to be honest, offer an escape from a sometimes overwhelming reality. The lines are softer, gentler and the beauty of the moment captured by the lens is almost stark.

As a child, I escaped into alternate realities. My first and enduring escape (and love) are books. I think I have always known how to read and I was a voracious reader. Several times a week, I walked to the library in Lake Anne and spent hours in its aisles. The library was tiny, but to me it was a whole other universe. In that library I discovered Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books, Nancy Drew, CS Lewis's Chronicle of Narnia, JRR Tolkien's The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Agatha Christie, Perry Mason, Jane Eyre, Rebecca, Anne of Green Gables, Charles Dickens, The Grimm Brother's fairy tales and fables, Robinson Crusoe, Cherry Adams RN - the list goes on and on. I would load up as many books as I could carry and I am sure the librarian smiled proudly as I trudged home with a stack of books I could barely see over.

Reading was my first addiction and like alcohol would later, took me away from the reality of my childhood. If was a refuge from the chaos of living with my mother. When I read, I was somewhere else, I was some-one else. I could shut the world out with my nose in a book. I was safe and no one could hurt me when I was in Narnia or the Shire or Dickens' London.

As I progressed through childhood, I found other means of escape as well. I was lucky enough to live in a time and place where the great outdoors was all the freedom a child could desire. It seemed I was always outside. We had free rein to wander and explore - to become a part of the natural world. My bike could take me anywhere. We swam and sailed little Sunfish boats, fished off the dock, climbed trees, explored the secret tunnels under manhole covers. We ran and played kickball, hopscotch, Red Rover and Freeze Tag. We hung from and fell off monkey bars. We sledded in the winter and crashed into trees and even streams. We were fearless daredevils and we owned the world. Whether I was lost in a book or conquering early Reston, I was safe. I remember the exhilaration and peace of being at the top of a tree and thinking that I was safer up there among the canopy of leaves than in my own home. The view of the horizon promised adventure and escape just like the books did.

Nature has always held a special appeal for me. I love being outside. After Charles died, I began the healing process by the simple act of hiking. The physical challenge coupled with the reward of sitting on the top Runyon, all of Los Angeles spread below me - the glittering ocean 15 miles west, the Oz-like downtown to the east, and the blue-brown Santa Anita mountains north - restored my soul. This was my city as seen through the Hipstamatic viewfinder of my mind. From a distance, you only see the beauty of the city, all the things that make city living difficult are hidden. When I am in nature, I see the natural world through a magnifying lens. I notice the shapes and colors of flowers and foliage. I can see and feel the roughness of the tree bark or the seashells of a long-distant past in the hills of Tennessee - where there has not been an ocean for a very long time! My imagination is sparked, my senses come alive, the part of my brain that is chaotic is stilled. I feel as one with my world.

This last year has been one of great solitude. I didn't make very many friends in Nashville. I don't know why, but in retrospect, I think it wasn't to be; my path led somewhere else. Until I found Percy Warner Park, I was adrift and could feel the blanket of depression starting to wrap around me again. I needed a "Runyon Canyon" and it took me five months to find PWP. I had heard of the park but didn't believe that such a place could exist in the middle of the city. In AA we call that "contempt prior to investigation". But when I found it, it became my second home. The day wasn't complete if Pink, Blue and I didn't hike. It's trails were challenging and sometimes the heat and humidity almost did us in, but me and my two dogs loved it. It was a mystical place, surprisingly not very well trafficked and that was fine with me. Sometimes, I would hike the entire 5-mile loop and not run into one other person. The park was all mine.

I love taking photos of the world around me. I love that through my iPhone, I always have a camera at the ready. I really started snapping pictures at Runyon in an attempt to capture the mood and the beauty of what I saw. The photos in their own odd way, contributed to my healing. Each captured moment served as a reminder of the beauty of my world. All I had seen for five years was illness and death and pain, I had lost the ability to see anything else. But the pictures I snapped with my phone were glorious, beautiful, real. The reality wasn't what was in my head, it was in the viewfinder. I had just forgotten how to see it. Then I found the Hipstamatic app. I was puzzled why I was so captured by its results. I didn't was to escape reality but the photos are a call of the siren to me. Then I realized that the photos are not an escape into fantasy but simply a different view of reality - beautiful, haunting, vibrant. What I see in those ethereal photos helps me to remember that beauty is all around me; the fantastical nature of the photos is just an abstraction of the beauty of reality. No harm no foul.

I seek out beauty today. It is the sustenance of my soul. I am soothed by an intricate web hanging between two branches or an amazing cloud floating over the water. Living so close to the water again, I am struck by the difference in light - the colors are more vivid, brighter, the horizon is different in a familiar way. I am comforted and relaxed - safe. I have learned to stop and see, to appreciate a moment that captures me and if I am lucky to freeze that moment forever in a frame.

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Below a selection of Hipstamatic prints:

Most of the time though, "real" beauty stands alone and doens't need my help (Thanks, God!):

Pax.

Perfectly Imperfect

2011-09-26T18:06:00.000-05:00

It had been an admittedly tough four days. I was very down on Thursday and part of it was that my sister TP was packing and moving to Asheville. We had moved here together, excited and confident in our decision. She was going to marry Prince Charming and we would continue our sister journey living in the same area. It didn't work out that way though. Prince Charming turned out to be a warty, old frog (my apologies to real frogs everywhere) and she was left in an untenable situation; she had given up her job, moved halfway across the country and when it all fell apart, she had to make quick decisions. Luckily, she is an awesome salesperson and her old company hired her back immediately and gave her the Asheville territory. She packed up and moved to her new home Sunday morning. We spent Saturday evening weeping - uncertain, afraid and sad at the turn of events. The good news is she's only a six hour car drive away - annoying but certainly not impossible - and we were able to bond over this whole, glorious, painful, growth-inducing experience.

But Saturday, oh Saturday, was something else. It was rainy and gray for the 9th day in a row and it got off to a rocky start for reasons that I won't go into. On top of that, I had a very painful ~~conversation~~, (argument) with someone very important in my life. By the end of the ~~conversation~~ (fight), we were both in tears and nothing was resolved. My spirits were low to say the least and I had that horrible, anxious feeling that I get when I have to walk around with unresolved feelings. I do not do this well - granted, I used to be worse - I would beat a dead horse relentlessly until the subject was resolved one way or another. The problem with this approach is that I usually end up with a resolution that is unfavorable to my desired outcome because I pushed and pushed and pushed and just couldn't let.it.go. This has been one of my most difficult challenges in sobriety - to learn to sit with unresolved conflict. To practice restraint of pen and tongue. To give the situation some time and space so everyone can breathe and regroup. To count to ten....or a hundred or even a thousand or ten thousand. I absolutely hate uncertainty and I am *certain* (heh, joke!) that it stems from the uncertainty that plagued my childhood and teen years because of my mother's alcoholism and mental illness.

To my very small credit however, I did manage to table the conversation before it descended from merely "ugly" to "fatally corrupted" but I'd like to have put the brakes on even earlier - when it first took a wrong turn; but hey like we say in AA, it's progress, not perfection. Anyway, there I was, a rainy Saturday, miffed and off-kilter for so many reasons and next on my plate is a project that I had been looking forward to for several weeks - my Raku pottery class. I have been enamoured with Raku for several years and wanted to learn how to do it since I first saw it. And full disclosure, it also holds a sentimental value for me with regard to the person I fought with that day. It was a class being given in conjunction with the Craven Arts Council Festival, and I discovered it on a fluke which of course I consider to be serendipitous....nothing happens by accident in God's world, people!!

Despite the poor beginning to my day, I was terribly excited. I was finally going to learn about Raku and create my first pieces. There were only three of us in the class and it was outside under a big tent in the rain. We chose 2 pre-made, basic, unfired vases and the instructor/artist explained and guided us through the process. One of the pieces was to be for my friend with whom I had just had the fight - it was always my plan, even before the fight. I applied my tape on the vase in the shape of a fish - a special symbol for us and dipped the vase in the mixture that would become the glaze on the piece. When the piece is fired, the tape melts into the pot and creates a design in the pot. I created another beautiful piece for myself with a free form floral design and we dipped our pieces in wax to protect the bottom from the heat (I think) and then they went into the kiln. For 45 minutes, our art would "cook". I wandered into the convention center to see the other offerings and visit the booths of all the vendors. New Bern and Eastern Carolina are filled with some talented artists, I was pleasantly surprised and very motivated to pursue my own artistic pursuits. They even had a writer's corner and the local theater groups were present as well. All the artsy things I love under one roof! Heaven! In short order, I was feeling better about the last couple of days.

At the designated time, I made my way back to our tent. The instructor Candace was puttering about. As I approached she looked up. "How are we doing?" I chirped. I was reinvigorated, happy - calmed by the creative process. "Well," she said, "both of your pieces exploded." I looked at her in disbelief. I could not believe what I heard. "WHAT?" I said. "Yes, I am so sorry. One totally exploded and I had to remove it from the kiln." She pointed to where the pieces of one of my vases lay. "The other is very damaged, but I think the part of the vase with the fish on it is ok..." I just stood and looked at her and I felt unwanted tears prick my eyes and all the disappointment and sadness of the last three days come crashing back in around me. As I tried to speak, my throat caught and tears eked out of the corners of my eyes. SHIT. I can't believe I'm crying now. Poor Candace looked at me not understanding, I imagine, why in the world I was crying. "I am so sorry", I said, "it's been a tough week and this just feels like the last straw." I stood there still crying, trying desperately to compose myself. Finally, I looked down at my cute pink and brown Burberry rainboots and stared at them until I could speak and meet her eyes without bursting into tears again.

After a bit, I looked up. She gave me a hug and said, "Now you know the heartbreak of Raku. If you still want to do this after this experience then you're hooked." She offered to give me my money back or a discount of a future weekend workshop. I said I would think about it.  Everyone else's vases were still being fired, so I went back into the convention center and talked to the women at registration. I told them what happened, tears in my eyes again.  I explained that I had had a bad week and suddenly they had tears in their eyes. "Please don't cry", one of them said - "you'll make us cry." Suddenly, the three of us were giggling at that and we agreed to see how my damaged piece came out and if I wanted my money back, they'd give it to me. It was up to me.

Armed with a potential refund (although all I wanted were my vases), I went back to the tent again. We tore up pieces of paper into metal trashcans; when the vases are removed from the kiln, you put them in a bed of paper and throw paper on top until the piece is covered. The paper bursts into flames and the smoke and paper change the oxidation process, causing the piece to absorb the smoke and changing the glaze giving it a coppery, shimmery finish.  Candace and a helper removed the kiln cover and wearing thick, protective gloves and using long heavy tongs removed the vases from the fire, laid them on the paper in the trashcans while we quickly threw more paper on top watching as the paper first smoked and then caught fire. We put covers on the trashcans and now had to wait 10 more minutes for this process to finish.  The last step would be to dip the pieces in water (where another risk of cracking still waited) and wash them.

The ten minutes ticked by. Candace opened the trashcans and one by one pulled out the pieces. The burnt paper clung to them but through it you could see the shimmery blues, greens and coppers of the Raku. She then removed my remaining but damaged vase. She dropped it in the water and I waited to hear the inevitable crack - the final destruction of what was left, but amazingly, just heard the sizzle of heat meeting water - no crack! I went to the tub of water and peered in. I reached in and pulled my piece out. The bottom was totally blown out and there was a jagged hole in the back side like a cauterized wound. But a funny thing happened; I wasn't disappointed - I wasn't even sad because it was beautiful. The Raku process had finished perfectly on what was left of my artwork. The fish I designed had burned into the clay - it looked like a relic from a time long ago.  The colors were amazing.  It was perfect. Damaged, broken and it would never be a vase, but it was absolutely stunning regardless. I scrubbed it clean and silently marveled at its beauty. Watchers and passer-bys including the ladies at registration oohed and aahed. The ladies hugged me and marveled at its imperfectness.

In its imperfection it had achieved a beauty it could never have had it come out of the kiln academically "perfect".  In that moment, I saw that the piece was a reflection of me and my heart.  Cracked and chipped with few holes blown through me, but like the old Skin Horse from the Velveteen Rabbit, real.

“Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'

Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.

Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'

Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'

It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand. Once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

That vase is perfect and real. I am real and because I am the only one in this universe with this particular set of DNA, I am unique and beautiful. If everything in my life unfolded perfectly, if I never faced challenges of either moral, physical or spiritual nature, I would be something that needed to be kept very carefully - full of sharp edges and broken to the point of no repair. The lines in my face, the gray hair on my head (which I dye - look - I've earned my gray hair but I reserve the right to honor it in secret), the cracks and scars in my heart all bear witness to my becoming "real". I have loved with open heart and open mind. I have lost with great, almost unbearable pain. The rabbit asked if it hurt. It does. But still I retain the desire and capacity for love. I am undeterred, despite the loss and pain, on my quest for love.

I appreciate the broken yet still beautiful things in my life, more I realize, than the new, shiny things. The broken, chipped and cracked things have a story, a history and usually a memory that goes with them. I lug them around from place to place and when I unwrap them yet again, in another new home, each one never fails to bring a smile to my face. With my heart it's different. Some of the memories are difficult and painful, they hurt when I pull them out and look at them. I must look at them though. They are a timeline of my life and the love I've given and received. When I look at them, I remember the love that filled my heart, that still fills my heart. It reminds that I cannot shut my heart down, give up hoping for love again. I know that someday, someone will look at me, broken and cracked yet still beautiful - perhaps even more beautiful because of it and see me as I am. Perfectly imperfect.

Perfect

The back side - a votive holder*

Bottom is top. Let the light shine!*

* a special thank you to the bartender at Craven 247 who helped me discover alternate uses! :)

PS. I am signing up for a Raku workshop this fall and taking a wheel class - so that's that, I'm on the path. Wish me luck as I see if I have potter skills!

Poor me....

2011-09-22T14:59:00.000-05:00

I need a fix today. I need something to fix me. I am ungrateful and sad. I miss Charles. I miss being loved by a man. I hate having to decide if I can afford to buy a hot chocolate. I hate counting every penny. I hate that my computer is on the fritz and I hate that I can't afford to get it fixed or just buy a new one. I hate that my friend threw away her sobriety after over 20 years and couldn't get sober again and died. OD'ed or killed herself with a combo of alcohol and sleeping pills. I hate even worse that she hurt our sponsor - the most wonderful woman I know. I hate alcoholism and I hate that it kills people I love including family members. I am in one bad bad mood today. Once in a while, I get a day like this and I just need to unplug. But instead, I have to deal with another computer that is horribly outdated and outmoded and it has frustrated me to the point of screaming. I hate that I owe people money. It's an albatross around my neck. Nope, this is not a happy nor funny blogpost today. The lyrics to that old Talking Heads song runs through my mind:

And you may ask yourself-Well...How did I get here?

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
...And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!

And the days go by....

Since my birthday, I am overcome with a sense of urgency. I feel like time is slipping by and I have so much to do still and yet today, I just want to get back in bed and pull the covers over my head. It feels overwhelming. Charles used to say that we picked our life - our soul - the person we were going to be, parents, our path - a predetermining choice - that our souls know what we need to learn and accordingly, I picked me - Pamela Pletz - to be, and today, I don't like this choice. All I wanted was the happy marriage, the 2.5 kids, 2 cars in the driveway and a nice, happy, normal life. I don't want all these challenges and obstacles. I don't want to be an alcoholic today. I want to have a glass of wine with dinner (no worries, I won't). I want to look across the table at a man who loves me. I want to get in bed and put my cold feet on someone. I want passion and desire. I want to have the financial means to do some of the things that I want to do, that I have done before, that I took for granted. I don't take them for granted anymore. I want to worry about my children and my family. I want a different life today. Is that okay? Is being ungrateful for who and what I am today wrong?

I am tired of being brave. I am tired of being strong. I am tired of trudging the road of happy destiny. Did you know the definition of "trudge" is to "walk with purpose and determination"? I just want to meander for a while. I want to pick a different life for a bit. I want to be a character in a movie with a sappy, happy ending. When do I get that? Life is supposed to be the journey, but today I am focused on the destination. I want to be THERE. Many of my problems are of my own making, but I don't want to look at that today. I don't want to settle. Or get by. Or accept that this is the way it is...

And now I am tired of whining and more tired of being in my own head, so I am going to end this post and watch horribly, wasteful TV - 2 hours of X Factor and I am going to eat pizza and watch more premiere TV tonight. If you've read this and want to jump off a bridge, I apologize, but it's where I am today. I know I am not the only person who has ever felt this way and usually I try to hide it behind a smile but I'm too tired to smile today and much too tired to fake it. So real, grumpy Pam is going to relish in her realness and her grumpiness. Seacrest out.

Pax.

Truce - God Style

2011-09-19T17:06:00.002-05:00

I think belief in God is a matter of choice. In AA, you are only asked to find a Higher Power of your own understanding. I was raised in the Episcopal Church and have continued, on and off, to come back to it. My belief in God is still strong, but what I realize is that my concept of God is totally and fatally limited to my own brain's puny understanding. I think we put a human face on God so we can relate to Him - our Creator, but I don't think anyone has the God thing locked up and I actually think it's insulting to God to even try to limit him - which is what happens when we put a face on Him. The magnitude of God is as immense and infinite and the universe.

I read once that the universe is still expanding which puts my brain into one of those circular references that causes it to explode because if the universe encompasses everything, then what is it expanding into? What is that space the universe is taking over called? Isn't it already part of the universe? And if not, then the universe doesn't really include all space and matter, so the universe is therefore limited and encroaching on some other universe, which doesn't make sense at all, if this universe is, again, everything. So anyway, you can see how this question keeps me up nights, right?

God. Every once in a while, I am given glimpses of something much bigger than me working in my life and I will tell you now about one of those times. If you know me, or have read my blog, you know that Charles was diagnosed with cancer shortly after I moved everything we owned to Norfolk, Virginia. Without rehashing the story (just read it in a previous blog), it was decided that Charles would stay in Los Angeles and I would stay in Virginia and finish the remodel. We would see each other as much as we could in between his chemo and radiation.

His housing situation was complicated - our house in LA was sold and he was going to stay in the garage apartment until the new owners moved in; it wasn't really a good solution but our options were limited. A month or so after he was diagnosed, he told me that his ex-wife Sharon had offered her guest room to him. Sharon and I had never met at that point, but I knew she didn't like me because until I came along, she always thought that she and Charles would reconcile. They had been separated for years and when he formally asked for the divorce so we could marry, she was shocked. I don't blame her. Charles was totally unprepared for her response - I had to explain to him that as long as that door was left open - even just a crack - she thought there was still a chance for them. Suffice it to say, she never liked me.

Given our immediate and pressing dilemma though, I was eager for Charles to have a safe place to stay and this seemed like the best option. I trusted Charles 100% and it never crossed my mind that he would break his marriage vows to me, I knew he loved me and this was much bigger than that. So, Charles moved in with Sharon. His chemo and radiation were brutal and he was incredibly sick. When I saw him, I was horrified. He was sick and frail and suddenly old. His essence had been reduced; and that made me even more grateful and happier that he had a safe place to live. Our former housekeeper, Fidelina, whom we loved, was also Sharon's housekeeper, so I knew she would take care of him when she was there. I was confident in this decision and proud of my ability to put aside any fears and jealousies I may have secretly held so I could do what was best for Charles.

This is how we lived our life for almost ten months. In April, Charles called me and told me he was in remission. It was a miracle and one I had stopped hoping for, I truly didn't believe my husband was going to beat this. We decided to sell the house and I would move back to LA, so he could continue any needed followup treatment with his doctors there. The remodel of the house was done - or at least done enough so I could sell it. That day, I went out back to mow the yard. It was a beautiful day but hot and I slowly made my way across the yard. A woman walked up the driveway and got my attention over the roar of the mower. She introduced herself - she was a realtor - and asked me if I was interested in selling my house - she had a buyer that wanted it. It had only been hours since we decided to sell - my jaw gaped open to the ground; I thought she was surely putting me on but she was serious.

In short order, the home was sold. I sold much of our furniture and kept enough to fill a 6' trailer that attached to my SUV. Charles came to drive cross-country with me, but he was sick the entire trip and I knew that there was something wrong with this "remission". This didn't feel or look like any remission I had ever heard of. Regardless, we headed West. We found an apartment near the Marina and moved in almost immediately. We stayed at Sharon's for a couple of days while we arranged the move-in and it was the first time I felt her animosity. She didn't think Charles should move and live with me - his wife - it would be better in her opinion, if he continued to stay with her. But there was absolutely no question of that happening. We moved into our apartment and everything began to change very quickly.

Charles' remission was false. Within 2 weeks of my return, we were told by his first oncologist that there was nothing more he could do for Charles. Charles, Sharon and I (yes, Sharon - she insisted on coming to all his appointments, even though I was there now) looked at the doctor, frightened beyond understanding. We immediately found a new oncologist/researcher who was willing to take Charles on and wanted to get him in a study for an experimental drug. The drug was incredibly expensive and not covered by insurance. I worried about the cost and the effect on our already devastated financial situation. Instead of forking over the money, I decided to call the drug manufacturer and see if they would give it to us for a reduced cost since Charles was going to be a guinea pig. When Sharon found out, she called me at work and screamed at me that I should spend every penny I have and buy the drug regardless the cost, toll, expense, devastation. She told me I was selfish and only cared for myself. This from a woman who accepted rent from my dying husband. I sat at my desk and cried after that call. I couldn't for the life of me understand how I ended up here. Feeling terribly guilty, I called the drug manufacturer anyway and managed to get the experimental drug which was $360 per pill per day for free. I remember what a friend, whose grandfather was a baker in NYC during the Great Depression, once told me - his grandfather used to give away bread and rolls for free to the poor and destitute, they only need ask. He always said, "if you don't ask, you go hungry."

Then came the prayer circle. The hateful, harmful, horrible prayer circle. The people who, courtesy of, and besides Sharon, caused more damage to our marriage that anything else we ever faced. They met at Sharon's house and they told Charles things like he needed to accept love into his heart. If he could he would be healed. They made him doubt himself and who he was as a man. He began to think that somehow he had morally and emotionally contributed to his disease...this from the most loving, kind man I ever knew. This from a man who helped newly sober people stay sober as a matter of record; this from a man who lit up a room when he entered it with his love and energy and unbridled enthusiasm for life. I admit it, I hated them. I hated what they said and did and I would not go to any of the prayer circle's meetings. As the cancer was killing my husband physically, the prayer circle was killing him spiritually. Those of you who know me, know that holding my tongue is not my greatest strength. But I tried. For reasons known only to Charles, he tapped into what they were telling him and it became his lifeline. I tried to remind him what a wonderful, loving man he was. I told him his heart was filled with love; overflowed with love but he would hear none of it. He spent his few fitful waking hours worried about the supposed darkness of his soul and trying to let it go, so he could be healed.

He grew weaker and because I had to work, I scheduled people that knew him and loved him for years to come see him, to bring him lunch, to try to talk some sense into him, to remind him of who he was - AA people, people from my church, old friends. But he slowly shut down, stopped letting people in, his appetite fading as the light in his eyes did. One day, he told me he wanted to go back to Sharon's house to live in the guest room - what we jokingly referred to as "the cave". I was absolutely devastated, but I couldn't deny him this. He was dying and like a wounded animal, wanted to hide, to live in his cave, to not have to, every day, see his pain and fear reflected in my eyes. He moved to Sharon's and Blue, the cats and I moved to a smaller, less expensive apartment. I am not sure I can ever fully convey the sense of pain, betrayal and abandonment I felt. There was a vise around my heart that grew tighter with each passing day. Like all the times in my childhood, I covered it with a smile and went along, when all I wanted to do was scream until everything was quiet.

I still went to all his appointments and stopped to see him every day after work. Sharon continued to attend his appointments and always took the lead when it was time to schedule the next appointment or chemo or radiation, she was the one who worked with the nurses. I know you wonder why I allowed this to happen and the truth was I was afraid to rock the boat. I didn't want to upset Charles or cause any discord that would add to his pain. I asked her to try to schedule the appointments for late afternoon but she kept making them for late morning or early afternoon. I was trying not to miss too much work - Sharon was self-employed and she had much more flexibility. Finally frustrated one day, I rushed to the nurse's desk and made the next series of appointments. I asked the nurses to note his chart to schedule his appointments after 3 p.m. whenever possible. When Sharon made it to the desk and found out I had already made the appointments, she stormed to where I was waiting in the chairs. Those times do not work for me, she coldly stated. Well, they work for me, I said calmly. And I am Charles' wife. I will pick him up and take him back to your house. If you can't make it, that's fine, I can do it all myself; in fact, I really don't need your help at all with this and you don't need to come any more. Either Charles or I can update you on his progress... She had backed herself into a corner and I kept her there.

But she wasn't done. One day, a friend of Charles, and a member of the prayer circle called me. I am so so sorry, she said. I listened not comprehending what she was sorry about. Finally I responded - Sorry about what, Lisa? - Sorry to hear that you and Charles are getting a divorce. I just wanted to make sure you were okay...she trailed off.

I felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach. All the air left my body. What?? I said. What? Where did you hear that? At the prayer circle, she said. Who told you this? Sharon told us. Was Charles there? No, he was still in his bedroom. She told us beforehand and asked that we not mention it to him. I was stunned silent and then all the months of pain and fear and anger that I had held inside me burst out of me - a dark, black, fountain of cold rage. What I said went something like this.

Lisa, Charles and I ARE not getting a divorce. The only problem Charles and I have is Sharon and the prayer circle. You are telling the most loving, giving man I know to accept love in his heart and be healed. That is not what he needs. Do you know WHAT he needs from you all? He needs to be told to not be afraid, to FACE his death, to be brought to some kind of acceptance, that it is okay to be scared and pissed off and confused. Do you know what you all have done though? You have denied me and my husband the opportunity to discuss all the things we need to talk about. You have denied me the chance to tell my husband how scared I am. How much I love him. To find out HOW I can help him prepare. To find out if there is anything I can do for him, anything he wants to do or see before he dies. Instead, you tell him he is sick because you have decided to play God and have decided you know why he has cancer. You are NOT God, you are not doctors, you're not even good Christians. Do you know what the definition of gossip is, Lisa? Gossip is murder via character assassination, and THAT is what you and your friends are practicing. Why in the world would Charles and I get divorced? HE IS DYING. Do you understand that? He is living with Shelley because that is what he wants to do, and it HURTS me but I love him and want him to feel safe; it is not what I want. It will never be what I want. He is not living with her because we are getting divorced and they are reconciling. Did you know that Charles' cancer is Stage 4 metastasized? I didn't think so. That means, barring some unforeseen, unbelievable miracle, he is going to die. According to his doctor, it will probably be in 3 to 6 months - since they always try to stretch it out, I am thinking it's 3 months. You didn't know that did you? No, because no one has allowed him or helped him to face the truth so he can talk about it. And you have denied me the ability to fulfill the promises I made him on our wedding day...you all have played God and held out a carrot to a man who is never going to win the race. How dare you. How dare you.

It was ugly. I was uglier, but I could not contain the pain for one more second. I don't know how long I went on but at some point, I was aware of her crying. I was crying too but I had no sympathy. I was done with this whole sick thing. That was the last straw. I was angrier than I remember ever being and now I was arming myself for a very unnecessary battle, one that with some compassion, could have been averted. I wasn't taking this shit anymore and an inner steel was forged in me that day. A few weeks later, the end of October, in front of his nieces and nephews who were visiting, Sharon accused me of wanting Charles to die when I suggested that we stop treatment and try to help him find a way to find some acceptance and peace. The ugliness just didn't stop.

Finally, the tide changed. After Thanksgiving, Sharon was going out of town for a week and I insisted that Charles come stay with me and best of all, he wanted to. Sharon fought it tooth and nail but I prevailed. That didn't stop her however, from picking a fight about where in my apartment to put the hospital bed. I wanted it the bedroom but she wanted it in the living room. I didn't even understand why she cared. Finally, I told her that it was not her decision and, by the way, none of her business. We both understood that we weren't fighting about the hospital bed. If Charles came to stay at my apartment, that was where he was staying until he died. I would never let him go back there again.

Until Charles' death before Christmas, she waged war against me. The last weekend of Charles' life, she stood outside my apartment door berating me; I was standing in the doorway with a minister who later noted to me that she could have given Sharon a small shove, and down the stairs she would have gone. Certainly not very Christian, but I'll admit it was one of the few smiles I managed during those long, dark months.

In the end, Charles died while I held him. Blue at our feet, the cats standing sentry at the end of the bed. It was just us. Five days of visitors and friends coming to say goodbye - I let the members of the prayer circle come to say their goodbyes as well. I took the higher ground because that was one of the things my husband taught me - to be kind, to forgive and regardless, they had given him something he thought he needed. But that last weekend, if I left his side for even a minute, he became terribly agitated and in that space, I knew that our love had survived. It was battered and bruised and sometimes had been on life support, but it was still there. Charles couldn't stop talking about "the love" in his last days, it became his mantra, that I must talk about the love when he was gone. And I am convinced he waited until our little family, as it was, was all alone - all the visitors were gone or had left for a bit - to die.

Even his memorial service, Sharon had to put her mark on, but I didn't care anymore; Charles was dead. I walked around for months in a daze. Sometimes, I fell down for no reason - one minute I was walking, the next I was on the floor or the ground. I was sapped of every emotion and the toll of all the ugliness and discourse on top of the illness and death of the most important person in my life took me years to recover from.

Ten months later in October, I was going through Charles art portfolio and I came across a piece of art that was a sister piece to one he had given Sharon before he died. Looking at that piece of art, I realized that I still had an enormous amount of resentment and anger toward her - in fact, it consumed me. I sat looking at the art and started praying fervently. I didn't want to be filled with this anger and hatred - and then an idea that I can only say was divinely inspired, came to me. I would send the piece of art to Sharon with a note. The next day, I did that, I was compelled to get it out in the mail. I rolled it up and wrote a simple note saying that I knew Charles had given her one of the pieces and that I thought she should have the other piece too. I thought Charles would like that. I put both in a FedEx tube and overnighted it to her. I can't say that I felt a tremendous sense of relief, but I felt better. By acting kind, a tiny portion of the anger left me.

I didn't hear anything from her and honestly never expected to. About two weeks later, I checked my mailbox as I was taking Blue out for a walk. There was a note from Sharon. I opened it up as I walked. Dear Pam, it read, imagine my surprise when I got home from a day of meetings on my birthday and found a FedEx tube on my porch with your note and a piece of Charles' artwork inside. Charles must have wanted to send me a last birthday gift. Thank you, Sharon.

I literally stopped dead in my tracks and began to sob hysterically. I did not know it was Sharon's birthday when I sent the tube. I had no idea when Sharon's birthday fell. And I didn't imagine that Charles wanted to send her a last birthday gift - because it was much bigger than that for me. My Charles had a wicked sense of humor, perfect timing and also a huge capacity for forgiveness and helping others to forgive. In that instant, I knew that Charles via God and my prayer had orchestrated this event - he knew I would understand and he knew the effect it would have on me. I stood on the sidewalk unable to stop crying and then finally I started laughing. In that moment all the anger and hatred and resentment dropped away. It was expelled from my body and my psyche with every tear and every strangled guffaw. My small act of kindness, done with no expectation of acknowledgement, released me from the resentment that blackened my heart and spirit. In AA, we have a saying about resentment - resentment is when you take the poison and wait for the other person (whom you resent) to die.

Can I say that in that moment all of the pain that plagued me dissipated? No, of course not. But it was the first in a series of miracles that led to my ultimate healing. It was a long process and even today, I am still healing. The difference is that today, I don't hate Sharon or the prayer circle - but I have not forgotten what happened and what it cost me. What I know is this. Everyone did the best they could at that time but it wasn't enough and it was ugly and hurtful and totally unnecessary. I can't judge their words or actions, only they can say in retrospect if they are square with what they said and did, but it no longer holds sway over me. What I went through has, without an iota of doubt, made me a better, kinder, more loving person. I made mistakes too; there are many things I would change if I could go back, but I can't. I did the best I could as well. But that day, I stood on the street holding that pink notecard and my journey took a right turn, I started to find my way back to me. Light entered my heart and my life changed, again. This was only possible through a Higher Power and I can see Charles, his gorgeous grin lighting up his face, chatting it up with God and talking him into "playing a good one" on me - and it was a good one.

Pax

Fantasy Football - Pam's Playbook

2011-09-13T19:58:00.002-05:00

Yes Ladies, it's that time of year again. We are in week 1 of the NFL Football season and like 99% of women in America, if you are not a football fan then you are a football widow. But I am here to advise, counsel and in some cases, console you! Basically, it comes down to this: Pam's Playbook gives you three choices, ladies. Three. I have enumerated them below in order of least fun to most fun (IMHO) application of said choices. Full disclosure, I am a huge football fan so this is a great time of year for me but for those of you who are not, I present these solutions straight from the playbook.

1. This is the simplest solution and best for those ladies with no sense of humor or for those who just.don't.care. You are a football widow. Your man is now unavailable these days of the week for the next 4 months - all day Sunday, Sunday night, Monday night and Thursday night. You don't care because it allows you to go out to dinner with your girlfriends, go shopping or a happy combination of both. I really have no advice for you except to advise you not go drinking with your girlfriends after you shop as it is likely everyone else in the bar is watching one of the many games being shown on the bar tv(s). And I wish you good luck with all that! Sadly, you are not my target audience, however - please keep reading because I have several other options you may actually find intriguing!

2. My second solution is really just a means to torture your man. It's a passive-aggressive application of trying to be a part of something that is important to your husband but if you follow my advice, will be much more fun for you!

Pick a team to root for. It doesn't matter which one, but it's probably most effective to root for the same team as your husband especially if you want to make his head explode. On game day, come into the TV room wearing your team jersey. You may want to, in advance, prepare your favorite cocktails - margaritas, mai tais, appletinis - anything besides a beer works here. Prepare some canapes or delicious hors d'oeuvres - something classy and elegant! Lots of little knives and toothpicks really add panache - no beer, chips and dip for you, missy!!

As soon as you sit down, start peppering your loved one with incredibly stupid questions. Be relentless. Now, a bit of advice, this approach works best if you have done a tiny bit of research. An online search will give you the quarterback and coach names and then find out who the stars of your team are. It is very important to discover who your team's "bad boy" is so you can discuss said player's merits with your man. Examples abound - Plaxico Burress who plays for the Jets now, was just released from prison after serving two years for shooting himself in the thigh at a club when the gun he was carrying in his waistband began to slide down and as he grabbed for it he accidentally pulled the trigger missing the family jewels by millimeters.

Better yet, bring up the Brett Favre scandal. Brett, now retired but ex-longtime QB for the Packers and for a short while the Vikings, sent pictures of his erect johnson to a female sports reporter. The worse part of this story was not that a married man (and grandfather) sent unsolicited photos of his penis to a woman but that the photos reveal that he was wearing Crocs while doing so (and laying down on a bed in said Crocs. Crocs, really? I am fairly certain that is why the guy never got laid by the hot female sports reporter.) Anyway, you ladies get the drift - this works because guys just want to watch football. They don't care about all the gossipy stuff, but really girls - that's the best part in Pam's playbook! To continue, just keep talking about "your" team. No matter what - do NOT learn anything substantial about the game of football!

Once in a while say something like "Oh, I think he was offsides!" Or "that was definitely pass interference" or "do you think they'll go for the 2 point conversion?" or "THAT WAS DEFINITELY A PERSONAL FOUL!!" It doesn't matter when you say it, just say it. Trust me.

Now here's the fun part. As a woman, you really have an advantage in this next segment. A discussion about team colors and uniform styles is a must! Use words like pumpkin and nutmeg, aquamarine and azure - you get the drift. A gratuitous mention of how cute their butts look in their tight, little pants is appropriate here. No football Sunday is complete without a discussion of the ever-changing yet always fashionable hair styles of Tom Brady. Tom is the QB (that's quarterback) for the New England Patriots and is married to Supermodel Gisele Bundchen. Girls, if you have any imagination at all, I don't think I need to advise you on how to use this information to make your man throw his hands up in the air in total frustration. Anyway, back to Tom's hair - be sure to discuss what a trendsetter he is. His hair has gone from short and clean cut - the All American Boy - to long, luscious locks (that would have put Farrah Fawcett's to shame back in the day) to his present day cut of a loose, longer cut shag. He is always perfectly coiffed - even during the games - and I am sure he spends more time and money on his hair and hair products than I do. You really should Google "Tom Brady's hair" to see what I am talking about. Of course, being married to a Supermodel probably puts incredible pressure on Tom to always be on that razor's edge of fashion so be sure to quickly segue into a "discussion" on fashion and the new Sex and the City movie. (By now, your man should be sitting on the couch, head in hands, moaning in agony.) He may actually offer you money to go shopping. It's up to you whether to take it or not or see if he'll up the ante next week...!

So, that about covers it for this option. The above is just a suggested "offensive" strategy - feel free to finesse and put your own pass rush to the test.

This brings me to the last option:

3. A full-out immersion of football which includes your own fantasy football draft. Each NFL team has 11 players that play offense and 11 that play defense and then some special teams - ie. kickoff, field goal etc. In regular fantasy football, each league has a different number of players and positions, so my team of twelve is well within the fantasy football norms. Here's the thing, ladies - the truth is that underneath all those pads and spandex and helmets are some serious eye candy and if none of the options above pique your interest, what follows below should - at least for long enough to watch a bit. Accordingly, my fantasy football team has absolutely nothing to do with stats, rankings or the win/loss column. It's all about the external, baby!! How HOT are you, Mr. Football Player??? With that criteria in mind, I now give you my fantasy team comprised of the 12 hottest players in football according to my personal "playbook". You may use my whole team or pick and choose, but if these examples of extreme eye candy don't make you want to watch football, nothing ever will.

Pam's Fantasy Football Team

The Twelve Hottest Players in the Game Today

(Remember these are my choices - you don't have to agree - there is plenty of other eye candy from which you can field your own team.) Note: These are in no particular order except for the player in my number one spot is, hands down, the hottest player in the NFL. Note #2: You will see that Tom Brady, although beautiful to a fault, is not on my team. He's just too damn perfect and his life is equally so, that I just walk around waiting for regular life stuff to happen to him like it does the rest of us. It's just annoying. Tom Brady inspires a serious case of Schadenfreude in me. It's ugly, I know, but I can't help it. Note #3: I am going to try to refrain from commenting on my players, uh.....assets and let the photos speak for themselves because basically all the comments would go something like this. "Yum" or "a tall, cool glass of water" or "I like my men the way I like my coffee - strong, hot and black" - so, ah, yes - I'll refrain for the most part from here on out. With no further ado then - here are the men in my team playbook:

1. Brady Quinn, QB, Denver Broncos, #9. 6'3", 235 lbs., 26 years old.

2. Chad Ochocinco, WR (Wide Receiver), New England Patriots, #85. 6'1", 192 lbs., 33 years old.

3. Ray Lewis, LB (Linebacker), Baltimore Ravens, #52. 6'1", 250 lbs., 36 years old.

More than any of these guys, Ray Lewis inspires a unbelievable case of lust in me. He's just that hot. Right, Erin?

4. Patrick Willis, LB, San Francisco, #52. 6'1", 240 lbs., 26 years old.

5. Christian Ponder, QB, Minnesota Vikings, #7. 6'0", 215 lbs., 31 years old.

6. Adam Vinatieri, K (Kicker), Indianapolis Colts, #4. 6'0", 202 lbs., 38 years old.

7. Cam Newton, QB, Carolina Panthers, #1. 6'5", 248 lbs., 22 years old.

8. Troy Polamalu, DB (Defensive Back), Pittsburgh Steelers, #43. 5'10", 207 lbs., 30 years old.

That hair...!

9. Michael Vick, QB, Philadelphia Eagles, #7. 6'0", 215 lbs., 31 years old.**

** a note on Vick - I know, he went to prison for doing some really shitty, horrible things to dogs and he was truly a thug and admittedly ungrateful and normally I wouldn't have him in any group BUT I think he has truly reformed and has earned a second chance. We all deserve a second chance, and *I* of all people know that. If I thought he was disingenuous in any way, he'd never be on my fantasy team. I can't pretend to understand the cultural influences that caused him to think what he did was acceptable but I think 2 years in a cell gave him a chance to really think about what God blessed him with and how he came *this* close to throwing it all away for nothing. It's amazing that he was even able to come back at all.

10. Clay Matthews, LB, Greenbay Packers, #52. 6'3", 255 lbs., 25 years old.

Please drag me off to your cave, Clay. Please.

11. Tony Gonzales, TE, Atlanta Falcons, #88. 6'5", 247 lbs., 35 years old.

and finally, the hottest man in the NFL (drumroll please!)

12. Mark Sanchez, QB, New York Jets, #6. 6'2", 225 lbs., 24 years old.

Million dollar smile. Nuf said.

So, there you go - my fantasy football team for 2011. There's a little something for everyone and I am happy to share this with you all! I look forward to your comments (and disses) and to hearing who you ladies would have on your team. I am always willing to weigh the merits of any player I may have overlooked. There's always room for a few more on my team, and I did it that way on purpose. Yum.

Pax

Home

2011-09-10T00:12:00.001-05:00

I'm in love with my new town. I walk the streets and investigate the shops and stores downtown near my house and I have to keep from pinching myself. This afternoon, I walked the dogs into town - I had made some homemade chicken salad and I wanted to buy some fresh rolls from Baker's Square to eat with it. I walked down Middle Street with Pink and Blue and as I came to Christ Episcopal Church, I saw an amazing sight. In the open space on the side of the church were rows of planted American flags. There was something attached to each flag fluttering in the breeze. I stopped and looked to try to understand what I was seeing. I saw on the fence two banners - one with the FDNY logo and the word "Brotherhood" and the number 343; next to it a banner with the NYPD and Port Authority PD and the numbers 23 and 37 respectively. As I looked over the low, metal fence, I saw a sign to the left of the flags ENTER and then it's sister sign at the other end EXIT. I had to investigate, it was obviously 9/11 related but I still wasn't sure what it was.

I tied up Pink and Blue to a bench and walked into the church grounds. I arrived at the first flag and turned the laminated, square paper attached with black cord to my face so I could read it. It was a photo of the NYFD Chaplain, Michael Judge, who died at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. Then I understood. I looked about me - 13 rows of 31 flags and one flag at the entrance and exit - 405 in all. One flag for every first responder who died that day and 2 others for local residents who lost a family member at WTC that day. Overwhelmed and awed, I slowly entered the tribute. As I walked through each row, I touched each photo, reading their name and rank and said a silent prayer of thanks to those who gave their life to save us. I am again, ten years later, moved to tears. 9/11 was a day that showed the best of us, the true spirit of our love for each other and the selflessness in which some of us sacrificed everything for the rest of us. So many rows, so many faces. It became a meditation for me and I fought back tears for all those lost that day - not just the first responders, but all the others as well. The dichotomy of this moment - of all these flags fluttering in this perfect sunny, blue-skied day was beautiful in its incredible sadness.

Halfway through, two men standing on the other side of the fence called out to me. One said, "That is really wonderful what you are doing - walking through looking at each picture." I looked up at him and suddenly I felt a huge lump in my throat. I tried to tell them why I was so compelled but all I could choke out was "I just wanted to take a moment to thank them for giving their life for me that day," and I started to cry. One of the men said, "I made that." I couldn't find the words to tell him how beautiful it was and just kept weeping. He jumped the fence and came over and we hugged.

His name was Phil and he was from Long Island but had been a DC firefighter from 1975 to 2001; he retired after 9/11 and lives here now and works at the Pepsi store. We talked about that day, and he shared with me how the first and last rows of first responders were photos of personal friends of his who were lost that day. He told me how he had worked on this project for three years to bring it to fruition for this weekend, this anniversary. He told me how the church agreed to let him display his work of art on their grounds. He told me that standing there watching me pay homage to his project, he was incredibly moved by how moved I was by his art. We both gave each other something unexpected and ten years later, the memory of that day still has the power to bind us together; perfect strangers, now friends. There will be a special remembrance service at the church Sunday evening and Phil is going to play the bagpipes - he learned to play them as part of this great creation of remembrance. I will be there, I hope everyone in town takes the time to pay their respects to our first responder heroes, to be touched by this art so infused with love.

I made my way back down the street to Ben's restaurant, my original destination. I ordered a dozen dinner rolls and an iced tea and then Ben came out of the kitchen in his customary striped pants and chef's hat. We chatted at the counter and then he asked me if I liked pumpkin pie. I said of course! Who doesn't? He wanted to know if I really liked pumpkin pie and I told him it was my favorite. He reached for a pie on top of the counter - it was his wife's creation and the winner of the State Fair's pie contest. He took it to the back and came back with it on a plate with whipped cream on the side. He pulled out two forks and we dug in. It was amazing. The pie was fantastic but it was topped with an oatmeal, brown sugar and pecan buttery crumble. We discussed the merits of butter and how it's pretty much good on everything. My dozen rolls in hand and my sweet tooth sated, I walked next door to the Middle Street Antiques and Flea Market where the giant metal chicken that I have been coveting since before I moved here resides. Worried the chicken would be gone, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw her familiar light blue metal tail as I approached the store. People leave goods out on the street here. No one steals them. If it was LA, you'd have to chain all this shit down, trust me. Finally, my resistance broken by tears and pie , I made a deal with Gail, the store owner, and the metal chicken is now in layaway pending her future relocation to her new home on Johnson Street.

Across the street, The Call of the Wild Art Gallery was having it's Grand Opening. I meandered about the objets d'art and bought a pair of delicate copper earrings with blue crystal beads. I watched as two upscale, very well-dressed, gay men bought a wonderful painting and I was glad I lived somewhere where gay people felt comfortable living there as well. I miss my LA gay boys. They're the best friends a straight girl can have. Really. Around the corner is the used book store, The Next Chapter. Inside, I met the owner Patti and an author doing a book signing, Deborah Wallis. She writes murder mysteries and all her book are set locally. I told them about my blog and they want to read it and I am both grateful and surprised by their genuine interest...we chatted for a while and I resumed my walk about town after securing a promise for coffee from Debbie. Next stop, the hardware store that I owed $1.33 for the house key I had made earlier. I forgot my wallet and they told me to take the key and come back and pay later. Really?

Meandering back up Middle Street, I came across the local theater group participating in a 9/11 tribute; it was also opening night for Guys and Dolls, so the players were singing songs and local town officials were giving speeches about giving back and contributing to your community in a way that makes a difference. People sat on chairs or the curb or stood in the street as children who would never know the horror of that day ran about laughing and screaming oblivious to the rest of us. And finally, I stopped at the Arts and Culture Center where to my sheer delight, I discovered an upcoming class on Raku - a type of pottery whereby the pots are fired and glazed using animal excrement. Yeah, I know, disgusting - but the process creates a beautiful iridescent glaze that is stunning. Great beauty comes at a price, you know. Anyway, I've wanted to learn the Raku process for over a year now and here it is - in my new town. It was a serendipitous day and I couldn't have planned it's perfectness if I wrote a script.

As I made my way home, the moon sat high in the darkening but still blue sky. I thought about 9/11 and about my friend and co-worker, Bruce Eagleson. He died that day in the South Tower. He evacuated and was out safely but then he went back in to help evacuate others. That's just the kind of guy he was. He left young sons and a wife behind. He worked at Westfield and reported to my boss, so I talked to him almost every day and I was lucky to get to know him in person as well. He was larger than life, always had a smile on his face - his enthusiasm for life was contagious, he loved his family, he loved his job, he loved his life.

Then I thought about an article I read in the Boston Globe this week about the people working at Logan Airport that fateful, terrible day - the ticket counter agent who checked in four of the terrorists, the security agent who waved them through with their hidden boxcutters, the flight attendant who was too sick to fly and the girl she knew - her friend - who took her flight and died - the theme of the article was survivor's guilt; most of these people are still haunted ten year later and their lives irrevocably changed and not in a good way, the article reads - and I thought how sad it was that they had not been able to move past that day and what came to me was this: Bruce and all the people who died that day would want nothing more than for those of us that survived - all of us - we are all survivors of that day - to be happy. We remember and honor those that are gone by living a good, happy life or else their deaths were in vain and the terrorists win.

So I think of Bruce and his laugh, and I think of Phil and his phenomenal art piece, and I think of all the wonderful people in my new town who are truly glad that I moved here, who show me that every day with their welcoming smiles and their genuine interest in their new neighbor, and for the first time in a very long time, as I walked up Middle Street towards Johnson Street, I feel that I have finally found my spot - I am home.

Thank you.

BAWK! My new chicken.

Sign outside the Hardware Store

Pax.

Finding Blue, Part 1 of a Love Story

2011-09-07T17:16:00.000-05:00

Blue is probably as close to a child as I am ever going to have. He is a yellow lab/retriever mix with a lil sumptin' else thrown in. He is without a doubt the sweetest tempered dog I have ever known and everyone loves him. Blue came into my life seven years ago this month. I had just moved everything Charles and I owned and our two cats, Baby and Sweet Pea, to Norfolk, Virginia to the house we bought a half a mile from the Chesapeake Bay. It was July 2004 and it was hot and humid and rainy. When I stepped outside, I felt as though I were melting. We bought an old home that needed some TLC - a new kitchen, paint, carpet, windows - oh hell, it needed everything! It was, however, on a beautiful piece of land - a lot and a half and it backed up to a wildlife preserve that was in the process of being restored. All manner of cranes, birds, fowl and swimming things lived in it. When we bought the house, it was filled with trash and empty beer cans and all the wildlife - the ensuing transformation was incredible to witness.

We were moving to Norfolk for a softer, gentler life. Charles wanted to pursue his artistic gifts more fully and we hoped to have children. The chaos of Los Angeles had worn us out. I moved to our new home ahead of Charles to begin the restoration. Charles stayed in Los Angeles to finish up some deals, and he'd join me soon. I arrived July 1st and celebrated my birthday on the 5th alone. I got to work immediately and hired a contractor; they began in short order tearing the kitchen down to studs. I was left with a mini-refrigerator and a microwave as my only modes of cooking so I ate out often! It was grueling living in a house with basically no A/C except a few window units and no kitchen, but I loved going to Home Depot and designing our new kitchen and breakfast nook.

July 15th, I woke up very happy - it was my 13th anniversary sober and soon Charles would close his deals and be here with me in our home. It was a hot and muggy day made worse by sporadic rain that only made it hotter and muggier, and I stayed in as much as possible. The phone rang mid-afternoon and it was Charles - to wish me a happy anniversary, I thought, but I was wrong. Very wrong. Charles had cancer, bladder cancer to be exact. I was shocked and devastated. My life changed forever that day. The cancer was advanced (more than I knew at that point and more on that later) and decisions had to be made quickly. Charles would stay in LA and begin treatment - chemo and radiation - and I would stay in Norfolk and continue to oversee the rehab. As much as I wanted to sell the house and move back to LA, I knew if wasn't feasible to do so without a kitchen - and at that point, I thought there was hope he would win the battle. So, I would stay put and fly to LA when I could and Charles would come to visit me in between rounds of chemo and when he was done he would move here as planned. That was always the plan, at that time I thought it was curable, beatable.

It wasn't until later that I discovered that Charles hid the severity of his cancer from me - I don't know if he did so to protect me or him, or he was in denial - very common by the way - or if it was a little of each, but he began to have severe mood swings and we fought over the phone every day about ridiculous things. I couldn't say anything without causing a fight and later after his second round of chemo, when he came out to visit and I actually physically saw him, I understood. When he walked off the plane, I didn't even recognize the frail, bald, old man whose face lit up when he saw me. I was sick...sick inside like I had never been and I knew that very instant that he way dying no matter what he said. A shameful part of me didn't want to admit this dying man was my husband because in the same moment that I recognized he was dying, all my dreams started to die as well. Had I known from the beginning then that his cancer was Stage IV metastasized, I would have been back in LA pronto, screw the house...and in retrospect, maybe there was a part of me that didn't want to know how bad it was either. I had plans for us, for our life, dammit. I tell you these things because they are hard truths and they need to be said, to be brought into the light. Terminal illness shakes up your life and your belief system like nothing else and whatever role we play in this first circle of hell - limbo - we struggle in vain against the steel door that is inexorably shutting on our lives, our futures, our dreams.

But in those first few months, before I understood the truth of the matter, I was utterly helpless and trapped and felt useless and alienated. For some reason, I started looking through the classifieds every day. I read all the ads, I was looking for something, but I didn't know what - from bikes for sale to help wanted to pets for sale. Surely there was something in here that would fix me, make it all better? Right before Labor Day, I saw the ad that finally caught my attention: Lab puppies for sale. $50. That was it, five words and a phone number. I admit, I was drawn in by the price as much as the Lab label, and before you wonder - of course I knew I wasn't getting a real, pure bred Lab for $50, but I figured they had to at least look like Labs. I called the number and a man with a very heavy country accent answered.

Waellll - he didn't have any mo' labs but his sista had a bitch (he actually said "bitch") had a litter had one lef', a male, did I wan' it? I immediately answered yes. I would drive there tonight in case there was a mad rush of potential buyers from Norfolk to Bumfuck, North Carolina to grab this last prized puppy before the holiday weekend! To this day, I still have no idea where in North Carolina he lived, but it was almost 3 hours away. I left at dusk. I drove on the interstate most of the way and then I got off and followed a bizarre series of directions the man gave me. They went something like this: Go down the road about 10 miles. You'll pass a corner store and then go over some railroad tracks. Then you make a left by the big tree and go down the road a bit past a school and then...anyway, you get the drift and as you can imagine, I got lost. I couldn't find the BIG tree. They were all big, for God's sake. I was an LA girl lost in the back country of North Carolina.

Utterly lost, I had to call the man. My cell phone had no reception, and I didn't want to stop at the local corner store - they were all rough looking men in overalls and pickup trucks and it made me nervous. (What can I say? I'm a sheltered city girl!) I drove back out to the interstate and stopped at the Circle K or whatever it was and asked if I could use their phone. The man told me to meet him at the corner store parking lot in 30 minutes, he'd bring the dog, he was driving an old red Ford pickup. Back I drove to the corner store. I parked in the lot with my car facing out towards the entrance, lights on, engine running, in case I had to make a quick getaway. Thank God, I had an SUV at that time, not my cute little convertible VW, but regardless, every one pulling in and out of the store's lot gave me a long, hard look. Today, I realize that they probably all knew each other and my car stood out - a stranger was in their mix and they were curious - but it was dark, I was in the woods, alone, and I started to worry that I was going to have my very own Ned Beatty Deliverance experience.

After what felt like an hour, the pickup pulled into the lot. A guy in (you guessed it) overalls climbed out. I rolled my window down - Miss Pam, he asked? Yes! I said. Here you go, he said. I got out of my car as he went to the back of his truck and opened a metal crate in the back. He reached in a pulled out what I think was the saddest excuse for a dog, let alone a Lab, that I had ever seen. The puppy was tiny. Yellow, patchy fur - the little bit of it there was. Through the thin fur, I could see a few fleas crawling about on his body. His belly was round and bloated with worms and his eyes were caked shut with mucus from an eye infection. He was a total, pathetic mess. I took him in my hands and held him up to the overhead light in the lot to examine him further. As I did so, he opened one little eye, and a bright blue beacon took me into account. You know that moment mothers have with their newborns? Well, I don't pretend to know what that's like, but something as close to that as I will ever experience happened in the moment that his little, rheumy eye caught mine. I was sold.

I gave the man his $50 - boy, did he see me coming, I thought. In reality, he should have paid me to take this hot mess, it was going to cost me easily another $200 at the vet tomorrow, I knew. As consolation of sorts, I suppose, the man told me that the puppy had just been wormed. For the record, the puppy was going to have to be wormed three more times in the next few months before his stomach stopped dragging on the ground. I got in my car, my new puppy fitting in one hand from palm to finger. I put him in my lap and kept my hand on him the whole way home. He looked at me once with the one blue eye that wasn't totally crusted shut and then slept. I could feel his puppy breath on my fingers, the warm belly on my thighs. Once in a while, he'd lick my hand and before we got home, I was totally in love and that dog owned me. A part of my heart had turned dark and heavy with Charles' cancer - the puppy didn't fix that, but a new part of my heart opened up, filled with love and it provided me much needed comfort and companionship. As much as that puppy needed saving, I needed saving even more. He threw me a lifeline I didn't even see coming.

And that was the beginning of me and Blue.

Tomorrow, Part 2 - Blue goes to the Beach!

I Live Next Door to Elvis

2011-09-04T00:47:00.001-05:00

Elvis is my next door neighbor - or at least a reasonable facsimile of him is. The first time I saw him, I thought he was wearing an Elvis wig made of plastic - his "hair" is shiny and big and helmet-y-ish. Upon closer inspection though, I think the Elvis hair is actually his own - he's got the Elvis muttonchops and the hair on his head is dyed an unnatural shade of black and fixed with some type of pomade that causes it to violently refract light. "Elvis" is in his 70's I'm guessing, and I really want to ask him how long he's worshipped at the alter of Elvis. I lay in bed wondering if he's had that hairdo for 50 years? Every night, the sounds of Elvis's music echo from his apartment. It's actually quite pleasant - he plays a mix of Elvis, Don Ho and some random country music thrown in. He is quite the character and sitting upstairs in my bedroom, listening to "Elvis" playing Elvis, I feel as though I have been thrown back in time - if I walked outside and saw Packards and girls with poodle skirts, I wouldn't be surprised.

Part of that is the charm of this new town of mine, New Bern. Everyone is nice here. Really, everyone. After 2 days, I am known by name at the Java City Coffee Shop, the Baker's Square restaurant (not the chain, a little indie restaurant where they bake their own bread and give you extra rolls to take home with your leftovers and don't charge you for your iced tea and the grits are real and thick and all the food is freaking awesome - but Ben, the chef/owner doesn't know how good it really is - he does Thanksgiving dinner at the restaurant and with a small amount of embarrassment told me that he charged a whole $13 or $14 for an entire turkey dinner including coffee and pie - yeah, that place). Then there's the four star restaurant, Craven 247, where I had the best salmon I've ever eaten. And how can I forget the local hardware store that looks like a throwback to the old Main Street hardware stores of yesteryear? All of it is amazing and beautiful and surrounded by water, lots of water - where the Trent and Neuse Rivers meet before heading out to the Atlantic.

The storm damage from Irene in the historical downtown area was limited to lots of downed trees - really big trees ripped from their roots and thrown into houses, or trees literally sheared in half by the winds, and not little saplings - trees that were easily hundreds of years old. The huge tree that used to be in front of my house was split at the base and fell on my neighbor's SUV, crushing it. Downed trees are everywhere, but so are the cleanup crews, they come in, cut it all up, stack it on the curbs and move on to the next house. There is no wringing of hands here - the people do what needs to be done and get back to their lives. My dream house down the street has already been repainted. Today, I met a man who drove up and down the streets stopping and filling the bed of his pickup truck with the newly sawn logs - he's stocking up for his fireplace this winter. He offered to show me how to split a log; knowing I'd probably cut my own foot off, I laughingly declined.

I am fully exhausted but happy and content; I have made the right choice. I know this more than I have known anything else in a long time. The drive was brutal especially given that I drove a 24 foot truck packed to the gills, by myself, the entire way (Yes, you were right, Drury!) Turns out my sister Tiffany, does not have what it takes to be a trucker - I though, apparently do. The first night, I was scared shitless. We didn't get on the road until 9:00 p.m. and if you want to try something new and exciting, try driving a 24' truck down a dark interstate for four hours. It was fine until the first 18 wheeler passed me. He was so close to me, I was clutching the steering wheel so hard, I thought I was having chest pains; it was only a muscle cramp and I had to try to relax into the truck's rhythm. Not easy, let me tell you! Did you know that trucks this big have no rearview mirror? At first, when I discovered this, I was pissed - all I could think was that Budget gave us a shitty truck with no rearview mirror and it's too late to trade it out and I have to drive the whole way like this....but then, to my mutual chagrin and amusement, I realized that there is no rearview mirror as you cannot see anything behind you because it's blocked by the truck. Dumbass alert! As Homer Simpson would say - D'oh! Apparently, I am to drive 700 miles using the side mirrors only. Oh Lord.

Did I mention that we had to take the first truck back because it was too small? Two men told me that all my stuff and all my sister's stuff would fit into a 16' truck. Turns out they were wrong. It reminded me of that old joke about why women are terrible with measurements - we were always told by men that this (extend thumb and forefinger apart from each other) was 9 inches...har de har har...(Yes, I know - a real knee slapper, boss! Tell it again!) To make up for that huge inconvenience though, God sent us a truck packing angel from heaven. My neighbor brought three of his employees over to help us load and one of them was an unbelievable packer. It turns out we needed every inch of that 24', and that man packed it so tight, we didn't lose a thing. (This entire paragraph is just set up to sound ridiculously pornographic, isn't it?!) Regardless, we didn't lose a picture, nor a dish, and there wasn't a scratch on the furniture - even the three huge tomato plants that I refused to leave behind in Nashville made it safe and sound.

So, back to our departure - two trucks and about six meltdowns later, the Pletz sisters hit the road. Tif said she'd take the first shift driving the truck. We made it about half a mile down I-40 before my cell phone rang. She was on the other end, weeping. It was too much for the princess - as we all suspected. (Love ya, Tif!) We pulled off the freeway and she got in my luxury and sports package-equipped Lexus, and I climbed into hell. The seatbelt cut into my neck and the damn truck shook and belched and roared so loudly, I couldn't even hear myself think. I put my Chihuahua, Pink, on the seat next to me, where she did some shaking of her own and left Blue, my lab, to keep Tif company - and off we sped (so to speak) down the freeway to our destiny. By the way, did you know that the gas tank for these kind of trucks is literally directly under the drivers seat?! Really. I guess it's good in a way - if the worst happens and you're blown to kingdom come, it's gonna be quick. I'm always looking for the small mercies, you know?

So, there it is - the first part of my adventure. I will recount more tomorrow. Every little bit of my body aches and my legs hurt so badly, I couldn't sleep, so I decided to catch you all up and get back to my beloved blog. Tomorrow, I am taking the day off and going to the beach. I can't wait; I am never going to live far from the beach ever again...and I can't wait to learn more about my town - and besides living next door to Elvis, I almost forgot to tell you the next best part - I live 2 doors up from the library - now that is heaven!

Pax.

Drama

2011-08-25T22:15:00.002-05:00

Big big drama today. Now I have to figure out if I am moving for myself and truly confront my fear about being alone. I have never been able to step into my truth in so many ways and now it's about to become frying pan/fire, so to speak. There is a huge part of me that is scared of success and I need to figure out why.

As a child I spent my whole life trying to fly under the radar. My mom was so outre, the 1960s divorcee in a small albeit liberal town. I never felt like I could stand in my own truth. I minimized myself and stuffed everything down trying to fit in. Pretending that everything was okay at home. Never let 'em see you sweat (or cry). I've always had a big personality and I never believed in myself until after I got sober; since then it's been a struggle to put it all together and accept and love it (me) unconditionally. An AA friend, a woman with many years of sobriety, always said that "I am exactly where God wants me to be at this very moment."

I moved 2000 miles away last year to "find myself". After Charles died, I realized that being a high level Executive Assistant was not my calling and it never had been. I always knew this, but I never knew how to play the game to get out of that pigeon-hole. I was a bit too desperate, too anxious, too eager for someone to give me an opportunity - couple that with my brash and "big" personality and my inability to fawn over idiots who weren't as smart as me in many cases and you can see how I ended up never advancing past the assistant role. I won't say that all the jobs were bad, a couple were good and one was amazing. I worked for an incredible man and an incredible company. But he left for a bigger opportunity and I was on my downward spiral of grief after Charles' death and stayed in Los Angeles.

In retrospect, the entire 'post-Charles' journey brought me here to Nashville. I needed a fresh start and my sister was here. So I moved to Nashville. Nashville - a city where I quickly discovered I don't belong. The winters are cold and icy. At winters end, months of rain. It feels like six months of winter with a few days of spring and then the gates of hell open and the infernal oven belches heat. My God, it is hot here and so damn humid. Every day, I step outside hoping for a miracle - maybe a hint of ocean breeze from 700 miles away? I know, you're thinking I'm insane, I'll just say I'm an optimist. But one woman can't change geography and weather patterns.

I thank God that I found Percy Warner Park; it is my solace and my connection to my higher power. I am almost totally alone when I hike and it amazes me - if this park were in LA, it would be overrun with beautiful people both young and old and dogshit. To be able to walk in this oasis in the middle of a city still astounds me. I will miss this wondrous place with the white-tailed deer, the barred owls, the bright green color of life, the dripping springs. Once, I was hiking with Blue and Pink and a huge thunderstorm opened up on top of us and it was big and scary and exhilarating. The lightening struck nearby and the thunder boomed above, around and it seemed, on us. The earth shook and we were drenched to the bone in seconds. There was no where to hide, so we kept moving forward - the path a stream now. For a mile and a half we hiked. By the time we reached the car, the storm had moved on. There's a saying about Tennessee weather - that if you don't like it, wait a few minutes, it'll change. I loved that hike. I love that park.

Now I move to a place where there is water, lots of water. The Trent and Neuse Rivers - and only 30 minutes to the Atlantic Ocean. When I worried about where I would hike or connect with God, a friend reminded me that I would go to the beach and run and find God there. He was absolutely right. When I am on the beach, near the ocean, I feel more myself than any other place or time in my life.

I have no idea what my future holds after next Thursday when I move in and unpack. Because of today's events, there is more uncertainty - or maybe it is God's way of narrowing my choices down. The good news is that I feel determined to honor the fullness of who I am. I want to write and I will. I will write about my adventures new and old. I will explore my new town and walk by the river and sit on the beach and ponder the mysteries of life. I have filled out an application for a part time job that allows me to earn some commission too. I have created a flyer for an "in-home" dog watching service (and a dog hiking/walking service too). I will sell real estate and learn from someone who is successful at it. I will do what I have to do to survive, but that is not my intent.

My intent is to thrive not survive. Driving back last week, I met a family at the rest area. They were obviously down and out - they were poor and reminded me of migrant workers from the Great Depression. They needed some help with something and after as I walked away, I realized that barring a lottery win, their lives were probably not ever going to get much better than they were today. Please understand, I am not disparaging this family, but I realized that I have been blessed, truly blessed, with all the tools I need to create my own success. I am the only person that stands in the way of that. I am creative, educated, passionate and mostly joyous. I am analytical and I can problem solve. I am twenty years sober and I have had years of therapy and I worked it. I have the most incredible people in my life that love and support me. I held the hand of both my mother and my husband while they took their last breaths and I consider it a gift. I have walked to hell and back and I am not beaten down. I am stronger, better, faster - like Steve Austin (you young un's won't get the reference, but wiki "The Six Million Dollar Man") and despite the travails of my childhood - they are part of what has made me who I am today - I have so much to give as a person and a woman - more at age 50 than at any other time in my life. I must not squander it. God has blessed me and I have to step into His creation of Pamela and honor it.

Once again, I walk through the fear and embrace the future. It's mine to create. God has me exactly where I am supposed to be right now.

Now back to packing those boxes!

Pax

Sisters

2011-08-23T13:42:00.001-05:00

I have two younger sisters, Tiffany and Kim. Most of our lives we were never friends but like survivors of a cataclysm, we were bound by the ties of our fucked-up childhood. Our parents divorced when we were very young and my mother had custody of us. Unfortunately, our mother was very emotionally unstable and alcoholic. I am sure there are drugs today that would have benefited her greatly, but unfortunately, they did not exist in the 1960s and 1970s; what did exist - alcohol and valium - she consumed copiously. Growing up with her was a daily crap shoot. We had to be able to determine her mood within a few seconds of her arriving home from work. A false step or word could result in terrifying punishment.

This is not a story about our mother, but rather a tale of the relationship between me and my sister Tiffany. My mother was very smart in that her preferred choice of warfare was “divide and conquer”. The result was that I trusted no one in our home, and tried not to love either of them. Recently, I found a picture of the three of us standing in our matching Easter dresses with our mother. In the photo, Tif was trying to hold my hand, and I was angling away from her and had clenched my hand into fist in an effort to deter her. The photo makes me sad today; but at the time I couldn’t afford to love anyone so, I walked my own path and seldom felt like a “sister”. The more I could be away from my family, the safer and happier I was.

Then there were the years of separation. For reasons too varied and complicated to get into here, in our pre-teen years, my sisters went to live with my mom’s best friend’s in a different state and then later, with our father and his new family. I felt abandoned and unloved - my mother told me that my dad and stepmother didn’t want me to come live with them. I believed her because you are supposed to believe your mother, not realizing until much later in life that she had lied to me, but the damage was done. I was sent to live with a couple from my church who had lost their only daughter to a violent murder when she was 17. Regardless, this couple still managed to give me a glimpse of what it felt like to be a part of a normal family and I like to think that I brought something to their lives that they needed as well. I never felt safer and happier.

That came to an end a year later and I was living again with my mother and had to deal with her by myself; a part of me resented my sisters for escaping my fate and it drove the wedge between us even further. We never had the chance to bond as children or teenagers. Tif and I went to the same college in Texas for a year until she transferred to another school her sophomore year. We both participated in sorority rush, I was going to be a junior and she was a freshman. We wanted to be in the same sorority but I was blackballed and she was asked to join. I was crushed and terribly embarrassed and I pushed her even further away.

When she transferred the next year to a different school, I was glad. In short order, she got married, had a baby and was on a different path than I. I would come to visit, but we could never establish a connection and always ended up fighting bitterly. We tried for the next twenty plus years to be friends but the anger from childhood always stood between us. When our mother was dying in 1994, we were all there with her and our sadness brought us together, but generally, we mostly tolerated each other. There were brief moments of connection but they were few and far between. We didn’t know how to be sisters.

The shame and specter of our past was a shadow between us. We never really spoke about our childhood to anyone else - maybe some very dear, trusted friends knew how bad it was, but generally we were survivors of a war. No one understood but us and we hid it well - a common effect of this type of disfunction is to not speak of it and act as if everything is all right. Our interaction followed a common thread - one of us would invariably recount a story about our mother, and one of the other of us would laugh and the third would become offended and upset and the discussion abruptly ended. After my mother died, the “don’t speak ill” philosophy made the events of our childhood ever harder to face.

In my early sobriety, my sisters came to visit me in Los Angeles and I took them with me to my appointment with my therapist. She listened to us and was utterly astounded. There we sat, three beautiful women on her couch, recounting tales of horror - each story worse than the one before, with smiles on our faces - that’s how we handled it; smile and never let anyone see you cry. Never show weakness. These methods worked well in childhood, but certainly did not serve us well as adults. Still we kept trying to be friends. We just couldn’t get past the resentment. When I looked at Tif, I saw my childhood looking back at me. She were the symbol of my wretched childhood as I was hers.

What happened? I don’t know exactly. It seems that we both went through some big life changes around the same time. Several years after Charles’ death, I began to deal with the three legs of my health - emotional, mental and physical. I let go of many things. I hiked with Blue up Runyon everyday and as my body began to grow stronger, so did my head and my heart. I worked with a psychiatrist to stop trying to figure out my mother, and just accept that she did the best she could, but that her best wasn’t enough. To be able to finally say that it freed me. I deserved better. We deserved better. I allowed myself to finally have empathy for my sisters. I discovered that I had always loved them, but we had never found a way to be friends.

We started talking - as women, as friends, as sisters. Tif came out for Thanksgiving with her family and she stayed with me a couple of nights in my little apartment; I gladly gave her my bed and slept on the couch. I wanted her to be comfortable. We talked and laughed and talked some more. We cried. It was the first time that I had spent with her that I felt like we had lived up to our roles as sisters. Both of us had changed. We were sisters who found our way onto the same lifeboat - we weren’t going down on the Titanic. She asked if she could come back for Christmas. I was excited but fearful too. Could we go a week without a fight? Would we have fun like we did at Thanksgiving? It was all so new; new and wonderful, because it was possible that we were finally going to be true friends.

She came as planned and in short we spent the week talking about our relationships, our careers, our joys and sorrows. All of these subjects that I had shared with my best girlfriends but never with my sister. The policy was not to trust, not to get hurt. We reached past our safe, comfortable but empty and angry relationship and we were finally sisters of the heart. We discovered we are more alike than we ever knew. We laughed and shared childhood stories that only surviving siblings can share and still manage to laugh. We laughed at the past because we fucking beat it. We trusted each other with our innermost secrets and hopes. We danced and sang. We took silly pictures and took Blue on hikes. We went out for coffee every morning and we ate Mexican food as much as we could. I made her watch “Love Actually” and she loved it as I knew she would. We went to the mall and tried on $300 jeans. I laughed at the ridiculousness of paying $300 for denim and she bought a pair. They were cute on her, I admit. She is taller than I, elegant, beautiful, blonde and blue eyed. She is both kind and self-obsessed. I understand. She is funny, loud and smart and has a wonderful laugh. She is a princess and I have learned to live with that and love her in spite of it...or because of it.

She opened her heart to me and I accepted. At Christmas, there was no money for a tree, we didn’t decorate. The celebration was about the day and us being together; it was wonderful and spiritual and we went to a friend’s house Christmas Day. We flirted with my friend’s 82 year-old father. Tif wore a beautiful silk shirt of which the button across her breasts kept popping open. We laughed every time it happened and made fun of her. No one got drunk or angry or had their feelings hurt.

The one concession we made to Christmas decorations was to put out these fabulous two and half foot tall Santa and Mrs. Claus puppet-like stuffed dolls. They stand on shaped metal that extends beyond their feet and are dressed in flannel - a nightdress for Mrs. Claus, and red trapdoor footy flannel pajamas for Santa. They are wearing nightcaps and holding hot water bottles. They still have the Garfinkel’s price tag on them where my mother bought them 40 something years ago. I don’t remember a Christmas where the Clauses weren’t prominent next to the tree. They exemplify the spirit of Christmas as I wished it could have been growing up in our house. Tiffany and I put our little secret gifts to each other (that we had promised not to exchange) under Santa and Mrs. Claus and it was perfect and beautiful and all we needed because, we had already received the greatest gift - the sisterhood that had eluded us for all of our lives.

Another Anniversary

2011-08-20T23:41:00.003-05:00

Whenever I feel stressed, my longing for my husband looms strongest. And so, I give you some more thoughts about Charles. I wrote this on the one year anniversary of his death, and it still holds true today.

And so it has been a year since you left me. Three hundred and sixty-five days. You are gone to a land or place where I cannot follow; but you come to me still - with a smell of you on the air or, as this morning, your scent on my hands; sometimes, a glimpse of something familiar out of the corner of my eye - but when I turn you are not there. I see you in deju-vu and in my memories of our time together. I feel you in my heart big enough to break me open, and in my mind’s eye, I see you laughing, your face lit up, arms akimbo; a true raconteur, drawing us all into your story. I remember you, beautiful man, loved by all - funny, witty, charming, elegant and oh so handsome! (A profile like a Roman god - a face to break a heart.) And alone, in the small corner of my heart, I remember the quiet, intimate moments that only you and I and God shared, my beautiful, sweet Charles.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Charles had a cat, Baby. He was full grown when he came to us. He strolled up the driveway one day, pure white with a few caramel markings and blue eyes so beautiful, they didn't seem real. We were sitting on the front stoop and he walked up to Charles, yowled at him (totally ignoring me) and then walked into the house and never left Charles again.

Baby belonged to a neighbor down the street - dare I say it - white trash like nobody's business, hugely obese, raising her three grandkids but treating her 8 cats better than those children. She had a huge RV that she parked on the street, against city regulations, and bribed the parking enforcement people so she could keep that behemoth parked in the same place on street cleaning days. Everyone in the neighborhood despaired of her.

A couple of weeks after Baby (as Charles named him) came to live with us, he and Charles were in the front yard hanging out. When Charles was home, wherever he went, Baby went. I was in the kitchen cooking. Suddenly, the front door flew open and I heard Charles yell, "He's MY cat now!" and then the front door slammed. What is going on? I asked as Charles pulled the front windows shut and closed the drapes. They're trying to take Baby!! he said. Who?? I asked. Those KIDS! He stood in the dining room clutching the cat looking all of ten years old. What? I laughed. I went to the front door and looked out. The three grandkids of the aforementioned neighbor were standing on the sidewalk looking at our house. They were 7, 5 and 3. Yes, my husband was terrified of three children, the oldest of whom was probably a third his size. What's going on? I asked them. We saw Marshmallow, the middle one said. That's our cat...Oh Lord, I thought. You see, this is a problem because Charles loved that cat. And Baby aka Marshmallow loved Charles. I sighed, told the kids to tell their grandmother to come down and sent them on there way, while my husband hid quivering in the shadows afraid of the brutal gang of toddlers.

A little bit later, the grandmother slowly made her way to our house. She came to the door in her tent/shift and she was barefoot. I invited her in and she sat down on the living room chair and, to my complete horror, put her bare feet which were absolutely filthy on the matching ottoman. I was both mesmerized and repulsed by those feet. Dirty, black soles, long nails with dirt embedded around the toe bed. I couldn't believe those feet were on my ottoman. I prayed she wouldn't start rubbing her soles against the fabric. I wondered if I had ever even seen her in shoes, certainly she owned shoes? There was nothing to be done regardless, I couldn't very well ask her to take her feet off the ottoman, it would defeat the purpose of the ottoman in a way and be rude in a situation which would require great finesse, I thought.

The conversation began - and I'll note here that Charles had hidden Baby somewhere in our house. Apparently, he had no intention of giving Baby back. So, she says, my grandkids told me that Marshmallow lives here now? I look at Charles, who is not answering, just staring at our neighbor with overt hostility. Yes, I finally answered. We didn't know he was one of yours, he just showed up and never left...Well, she said, I don't really care if he lives with you. I got enough cats. Charles face lit up like he had won the trifecta at Santa Anita. I am just wondering one thing, she said. What's that? I answered, glad to give her something since she has given Charles full custody of Baby. Does he shit in your bed and shoes like he does at my house? I was stunned into silence. Was she kidding? Um no....no, I managed finally. No shit in the bed or shoes yet. Okay, she said, well that's what he does. She hung out a while, small talking and it was painful. We just wanted her to take her dirty feet off our ottoman and go home. Finally she did.

For the record, Baby shit in Charles' shoes one time. It was his white leather, old man shoes which I hated with a passion. We'd argue about them, but Charles would not throw them out. He loved them and said all the men in Palm Springs wear them - Yes, I'd yell, if you are A HUNDRED!! (So, I confess, that I was glad that Baby had done what I could not, and the white shoes were gone). Charles, however, was incensed and I am sure he was even more pissed because he knew my concern about his shoes was totally feigned. He picked Baby up by the scruff and holding Baby about an inch from his face yelled at him and then threw him outside. Baby never did that again.

Baby loved Charles, And Baby was in love with Charles. Baby was a gay man trapped in a cat's body. Our female cat, Little Girl, would hunt mice, rats and birds and Baby would take them when she wasn't looking and come into the house and leave them on Charles' pillow - a little feline love offering, so to speak. Baby laid on Charles' chest and Charles would pet him until they both fell asleep in a little afternoon nap. Baby would jump through the sunroof of Charles' Mercedes and try to "go with him". If Baby could have manifested as a human, I wouldn't have stood a chance. Not that Charles would leave me for Baby (at least that's what I told myself) but Baby would have most certainly killed me and dumped my body in the Santa Monica Mountains so he could have Charles all to himself. For sure.

Their bond was unbreakable. When Charles lay dying several years later, Baby stood sentinel on the edge of the bed for 4 days; no one could move him. If we tried, he hissed and tried to bite anyone who dared. He lay there, sphinx-like, guarding his master, his love. I understood then why the Egyptians took their cats with them to the tombs.

After Charles died, Baby began to fail. He got sick and almost died twice. I spent thousands of dollars on him and then I just said "enough". I told Baby if he got sick again, that was it. He held his own for a while after that. One day, a couple years later, he disappeared. I combed the neighborhood, plastering photos of Baby on every pole and street corner. Nothing. About six weeks later, my neighbor came running into my apartment. She thought she had found Baby. We walked down the street and there he was - living a mere 6 houses away with two gay men. His name was Eduardo now. After we talked, they very graciously gave him back to me and I walked back to my house, Baby/Marshmallow/Eduardo in my arms, so happy to have found him. Once inside, I put him down. His perfect, gorgeous baby blue eyes looked directly into my hazel ones (It was so sweet - he remembered me!) and then he squatted and took a big shit on the living room floor, never once blinking or breaking eye contact with me. And it wasn't just shit, it was diarrhea - and lots of it, it just blew out of his ass like a fountain. Uh-huh. Message received.

I picked him back up, walked him 6 houses down the street and gave Eduardo back to the gay boys. I settled for going to visit him every day and I took him treats and fattening cat foods. He was very thin and rickety. He let me feed him and brush him and pet him and he purred when I was there, but he never came home again. He just stayed with his men. He didn't live much longer after that. He didn't die of ill health or old age - sadly, he was mauled to death by a raccoon. The raccoons get pretty big in LA eating out trashcans. I cried when I found out; but really it was okay because Baby was finally reunited with his true love, Charles. As corny as that sounds, I believe it in my deepest heart.

Charles and Baby - a love story for the ages.

An Anniversary

2011-08-18T19:39:00.005-05:00

Ten years ago August 31st, I married a wonderful, funny, intelligent, kind and loving man. It was a wonderful day and I can't believe it's been 10 years since we said our vows. The day was perfectly perfect - a Southern California dream. It was a small wedding, about 42 people and it was intimate and lovely. Along with our immediate families, we invited 30 other guests - people that we loved dearly and who were our family as well. We held the service and reception at Il Cielo in Beverly Hills - a magnificent rustic Italian restaurant. The restaurant had a large outdoor patio that looked like a decaying Roman garden and was shaded with a green and white striped canopy awning that could be opened to reveal the beautiful blue skies.

I was so nervous on my wedding day and when I look at the photos it is evident that I am incredibly overwhelmed. A picture of my dad and I coming down the aisle shows me already weeping (so much for the makeup artist who created a perfect palette on my face!) and I am holding my flowers very high, my arm almost totally outstretched as if I were on a forced march. I laugh every time I look at that photo - I am a weepy mess and my dad is next to me cool, crisp and calm.

As we approached the alter, I looked for my husband-to-be - he should have been to my right, gazing adoringly at me. Instead, I was finally able to place him, on my left, lined up with the bridesmaids. He was totally on the wrong side (but fortunately he was gazing adoringly at me). I reached the alter, kissed my dad and then turned to my left to face him; I handed my bouquet to my maid of honor, Amy, and then reaching out my hands, I grasped his hands in mine and twirled him around so that he was on my right and I was now on the left - the way it was supposed to be. He was shocked as I twirled him around, but I whispered to him "you were standing on the wrong side" and he burst out laughing, filled the beautiful garden with his unmistakable laugh. When Charles laughed, you knew he was in the room. I started to giggle too and soon the whole room was joining in. The nice thing about a small wedding is that everyone there generally knows the couple fairly well, so there was no mistake that everyone there was laughing at me and my silly control issues; but I knew they were laughing from a place of love and it was a moment I'll always remember.

Our original plan was to have an evening ceremony on the spectacular grounds at one of my bridesmaid's home on Mulholland Drive in Beverly Hills overlooking the San Fernando Valley. About halfway into the process, we had a moment of clarity and realized that the last thing we wanted was a big ceremony with 200+ people at a cost of $25k or thereabouts. The most important thing to us was the intimacy and the ease and comfort of being with the people we held dearest. So we revamped and set our wedding for late morning with lunch to follow. We had a friend who was a violinist for the LA Symphony and we asked her to put together a trio or duo but she was going to be out of town so she recommended friends - a flutist and cellist.

As you may guess, I have a few control issues, but the one thing I knew as an "older" bride was that things happen on your wedding day and you have to roll with it. I had a younger friend who's mother and mother-in-law planned her wedding. They were of Cuban and Latino and Puerto Rican descent and although she and her fiance wanted a small quiet wedding, that was not to be. The mamas planned a huge, over the top wedding. I remember going to kiss her in the bride's room before the service; she was so horribly nervous (but astonishingly beautiful in her fairy princess wedding dress) that she had taken some Valium. She later told me she didn't remember the ceremony at all, she was so loaded. As Valium inebriation was not an option for me, I was determined to plan the wedding to the best of my ability and try to let the rest of it go.

After our ceremony, it was time for our first dance as husband and wife. Before I tell you what happened, I'd like to iterate that prior to our wedding, the flutist called me to discuss the music and we talked at length about songs and music Charles and I liked. We didn't have a "song" per se, but I thought some nice 40s big band, romantic music a la Nat King Cole would be fine. We talked about 10 or so songs for the first dance and I told her that any of those would work but I'd leave it up to her to choose what to play for that as well as the music during the reception and luncheon. So back to the wedding - as we took the floor, the music of the flute and cello soared through the room. It was a gorgeous sound. We began to dance.

Dancing, the music was beautiful but I couldn't place the song, it flitted about my brain and sat just on the tip of my tongue. I listened more closely. What song is this Charles asked? I don't know. I ran through the list of songs in my mind that the flutist and I had discussed and it was none of those songs. Then it hit me. OH NO, I thought. What?, asked Charles, what song is this? Smiling the best and prettiest smile I could, I answered him, dreading his reaction. Um, honey, it's the theme song from The Titanic, I said - Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On". WHAT??!, my New York City-raised husband roared (Yes, he roared). I'm not dancing to the fucking song...are you fucking kidding me?! Honey, listen... I tried. NO. I am not dancing to a song about the sinking of the Titanic - doesn't Leonardo DiCaprio DIE at the end?? Yes, I countered, but it's a love story. NO FUCKING WAY AM I DANCING TO A SONG WHERE THE MAN DIES AT THE END OF THE MOVIE. And then I started laughing. It was so damn funny. I just couldn't believe it. I would never have picked that song, not in a million years. I didn't even like that fucking song. But damn, it was funny. I had tears rolling down my face. Charles was in that spot that I knew so well, he was either going to lose his temper and storm off, maybe yell at the flutist and cellist and fire them in front of everyone we loved or he was going to let it go. It was a toss-up. I looked in his eyes, pleading silently for him to let it go....and then he smiled that million dollar smile, threw back his head and began to laugh at the ridiculousness of it.

That was Charles. The biggest softie I ever knew disguised as a NY tough guy. Being around him was an enchantment. He was a raconteur extraordinaire. He made everyone he met fall in love with him. He reached out his hand to help the lowest newcomer in AA and once, I think my friend Teri, who was my sponsee, unofficially fired me and went with Charles. It didn't matter. His love touched everyone. He told the truth but told it in a loving way. I don't think I ever met anyone who didn't like him. He loved a "deal" and he'd go to Costco and come home with 4 pairs of jeans, none of which fit him but - it was "such a good deal!" He used to despair of my book buying habits. Can't you go to the library?, he'd beg. No honey - other people have touched my books at the library! I loved a new book - it's feel, it's smell, it's newness. But he'd go to the library and check something out that he thought I'd like, trying to curb my book buying "habit".

We lived in a cute Spanish style house in Mar Vista. It was about 2 miles from the beach and 2 houses in from Venice Boulevard; so we would get lots of Venice street traffic parked on our street and in front of our home. Charles absolutely hated when people parked their beater cars in front of our house and to the detriment of his beautiful Mercedes, he'd pull in behind their car and using his front bumper, push the offending car forward until it rested in front of our neighbor's home. I kid you not. At first, we fought about it. Contrite, he switched to a new tactic of putting a note on their car that read, "Please don't park your piece of shit car in front of my house. Thank you." Yeah, I couldn't imagine that anything could be worse than the forced re-parking, but that note was. I quickly revamped and told him to go ahead and go back to pushing the cars out of the way. It was totally insane, but he was unmovable in this, so I just gave up and I'd watch in horror as "Charles' Courtesy Re-Parking Services" did it's job - waiting for the day that some gangbanger would walk up while he was assaulting their car and shoot him. Luckily, that scenario never manifested.

I miss that man. I miss his smile and his laugh. I miss his stories. I miss his vibrancy and his energy. I miss being loved completely and adored unconditionally. Our wedding was beautiful and amazing and flawed but absolutely perfect, the way our marriage was. I was so lucky and for once in my life, I chose well. I didn't appreciate it as much as I should have, but I do today and I know that wherever he is, he knows how much I loved him and how he changed my heart and my life with his love. Instead of tying me down, his love set me free to find and be Pam. I had never been given such a gift before and I hope he knows how big a role he played in me becoming the woman I am today. I carry his love with me in my heart and in my life and I hope that somewhere in the ether, he knows how grateful I am to have been married to him for those short few, yet incredibly full years and how much I still love him and how terribly I miss him.

Pax.

On the road again

2011-08-11T23:39:00.002-05:00

I am off to seek my destiny one more time. Tomorrow I hit the road and hopefully at the end of this yellow brick road will be my Oz. I've been on the road for a long time and I think Nashville has been a way-station. I cannot foresee myself living here the rest of my days. It is too hot. Too sticky. Landlocked. Too cold in the winter. A lack of connection and intimacy if you are not "from here" but to be fair, part of it is what we have become as a people...busy, busy, busy. Too busy to connect, too busy to answer our phones, too busy to RSVP and when we do, it's always tentative - I think I can make it, but something may come up that causes me not to show.

My birthday was an example of that. Three people who RSVP'ed "yes", didn't show. Correction: one called to cancel, one showed up as we were leaving and one never showed up, nor called, texted, emailed - not even a smoke signal with her excuse/regrets/explanation. Two days later when I ran into her, she told me she had to go to an emergency home owner's meeting. I asked her if they called the meeting at 6:30 that night? Confused, she said no, why? Because I can't understand why you couldn't even TEXT me that you weren't coming. Anyway, y'all get my drift, right? Not only have we lost the ability to connect, but what used to pass for basic manners - letting someone know you could not keep a commitment, has gone by the wayside as well. Apparently, it is okay to "no show" as long as you tell the person later why you were MIA....(as we sat waiting in the restaurant)....

So. Where was I? Ah yes, Nashville. Not for me, I know. I need to be near the ocean. I need to be able to sit on a beach and listen to the surf and ponder my life and mysteries and beauty and see light sparkle off the water. I need to sit on the beach and talk to Charles....he's in the water, part of the sea now, I miss my talks with him and after he died, my talks with his spirit. Tonight, I miss my talks with him when he was alive....I would be twirling about something, big or small, it didn't matter and he would talk me off the ledge, calm me down, soothe me. He restored my faith and my confidence in myself and my destiny. He always knew that good things were mine - I just had to declare it. And so here I am, under a full moon, my moon - I'm a Cancer - declaring it. The job is mine. It will be exactly what I am looking for and I will be exactly what they are looking for. The serendipity of how it unfolded will amaze me. And then I will find my perfect house. I am looking at two and I know one of them is going to be perfect for me, Blue and Pink...and I feel the hand of God in it all. I know Charles is up in the stars, selling it all to God.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Whenever I see a penny or a coin on the ground, I pick it up. After Charles died, I saw them everywhere and I still do so I have come to think of those pennies as Charles way of communicating with me - especially in times of decision or stress and they remind to live fearlessly and with passion and gratitude. It may seem that I have overcome many trials in my life, but the truth is, I have nothing to compare my life to. My life is my life. It's good and bad. Sad, tragic, amazing and beautiful. Passionate in all it's phases. Is it what I would design for myself? Probably not, I'd change a few things - but still, sometimes I watch myself from afar and I am pretty impressed. Mostly, I am excited for the future. I know there are a lot of promises waiting to be unwrapped and that my best days are still ahead of me. I am scared shitless, but I am more scared of letting my fear stop me. So, I won't. In the morning, I'll get in the car with the dogs, drive for 12 hours and arrive at my destiny....my new life, my new home, my new job. It's all there, but I am bringing the most important thing - me.

So wish me luck, include me in your prayers if that's your thing, otherwise wish me well and hold me in thought. I will keep you updated. Here I go!!!

Hanging Pictures

2011-08-09T22:43:00.002-05:00

One of my best friends from high school, Donna, lives in a beautiful home in Raleigh-Durham. It is filled with lovely furniture and she and her husband have raised three children, mostly in this house. There's only one thing wrong. I went to visit her last year and it took me a few minutes to notice, but I finally saw...there was no artwork on the walls - no pictures, oil paintings, framed prints, not even a poster. We sat on her big, luxurious sofa in the great room and I asked her why. Why are your walls empty? I asked. I'm afraid, she said. Afraid of what? Afraid that I'll put the wrong things on the wall, and it won't look good and I'll look stupid, she said.

I was dumbfounded. Here was my beautiful, successful, wonderful friend - a woman who always has a kind word for everyone, who everyone immediately likes upon meeting and she couldn't get a piece of art on the wall. I, on the other hand, put everything I love on the wall. If it speaks to me, it's mine and I put it up fearlessly. When I lived in a very small apartment recently, I still put all the artwork up - it looked like a museum, and I didn't give a whit about what anyone thought.

But, it made me think. How many of us don't do something we want to do in our lives because we are scared - of making a mistake, of being judged; or we just wait - for the exact right thing, person, moment? How many of us buy something beautiful and then never use it - saving it for a special occasion? Recently, I decided to wear a pair of lovely, expensive leather and canvas pumps with cute leather tassels that I bought almost 6 years ago and have probably worn four times. They are lovely, but I worry that the canvas will get dirty and they'll be ruined. So they sit in their box, high on the shelf in the closet. Last week, I decided they'd be perfect with my cute JCrew seersucker suit and I pulled them off the shelf. I opened the box that had not been opened in probably two years and...well, those beautiful shoes were ruined. No, they weren't ruined, they had gotten old in their box and being old, the leather trim had come loose from the canvas and I don't know - frayed? shrunk, lost elasticity? It didn't matter, they were ruined and even when I put them on, I knew they couldn't be repaired; certainly not to their former glory. Their shelf life was over, so to speak. They sat in that box, loved only from afar and got old.

I know - you're thinking - really?? A pair of shoes? But those shoes remind me that life is short and shoes are meant to be worn. So what if they had gotten dirty eventually? I would have worn them and loved them and every time I put them on, I would have felt sexy and pretty. Now, I feel sad that I didn't just wear them. And annoyed at myself.

I have a chest filled with table linens just begging to be used, thrown on the table. I have plates I only use once or twice a year. Why? I have lingerie that I am saving for a special occasion. Why? What if I never sleep with another man ever again in my life? (Not likely, but let's just suppose for the sake of this argument.) My lingerie will just sit in the drawer for another 20, 30, 40 years? Will I even want to wear this stuff in 10 years? Will it still be sexy or will it, like the shoes, be frayed, moth eaten, old? What if I get fat and dumpy and I'm just a 60 year old matron with a drawer full of amazing lingerie that no longer fits me that now just needs to be thrown away? But here is the big question, the real question: Why don't I wear my sexy lingerie just for myself?

Why don't I use my table linens and my plates and my special serving pieces for myself? Why do I save things to impress other people instead of surrounding myself with and enjoying the beauty of my possessions all alone? Why does my friend Donna care what anyone thinks about what is on her walls? The art on our walls is just an extension of ourselves, an expression of our personality both the dark and the light. Everything we own is an expression of ourselves and a reflection of how we see ourselves. Any expression of ourselves makes us vulnerable. We have to continue to be open and vulnerable or we start growing old and dying. And we have to remember to enjoy the beauty around us. It does us no good high on a shelf, wrapped in tissue and rarely used.

Donna and I talked about this again today and I extracted a promise from her. We are spending the weekend together - she is going to help me find a place to live in my new town and while we are together, we are going shopping. She has promised to buy one thing that "speaks" to her and take it home and put it on the wall. No matter what. No worries about what anyone else thinks. This will be for her. Because the truth is, an empty wall says just as much about us as a wall with a velvet painting of dogs playing poker or a wall with a Monet hanging on it. She is going to buy exactly what she wants with no help from me. I will love whatever she picks because it will reflect her beauty, her spirit.

And me? I'm gonna start wearing that special lingerie. Maybe I'll cook a wonderful dinner and set a table for one with my "once a year" china atop my gorgeous linens and eat it all wearing my sexy lingerie. What am I waiting for?

You She Me

2011-08-08T15:58:00.002-05:00

She stands between you and me

A rose-colored memory only you can see

A tainted vision of yesterday

Disguised and brightly shaded

By guilt, remorse and unkept promises

Beckoning you back

If I could forcibly move her

I would cut her out of our lives

Her image lingers everywhere

A thousand reflections in a House of Mirrors

In vain I reach out to move her away

But she is false and my hands

Cut only glass

And still she is there between us

If I could I would pick you up

Using you to bludgeon my way out

Destroying her image,

your obsession and my fear

I would smash through the mirrored house,

Misty illusions and half truths

Until I was left standing – spent and lifeless

In a glittering piles of shards

Now only reflecting

the broken pieces of my soul

Staring back at me

All that is left after that moment of black pain

Instead I will exit your shining glass house

It’s really the Haunted House

And you must walk through your house of mirrors alone

Finding your truth, your exit, in your time, not mine

I’ll wander over to the Ferris Wheel

And if you get there and I am still in line

We’ll go for a ride together

Holding hands in a seat made for two

Otherwise, I’ll ride alone

Rolling up to the cotton candy sky

The ocean breeze dusting off my heart

Sun warm on my upturned face

As I swoop up to the heavens

And then back down to earth

(reminding me of our heady union)

making my stomach dip and dance

(like it did when you touched me)

The world topsy turvy

In perfect harmony with me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A poem I wrote about a long ago relationship, which subject - to love someone who loves someone else - many of us have experienced.

Chocolate Chip Shortbread Cookies

2011-08-07T09:59:00.001-05:00

I thought I'd lighten it up a bit (all that emotional heavy lifting takes it toll) so today is recipe day! Here is my recipe for one of my favorite cookies - I have been craving them but trying to stick to my diet, so my hope is that by sharing the recipe, I will feel "full-filled"! :)

Preheat oven to 300 degrees.

1 C butter softened

1/2 C brown sugar

1 t. vanilla

2 C Flour

1/4 C cornstarch

1/2 C mini chocolate chips

1 T sugar

Mix butter, brown sugar, and vanilla with mixer. Blend in flour and corn starch gradually.

Stir in chocolate chips.

Form into 1" balls, place on ungreased baking sheet.

Pour sugar on small plate, dip bottom of small drinking glass (or something else to press) in sugar and press each cookie to flatten.

Bake at 300 degrees for 25-30 minutes.

Enjoy!! Besides my Mexican Wedding cookies, these pretty much do it for me! :)

Penny and me

2011-08-06T12:38:00.000-05:00

I knelt on the bathroom floor of a Chili's in suburban Detroit praying. "Please God, help me to be kind and loving. Help me to forgive her. Please remove my resentment and anger towards her. Give me the strength to make my amends." It was a prayer loop, the same few phrases over and over. Shortly, I would be at the hospital where my mom was receiving her dialysis and where they had recently amputated her leg and I was there to do my 9th step with her. The 9th step instructs me to make direct amends wherever possible to those we had harmed...to clean up my side of the street and ask for her forgiveness with no thought or expectation of anything in return. I got off the Chili's ladies room floor and walked out to join my waiting stepfather for the short drive to the hospital.

I was just 2 years sober and I was working my steps. I had completed my 8th step and made a list of everyone I had harmed; but I was stuck and had been for some time. I hadn't been able to make any amends to anyone. It was frustrating to me and I was scared that I would drink. I loved sobriety and desperately wanted to stay sober, but here I was, floundering at the ninth. It went on like this for several months and then one night I was given the solution.

I was at my Sunday night meet at the West Hollywood Drug and Alcohol Center. It was a great meeting, a respected old-timer started the meeting; it was on the top floor of an old building, no air conditioning - cooled only by a ceiling fan which sole function was to evenly disperse the cigarette smoke from the smoking side of the room to the entire room. The meeting format was a speaker who gave a short pitch and then Q&A after.

I don't even remember who the speaker was, I remember it was a man. I raised my hand and asked my question. "I am stuck on my 9th step and I can't seem to start my amends. What should I do?" (I'm sure the question in actuality was much longer and convoluted, but for brevity's sake here, I'm just giving you the gist. We alcoholics tend to be filled with words and questions and can take forever to get to the point!) Regardless, I'll never forget what he said. "If you are stuck on a step, go back to the step before it. You're probably not done with that step." I sat dumbfounded.

I rushed home and pulled out my amends list that I made as directed in the 8th step. I studied it. It looked good! It was complete....what was missing, whom had I forgotten? I looked again. And then it struck me. Could it be possible that my mother was supposed to be on this list? No, it could not be true. If anything, she owed me an amends. Penny, whose alcoholism created never-ending drama and chaos in our lives. Her sadness and rage a blanket over the lives of me and my sisters. Would she kiss us when she walked in the door or would she slap us? We never knew. How could it be that I was to make amends to the woman I'd find passed out in the living room, stereo blasting the same damn 8 track now on it's 6th or 7th loop, cigarette still burning in the ashtray - that woman that I had to put to bed more nights than I can remember? The woman from whom I had to steal lunch money out of her purse for me and my sisters? The woman who slept with my best friend's father regardless of the consequences? The woman who made my dad give her extra money when he came to pick us up for his bi-monthly visits or we couldn't go? The woman who abandoned me and my sisters for a year, shipping them off to Michigan to live with her best friend while I stayed in Reston but went to live with an older couple from my church? It could not be fucking possible that *I* had to make an amends to her.

I was filled with tremendous anger. I couldn't wrap my head around it. But I knew that this was the roadblock of my 9th step. After thinking about it for a bit, I still had no solution. I couldn't imagine what I had done to her that required an amends. The only time that I ever retaliated against her violence was when I was 17, my senior year in high school. In a drunken rage she attacked me, and I had had enough. I took her down - I was younger and stronger and I finally snapped. Police were involved and I was taken away, but after that night, she never struck me again. There was a part of me at only seventeen years old that took a perverse pleasure in finally seeing the fear in her face. But even that was not the amends I needed to make. It was something much bigger. I thought past my childhood and into my adult years. And then I saw it....it was crystal clear.

When I left for college, I washed my hands of her. I left Virginia and went to Texas and never looked back. My visits with her were limited and mostly strained. I shut her out of my heart and gave her nothing. Nothing about me, my life, my fears, my hopes and dreams; this crushed her. She tried desperately to have a relationship with me and I rebuffed all her attempts. If Penny called, I'd make an excuse that I was running out the door and/or that I was too busy to talk. If I needed something from her, I'd give her a little, tiny bit of me to ensure that she would help me. I held out the promise of a relationship like a carrot on a stick - give me this or do that for me, and I will let you in my life. She would comply and I would cruelly jerk the carrot away.

But now, her health and beauty were fading. She was horribly ill with diabetes and her feet were beginning to suffer the effects of diabetic neuropathy. The long term effects of the years of alcoholism combined with the diabetes began to manifest. They started taking her toes when she was in her forties. By 50, she was on dialysis. At 52, they took her leg.

So here I was, praying in Chili's. We arrived at the hospital and I waited anxiously for her to come back to her room from dialysis, hoping I could just manage to be kind. The door opened and there she lay on the gurney. A lump under the sheets, with only one leg. Her hair was so thin, her body so frail. She was radically diminished; it was hard for me to reconcile this woman with the unstable, crazy woman who was my mother. She reached her arms out to me, one of them badly scarred from the dialysis needle, and a huge smile lit up her face as she cried out my name - Pammy!

In that moment I knew that my anger, pain and fear were gone. I gently hugged her, afraid to hurt her and I knew with certainty that this woman could not and would not hurt me. I also knew I would be able to make my amends to her. The doctors let her check out for the weekend and we took her home. She was tired, the dialysis does that, and she went right to bed. The next morning, I woke up and went into her bedroom. Up close, I could see what a terrible physical state she was in. I helped her take her morning dose of over 25 pills and then I went to her bathroom and got her makeup bag, her little blue brush and backcomb, and a washcloth. I washed her face. I brushed her horribly thin hair and teased it to give her some semblance of a full head of hair. I made up her face - lipstick, blush, eyeshadow and mascara. I gave her a mirror so she could see how beautiful she looked. I was sure it had been a very long time since she had felt beautiful.

She looked in the mirror and put it down. She smiled at me. I took her hand and looked at her in all her ruinous glory, and weeping, I said, "Mom, I am sorry that I was not able to be the daughter that you needed and deserved." That was it, eighteen words that covered the lifetime of our relationship. It was enough. I felt something heavy fall off my shoulders and I was free of 32 years of resentment and pain. It didn't even matter what she said, or if she even said anything. It was enough. But now she was crying too. She squeezed my hand and looking into my eyes, she said, "Pammy, I am sorry that I could not be the mother that you needed and deserved."

In that moment everything was stripped away, all that remained was the love. The truth was, she loved me, of course. She was just a very sick person and didn't have the ability to seek help. Her solution was in bottles of booze and pills and in numerous suicide attempts. But she had done the best she could. Was it enough? No, of course not and I can say that honestly and with compassion for her, for my sisters, for me. Have I forgotten my childhood and the constant fear I lived with? Certainly not, it is part of who I am and has formed me. In AA, we say that resentment is when "I take the poison and wait for you to die." As I began to accept responsibility for my life and my happiness, I was able to transfer the ugly events and relationships that comprised my childhood into a blueprint that showed me how to be a better person, to build a life filled with love and kindness. Who I am today is a result of what happened to me in the past but I get to define how it shapes me. I get to choose. In it's simplest form, I turned lemons into lemonade.

That day with my mother changed my life and, I am sure, hers as well. I was able to give her, in the 14 months that were left to her, some sense of being loved and accepted for exactly who she was with no recriminations, no anger. I was Penny's daughter and today, I look at the gifts she gave me - my love of books and cooking; my risque sense of humor and intellect, the way I fully laugh out loud if I am amused; my love of the ocean and my love of cards - pinochle, hearts, spades and crazy 8s; games like Uno, Yahtzee and Monopoly; my love for mashed potatoes floating in a bowl of buttermilk; Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners; growing a vegetable garden; the cool simpleness of a living room's decor. Small, simple things but each of them a part of who I am. I keep the good and the rest I try to leave behind me.

One day. the spring after Penny died, I was driving my car to work. It was a beautiful, perfect Southern California morning. I had the windows open and I was driving down Wilshire Boulevard, singing along with the radio. Suddenly (and I mean suddenly) my car was filled with the essence of Penny. Her *smell* - the one unique to each mom, a combination of her perfume, Chloe, and her skin. It poured over me, swirled around me. Shocked, I actually looked in the rear view mirror to see if she was riding with me. I waited for her scent to dissipate but it stayed, so I began to talk to her. I told her what was happening in my life and that I loved her and missed her. As I drove down Wilshire and then along PCH, she stayed. I drove, encompassed in her Penny-ness almost the entire drive to work. And then as quickly as she came, she was gone, but Penny will always be with me - I am half her, after all and in forgiving her, I forgave myself.

Boston Day 7

2011-08-04T10:36:00.000-05:00

What an absolutely amazing trip. I still love Boston and I am still in love with all the people I knew here. When I moved here 24 years ago, I was still a child - and that is evident in the photos of those days. I fell in with a group who made me one of their own and it was a magical time. By all rights, I shouldn't have met them at all. When I applied for the job as the executive secretary in the Computer Science Department at BU, one of the qualifications was a typing speed of at least 35 WPM on a typewriter (yes, a typewriter!). I failed that test but aced the interview, so they hired me, contingent upon my future ability to pass that test. I took that stupid test 4, 5, 6, 10, 15 times. I couldn't pass it. The WPM was calculated as number of words typed less errors. Repeatedly, I would type 40, 42, 37 WPMs but after my errors were subtracted, I always ended up with a WPM in the 20s. In retrospect it was sad beyond words.

I seriously could not type 35 freaking words per minute. Confession: I took typing in high school (that was back in the day when you had to take either typing or shorthand and I guess those who aspired to be a secretary took both.) Very progressive, no? I don't recollect much about my high school typing class, my only evidence that I sucked was my inability to pass this stupid test. I didn't know where or what the keys were and I could have cared less, to be honest. I never aspired to be a secretary - funny thing how that became my career for over 20 years.

My inability to pass the typing test became the running joke of the department. Each day, I would head over to Human Resources, take the test, wait anxiously for the inevitable news that I had failed and I would sadly walk back to work and report to the Administrator and the Chair of the department that I had once again, failed. It was so absurd, that it was the first question that anyone - all the professors, staff and grad students - walking into our office would ask. "Pam, did you pass your test?" Adding insult to injury - all these people were wiz's on the keyboard, but in my defense, I held that a keyboard and a typewriter were two different things. They still laughed at me. By now, I had become a self-fulfilling prophecy of typing failure. My angst knew no bounds.

One day, the chair of the department, Steve Homer, came in the office with a plan. I was to sit in front of the typewriter and practice all day until 4:00 pm and then head to HR and the dreaded test - the theory being that after 7 hours of sheer rote I must pass. Did I mention at this point I had memorized the 3 paragraphs that comprised the portion of the test that would indicate the proper WPM? Yes, they used the same copy for every test. That's how big of a typing loser I was!

I sat and typed and typed and typed those paragraphs over and over. All day. Took my lunch break and came back. Typed until 4:00 p.m. With great trepidation, I walked to HR. I am certain they were as sick of seeing me as I was them. I am also certain I was a joke in their office too. I sat, I typed, I handed my paper to the "grader". She started circling in red my errors. (Can you believe that anyone could possibly have errors on the copy at this point?! I typed 43 WPM with 6 mistakes - a final score of 37 WPM!! I passed, I did it! I was a success - I am sure at that moment I was the best damn executive secretary in the BU pool!

The truth was, they should have cut me loose but they didn't. As a result, I became part of an eclectic, weird, brainy, funny, ragtag group of people. After I left Boston, I kept in touch sporadically. My alcoholism had a firm hold on me and I was circling the drain for several years. I lost touch with most of the people that mattered to me. The other night at dinner, Sue and Gordon reminisced about a trip to Houston they took to visit me about a year after I left Boston. I have absolutely zero recollection of their visit. I know they were there - they remembered my piece of shit car - a Cadillac Cimarron - that was burning oil, a fact I studiously ignored. They remembered I took them to Molina's for the kick-ass margaritas, they remembered my friends and they remembered that I took them to a Renaissance Festival (ACK!) out in the boonies somewhere. I remember none of it and even with twenty years of sobriety, I am a bit embarrassed that I don't. This is further confirmation that getting sober was a very good thing...but still I am sad that people I love came to visit me from Boston and I don't remember any of it.

Through Facebook, I was able to find these old friends. I reconnected with them at a time in our lives when we are able to look back on those 3 years and - to a man - agree that it was a magical, wonderful, carefree time. Most of us have been married and have children; all of us have grown up and have responsibilities and bills; trials and tribulations. But, I have no doubt that if we could get everyone together in one room, it would be filled with laughter and stories and recollections that take us back to that time and space. Each person I have been able to see during my visit has reconfirmed what a serendipitous time it was in all our lives. We belonged together. We created memories and bonds that, despite the chaos of being young and irresponsible, carried us into adulthood. When I look at Tom, Mary, John, Sue and Gordon and the others, I still see them as they were 25 years ago. I don't see the lines in their faces, the gray hair, the aging bodies - I see them with my mind's eye and they are still young and beautiful; their essence unchanged and I know they see me that way. It is good and my heart is filled; and as I enter this new, uncertain phase of my life, these people have somehow given me the faith and courage I need to make the next jump. It's a leap of faith but I have confidence that my footing is sure. The people that love us not only do so unconditionally but help us to see ourselves as we would like to be and give us the strength to keep growing and reaching for our greater good.

What a trip.

Risky Business

2011-08-01T10:58:00.000-05:00

What happens when we lose love - regardless of the circumstances? Physically, it's a visceral reaction - a vise around the heart - the inability to catch a full breath. The pain resides in the heart but radiates outward, all-encompassing and emanating from the body; worn like a hair suit. Meanwhile, the brain tries unsuccessfully to repair the now changed mosaic of life. There had been a vision of what life looked like (oh so pretty!) but that was gone now and all that was left were the shattered pieces of loss and betrayal. We filled our minds and our days with distractions - keeping "busy" - but we were always watching the clock and wondering why the time is passing so slowly and when, goddammit, am I going to feel better?

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In an episode of a TV show I used to watch, the lead female character speaks in a voice over about her love for a man who is conflicted between the two women in his life and she begs (in her head), “Pick me, choose me, love me! The declaration is selfish, embarrassing and childish and I laughed out loud because it was my own voice I heard. I wondered how I always seem to end up here, begging to be chosen? Even my husband Charles who lived his last few months in denial of his impending death, chose to be with people who allowed him to live in the fantasy that he would beat Stage IV metastasized cancer. I was totally incapable of going along with this fool's journey because I wanted to help him on his journey the way I saw it but mostly because I wanted to talk about what his death meant to both of us. I was robbed of those discussions and the only person who could allay my fears, Charles, shut me out.

Looking back on it, it's so easy to see that I could have handled it differently but I did the best I could and at the time, I didn't have the capacity to do it any other way. Each of us was selfish in a way that hurt the other and we, the couple who "talked about everything", could not find our way around this minefield. The truth was this simple: I resented him dying and he resented me living. It almost destroyed us. But in the end, when there was no need for words, none of that mattered. We transcended those feelings or maybe the process of his dying finally transcended our fear. Everything else was stripped away, we were left with simple clarity.

We were inseparable his last days. I knew absolutely that he loved me. He knew I loved him. Even when he had lost the energy and strength to speak, his love for me was palpable. In the end, it came full circle and he chose me; if I left his sight for even a moment his agitation did not recede until I was back with him, at his side, holding him.

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James Joyce wrote "Some of it is ugly, obscene and bestial, some of it is pure and holy and spiritual: All of it is myself." That is the one of the most beautiful sentences ever written, it is true of each of us. Love is letting someone see you - all of you, including the dark, ugly bits - and being completely vulnerable regardless of the consequences. Even after all I have been through, all the disappointments and losses, I still want more. I want to give and take love, feel and know love. I think when you give up on love you start dying a little bit at a time, stuffing your life full of meaningless filler until you forget that all we take with us when our lives are over is the love.

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I live and love big. It’s just my nature, when I fall, it’s hard and passionate; I am filled with it's largeness. I don’t know if it has to do with my childhood or my alcoholism, and I don’t care. It’s who I am, if I love you, I am there until the end. I put my heart on the line and often it has been to my detriment. No matter, despite the risks, I remain open. Love makes you real. Love is the commonality that binds us. You have to be fearless in your approach to life and you have to accept that you are going to be hurt. With every little nick of your heart you can choose to move forward and open yourself up wider or to shut down and protect yourself. The problem with the latter is that the wall of protection that you built up around you quickly becomes your prison.

This quote from The Velveteen Rabbit conveys it much more clearly and succinctly than I ever could. The children's story is about becoming real by being loved:

Pick "real". Choose love. Live fearlessly.

Pax.

Boston Day 2

2011-07-30T23:36:00.000-05:00

Wow, what a trip down memory lane! My feelings about this city are so positive and strong. The friends I made here 25 years ago are still so important to me and we still share a bond unlike most others that we created at other times in our lives - before and since. Last night we looked at photos from over 20 years ago, and it was funny how much we remembered - all the people, the places, whose house a particular party was at, what beach we were at, which bar this was. We remembered which few had cars, and the make, model and color of those cars. We were young and happy...nothing really bad had happened to most of us yet. We were certainly naive about adulthood. Most of us were in our early to mid-twenties and when we looked at the pics, it seemed to us today that we were even younger than that. We looked like we were in high school and I think we acted like it too.

There were three core groups of about 10 people each and there was always some combination of the three present at any time that seemed to work. We all worked at Boston University. I was the executive secretary for the Computer Science Department and almost everyone else worked in the IT Department next to the CS Department. My first friend at BU, Mary introduced me to all the IT guys. I was fresh off the boat from Texas, with big, bleached, teased hair and lots of makeup. I had a southern drawl, I was loud and bawdy and I am certain they had never seen the likes of me before.

I loved these guys immediately. They were smart, nerdy and funny. They drank like fish and lived large everyday. They talked about hardware and software and cabling and most of the time I had no idea what they were saying but I didn't care. It was a huge change from my last gig as the girlfriend of a college football player and it worked for me. They accepted me - whom they viewed as their token, somewhat tarnished Texas beauty queen, and I never looked back.

Every night, there was something to do. Most of it involved drinking; that was back when drinking pretty much still worked for me. A lot of it involved sports - BU had a great intramural program and soon I was playing softball, volleyball, whatever sport was going on at the time. I remember we signed up for a co-ed basketball team, so our "coach" Ram (an IT guy but a total jock) had the three women on the team practice together and he made us run up and down the court about two times. When we got back to the starting basket, we all looked at each other - huffing and puffing, sweaty and to a women we were like - "ah yeah - basketball? No thanks!" Basketball required a much higher expenditure of energy than we were willing to give. Plus, I don't look good in dripping, smeared mascara.

We spent nights at the Dugout mostly - a dingy, dark, dank bar on Comm Ave. a half block up from the building where we all worked. It was a basement level establishment, so you walked down stairs to enter and the windows were small, dirty and half sized; it was always dark in the Dugout. The were old tables and chairs, aluminum ashtrays on the tables, the floors were always sticky with spilled booze; the Dugout smelled like mold, old beer, and cigarette smoke. There was a cigarette machine in the corner and an old black and white TV above the bar. There was no A/C and I had to be really drunk and desperate to use the ladies room. If "Cheers" was the TV version of the local Boston bar where "everybody knows your name", the Dugout was much closer to the real thing. I loved the Dugout. It attracted a mix of college and grad students, faculty and staff and also a few locals. As an alcoholic, I always made it my business to know the bartender and even if I went in alone there was a good chance someone I knew would be there or was sure to show up soon after.

If we weren't at the Dugout, it was any number of other bars and restaurants, but we were loud, obnoxious and oblivious to societal rules of politeness and decorum, so not many places would have us. In our defense, we were good customers - we drank a lot and tipped a lot too. I distinctly remember a pattern of having a beer and then a shot of Jack and then doing it again. And again. This what how our night evolved. The end of the evening found the remaining handful of hardcore drinkers sitting at the bar getting as smashed as we could without passing out. When you take public transportation, you can drink like this all the time. Did I mention how much I loved it?

There were road trips south to the Cape for beach volleyball tournaments and road trips north to the beach at Newburyport with beer and clam chowder after. There was cycling and climbing. There were the Sunday afternoon softball games. There was Mustang Island and ski trips to New Hampshire and Vermont. And always the drinking. It was the last time in my life that I would drink and still enjoy it, but it was also the place where my drinking finally took a hard left turn and went against me. Mostly, I remember the laughter and the easy way we all fit together. Pam, Mary, Eap, Jason, Gordon, Wally, John, Elvis, Sue, Kat, Chuck, Vern, Ram, Spike, Jim, Bill...and more, some I remember well, a few vaguely. I never really worried about getting too drunk and putting myself in a dangerous spot because one of the guys was always there to make sure I got home safely. I was never alone and there was always something to do. I think it was the first time in my life that I felt like I fit in, that I belonged to a group and I didn't have to hide who I was or pretend to be someone I wasn't. When "When Harry Met Sally" came out, about seven or eight of us went to see it. When the movie was over, I couldn't stop gushing - I loved it. Of course you loved it, they said. It was about you! You are the Sally character - you think you're low maintenance, but you're really high maintenance....I took that as a compliment because it was a compliment. They didn't tease me out of malice - they teased me because they loved me - high maintenance or not. I loved being their odd, slightly crazy, Southern girl.

We were invincible and the world was still our oyster. I never laughed harder and I never felt more connected to a group of people than I did when I lived here. They were the first people to teach me about unconditional love and they lived it every day, but not in a way that was obvious and certainly no one ever mentioned the word 'love'. No one backstabbed and there was no gossip really - if someone had a problem with you, they'd just say it to your face, be done with it and move on to the next beer. We were a family of sorts - misfits, oddballs and nerds - I have never known such an incredible group of people since. It was a magical time and as my trip goes on and I get to re-connect with these old friends, I am struck by how important they still are to me and what a special place they hold in my heart. They bestowed upon me the gift of self-acceptance and I don't think they will ever know how much they gave me and how much they helped to make me the woman I am today. I am so glad to be here.

Beantown

2011-07-30T01:20:00.000-05:00

Today, I traveled all day, made two new friends (Hi, Karen and Paul!) on the plane and then upon arrival in Boston was given a quick trip down memory lane (and had what was in probability the first diet Coke I ever had at the Dugout - my old stomping grounds on the BU Campus). After, I had a wonderful dinner at a Turkish restaurant with my old friends Tom and John and when I sent back my overcooked steak kabobs, it took two waitresses and the manager ( because none of then spoke English very well) to grasp the problem. Finally, the manager looked at me and exclaimed, "Oh, you want your meat bloody!" Ack! But uh, yes, bloody would be um, fantastic... The three of us spent the rest of the night looking at old photos and talking about the old days, to-day and the days in between. If twenty plus years have gone by, I don't know where - we've just picked up where we left off, like I never left. I laughed so hard at those damn photos, I almost cried (what was I *thinking* with that 80s hair?!) and personally, I think we're all better looking now despite our ages. There's a comfort of being in your own skin that comes with age and I have to say, I am totally digging it. Lots of laughter, lots of love. Anyway, I am off to bed, I am working on a new piece to post tomorrow but I am too tired to edit it properly and keep losing my tack.....here's a few photos!

Pam at the Dugout with a diet Coke. Not like the old days - a shot of Jack Daniels and a beer, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat...

Me and Tom - one of the greatest guys I know and a true friend. Love you, Wally!!