The Constipated Woman

Reach Out and Hug Someone

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Mon, 17 Aug 2015 14:03:00 -0400

Different kinds of friendships always comes to mind after being on a social network. There are fair-weather friends, casual acquaintances, lost friends, found friends, new friends, and friends who we hope to never meet again. For those we want to contact, we reach out and touch someone with a smiley face or a nice comment about something they posted, or a picture they shared. It's often construed as impersonal and lacks the emotional and physical response we as humans need. Then it occurred to me about an epidemic that faces the world and it's called skin hunger. It's an emotional response that is developed by the lack of touch. Sometimes, it can even cause you to feel depressed and completely alone as you swim in an ocean of peoples who barely know you. How wonderful it would be to jump into the car and visit a family member or meet a friend for a lunch or dinner date but instead, we have to be content with faraway impersonal relationships. The heartfelt hugs we once remembered are being diminished as more families and friends live apart in different states and this lack of touch keeps us from being close to our loved ones. When was the last time you reached out and touched someone? For me, it is not nearly often enough. When was the last time someone said, “If only you lived closer...” or “We can't be truly a part of your life when you live so far away?”

I am truly affected after leaving someone I care for when there's been physical contact, because I am a hugger and I have the need to look into someones eyes during conversation. I want to remember how the lines formed around someone's eyes when they smiled and the touch of their hand on mine. Don't get me wrong, I am thankful for technology as it has allowed us to communicate with anyone around the world, but unfortunately it dehumanizes the physical interaction for which many of us crave and thrive upon. We interact with our electronic devices more than we do with each other, completely eliminating the human touch from the equation. Sadly, many our our older generation do not use technological devices, and can leave them feeling unloved and out of the loop with others. How many times have you see a family gathering and everyone is texting, or surfing the web while grandma sits alone? How many times have you got together with the grandkids and they would prefer to text their friends or check out a You Tube video? How many times have you wanted to reach out and hug a young person without them thinking you're a pervert?

We live disconnected lifestyles and we live in an extremely litigious society where touching someone can be considered sexual harassment. People have become fearful of hugging and physically greeting one another. Can you imagine a child being born into a strange world with underdeveloped senses except for the sense of touch? We have all initially made sense of this world through our skins. Touch and affection told us the world is a safe, secure and warm place to live. Touch comforted us. A pat on the back, a squeeze of the hand, a massage or a gentle hug can heal the heart and spiritual well-being in the receiver. For those of us who may be suffering from skin hunger, a therapeutic massage may satisfy the cravings. For a parent, a spouse, a friend, or a caregiver do not forgo such a human and elemental need as touch. It makes lasting memories once a loved one is gone.

It is the first sense developed in the womb and the last sense to leave our bodies. It is so vital, in fact, that therapist and author Virginia Satir stated that human beings need four hugs a day for survival, eight hugs a day for maintenance and 12 hugs a day for growth. So find someone you love or care about and give them a hug today. You'll be surprised how many will say, “I needed that.”

Is It You?

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Wed, 29 Jul 2015 16:44:00 -0400

"One never knows what chance treasures these unconscious rollers may toss up, on the smooth white sand of the conscious mind..." ~Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Before we took our first breath we evolved into a thriving human being in a sack of embryonic fluid. A liquid which sustained our life's nutrients soothing our tiny bodies until our maiden voyage. Is it no wonder why we are calmed when we emerge ourselves into a warm tub of familiar territory when it can erase the visual simulations of our busy day? Water therapy has been used for its healing properties to heal pain, purge toxins, and in treating depression and suicidal tendencies. No wonder so many people desire to live near a body of water and focus on an overabundance of blue noise.

Being around water gives our minds and senses a rest from the world, it can calm us and transport us to another time to relive a pleasant memory. Which is the real reason for this post. Recently, my family gathered at the northern Michigan lake that was familiar to us all to say goodbye to our brother. He lived in Florida, but he was laid to rest 1800 miles away next to my parents in the family plot. We all gathered from three states for this brief encounter to the place I used to call home. As it is with many family gatherings, ours have its problems too. I shouldn't have been disappointed, but I was because there is always one who tries to be the buffer and make things right or makes excuses for those who think they're in the right. I'm that one. I am guilty as charged.

Upon arriving at the lake the first thing I did after checking in was to find a dock I could sit on and dangle my feet in the water. I have done this for as long as I can remember. Every time my parents vacationed at the lake in the summers, I ran to the lake soon as I opened the car door. After I moved to the lake as a teenager, I sought this aloneness every chance I could. I embraced my solitude of being by myself near the water. It was the one place being the new girl or popular or not fitting in didn't matter. The sound of the waves softly lapping the shore, the gentle motion of the fishing boat rocking on calm waters, and the smell of the boat motor gas did something to me. I suppose you could say, I transported myself to my happy place and did this once again thirty years after moving away. It was the gift I had given myself after a long stressful journey to get here.

All prior tensions was magically wiped away soon as I saw my pink polished toes in the water. I smiled and selfishly captured this moment in time for me alone. I thought about past years, the people, and many events that took place so many years ago. The moment I daringly plunge into the cool water my adult mind was engulfed with the fantasy of being the slim dark-haired girl of my past. The girl who wondered when a certain someone would be coming up to his parent's cottage for the summer or who I would see at the Music Box later that night. I emerged to the surface to catch my breath and caught the scent of a campfire in the distance and remembered the parties at a nearby campground. It all made me smile as I dove back under the water. The far ago memories danced like a rock song in my head keeping time with the beat of my young heart. I thought of my parents, my children and my husband. I thought of them with pride and with love. I thought of my brother who will be dearly missed.

The night before I was to head back home I saw a red pick-up truck with a business name painted on the tailgate. The beautiful Italian surname was that of that certain someone from my past. He was the boy I wondered about every time I drove by his parent's cottage when I came back home. I excused myself when I saw the person who it belonged to and asked if he was related to the someone I once knew. He said, “I am he.”

...Hangin' In the Breeze...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Sat, 8 Jun 2013 01:00:00 -0400

"The place where you came from ain't there anymore,

and where you had in mind to go is cancelled out."

We are critics, we all are. Sometimes we are our own worse critic, and not one person I know can deny the fact. The word critic and its elbow hard edges; C’s that sound like K’s and the “IT” in the middle that stands alone (remember how you felt when you were the "cheese," and the cheese stood alone?). You expect to see a gnarly pointed finger and the possibility of the oncoming spray of spittle that lands on your cheek and burns like acid. My mom used to tell me when someone points at you, remember they are pointing three fingers back at themselves. Those words should have given me some comfort, but they didn’t. In my case, my internal temperature rises; my heart pounds to a whole different rhythm, sweat beads undetected on my scalp, the tips of my ears begin to blush crimson, and I come back to reality when the nervous perspiration collects to form an ice-cold trickle down the v of my back.

Your critic leans back in his oversized chair, a smirk laces his thin lips and secretly gloats, confidant he made you feel exactly how he envisioned it. Patiently, he awaits the rest of your reaction. You’re speechless. That’s okay, take all the time you need to get it together, time is on his side, not yours. This same scenario could be the reaction to bad news. Like when someone tells you your life will never be the same, or the decision you’re about to make can affect not only your life, but also the lives of those you love.

Beginning a letter can be quite a daunting task, especially if it’s been a while since you communicated with someone. The following letter will get different reactions, but I have a very savvy following and most of you might get it…or maybe not. It’s been nearly eight months since I’ve last posted and sometimes (probably most of the time), I’m vague at to what I’m trying to say. It’s like the writer who wants and loves to write smut, but is afraid what his or her family and friends will think. I say, write it using a pseudonym, or screw what others think, and just write it. Did I just say that…coming from the queen of vague? Some of my posts I’ve been told “…are an exercise in reading undertones. Have you done any acting?” Yep, that made me laugh. Don’t we act out in one form or another every day of our lives? Think about it… I digress.

I haven’t determined if this will be my last post, too soon to tell at this writing but this may be the first of the final series of The Constipated Woman. You know what they say about all good things coming to an end…when another door opens, take a deep breath and walk through…Peace.

June 8, 2013

Hello My Friend,

It’s been a while hasn’t it? I sincerely apologize for being so disrespectfully remiss concerning my continuing correspondence. You may come to a few conclusions of your own, on what condition my condition is in. You may concur with others about a probable diagnosis to what may seem to you, an obvious problem concerning my delayed absence. Please don’t. Better yet, just have a party. If you love to have parties to celebrate the non-substantial and the senseless, then the subject of my well-being will make a great theme. Flavor it up with a black light, a ball of tin foil, some grease paint, and a little mood music like Iron Butterfly and take yourself a retro 60’s trip with a zombie theme. Yeah, yeah, that’s the ticket…call me and we can work on the details. That was extremely rude…sorry!

After all, I did make a pact with you, and I fully acknowledge I haven’t kept many of the promises I intended to keep. In the past, you frequently prompted me to indulge you with dark and voluptuous snippets of my life to maintain your loyalties. I tried and I came up short. Instead, I frequently arrived with pen in hand, my thinning hair uncombed, and balancing my cereal bowl size cup of coffee while dodging my over-indulgent cats. I sit on my fat ass at my uniquely crafted desk and prepare to write out on my arm for all to read, a watered-down laxative in the form of feelings. I am remiss of the reason I came. The cold coffee imprinted two halos inside my favorite chipped mug. I am remiss of spent time or the number of cups I drank. The sun is high in the sky and I am remiss about why I’m still sitting here.

I duly note a number of my obligations did not exceed some of your specifications. I tried to be your friend. I tried to convey, and I believe I succeeded in letting you know you are not the only one out there with dark and crazed feelings. Should you ask me tomorrow what I wrote today, I would be remiss of an opinion and promptly display a blank canvas.

Did I forget to mention what your words meant to me? Did I tell you how supportive you were? I am remiss. I know I might have waited too long to tell you I care and for that, I am sorry. Hundreds of daily emails have dwindled down to an infrequent handful of letters from cyber followers who have become my friends, and that’s okay...really. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging during my absence; I am not remiss of the guilt or the sense of commitment I promised. I realize seven months is a long time to wait and see if I happened to share some sort of whimsical enlightenment to make you laugh or cry. By now, many of you may have even forgotten my blog’s silly name or the purpose I began to write…that’s okay, you can be remiss of that. What I fear is leaving an existence I am becoming remiss of. I didn’t leave you I left myself. It’s not so puzzling, just frightening.

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

It was the playwright’s fault for setting the stage all wrong. The props, the backdrops, and the eerie musty draft from backstage…all wrong. He promised the audience something he knew I could not deliver. I told him not everyone could read between the lines. All eyes were on me and if I gave a second rate performance, it was his fault. The script was flawed; even an imbecile could plainly see he plagiarized my subconscious in an attempt to gain fame and recognition. It was he who made me forget my lines by his devilish pranks and subliminal actions off stage. It was he who made me the fool of the performance while the rest of the cast waited in the green room sipping on a mild degree of success. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter now because I am totally remiss of the events during the blackout. Was it the stage or was it the set? Yes, yes, that was it…the set collapsed, it was an obvious flaw in the design and structure…that’s the answer—which I am now certain of. I merged with the coulisse and watched the confused audience from the diffused wings of my manic thought balloon. Remiss.

Cleverly camouflaged amid the props I stood unnoticed. I froze and watched the audience with widened eyes and gaped mouths to see the massive conglomeration of their seemingly pathetic lives form over their heads. Did they understand any of what was happening? Of course, they did not. Did they see what I saw, or were they remiss their own lives were being anonymously played out before them?

When everyone twisted his or her heads for one final glance towards the stage, I believed I would be in agony if they found me out. I wasn’t, and was thankful. They, the perfect ones with their curled lips of apathy, whisper to one another behind cuffed hands hiding the mounting sense of panic. They gather their programs and their looking glasses and scurry towards the theater’s only exit in an orderly fashion. They were afraid. Their declining postures and outstretched necks told me they were afraid others would see the fading façade through the failing youth toxins. Those, with their perfect pompadours and french manicures desperately inhaled the trail of the dispersing phantom whiffs of sanity as it marched out the theater before them. I stood remiss of emotion.

It would be remiss of me if I did not share with you the vital role you have made in my life. I know you cared…I feel it now, and I felt it then. Please forgive me; I am remiss of your name and long for the days when I was untouched by an atrophied brain.

"Falter"

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Wed, 7 Nov 2012 19:02:00 -0500

The following thoughts are from my first guest writer. She has written her feelings about many of my blogs in emails and comments, and I would like to share this one with you. Her thoughts and feelings about the oncoming of winter have a new twist.

Falter

by: Pepper

Well...it finally happened. This morning there was frost on the truck, cold, crisp, clear, and frosty. At 6:15 am, I stood in my driveway staring up at the still night sky. So clear, every star that God has given us was out in all its beauty. The kind of sky that makes you feel like you could just reach up without effort, touch whatever’s out there, and bring it down and hold it. I guess that's what I did; I held what I saw in my heart and said a prayer. It felt good. It felt right. I thought if I can see through the sky without difficulty, could those in heaven see me as easily? It’s just another question in a mind so full of not knowing what to think about.

I don't really like this time of year. The leaves lie dead on the ground, cold, wet, and rotting into next year’s mess. The changing colors from summer to fall have all but gone now. The trees stand in their nakedness, looking sad in shades of black. They sleep without movement. Time stands still, as they wait for that blast of snow and the unforgiving winds that accompany it.

We have the four seasons, and I don't think I would be happy without them. We start with Spring rains, everything turning green and coming back to life. Summers...filled with warm days and nights and living outside in the sun...a special time of the year to gather at the lake and enjoy friends. Fall...the beautiful colors, warm days and cool nights, long walks in the woods, football and tailgating. Winter...cold days, and nights, cabin fever, and snowmen. Laughing with grandchildren while making snow angels, mugs of hot chocolate, and pots of hot soup...and the endless wondering if Spring will ever come again.

But there's that time between seasons when Fall is done, and Winter hasn't shown up yet. That should be our 5th season. And, I think it should be called, "Falter.” The dictionary’s description of falter is, 1. "To move unsteadily, stumble, totter. 2. To hesitate in purpose or action. 3. To lose effectiveness." Yep... "Falter," 1/2 Fall...1/2 Winter.

Now I go to work each day, and come home to a dark house. I sit with a book and sleep through a movie, and feel the total, "lose of effectiveness." Bring on the snow...lets get it over with…I will be in a mood until it does!

...Sticks & Stones & Words...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Fri, 26 Oct 2012 02:06:00 -0400

Remember the old saying, “Stick and stones may break my bones, but names and faces won’t hurt me.” Even though we may have said it in a lyrical sort of way, ending with a nah, nah, nah, nah, nah nah. It’s a dangerous lie. Words have spiritual value you know. They can create life in our spirit or they can produce death. Cruel words crush the soul and wound the spirit of the person.

I posted this quote on Facebook and after I did, a barrage of memories of my childhood in the early 60’s came flooding back. I remember my mother telling me to say this when I was at the mercy of some mean nasty kid that made me cry. I remember screaming it at the top of my lungs with tears in my eyes a few times at someone who hurt my friend’s feelings or mine. Sometimes it’s just hard growing up. We took the dose of childhood with a spoonful of caster oil, pulled up our big girl panties, and went forward. I was talking with my husband about our different childhood memories and he chuckled and gave me that look, you know the kind that says, hold on, stop right there, and then he blurts out, “Sounds to me like you were one of the mean kids.” Naturally, I gasped, “Not me,” I replied. “Well,” he says. “Sounds to me any kid that screams at another kid, ‘Your mother wears Army boots,’ is kind of a mean kid, don’t you think?”

“Humph.” Back in the early 60’s that was a common thing for kids to say if they wanted to be spiteful. “But, they said it to me,” I retorted. Any comment made towards someone’s mother was a personal attack. Fightin’ words to be exact. I grew up with a close-knit group of neighborhood kids. We were all born and were raised on the same street. We were the next generation of kids whose older brothers and sisters were in high school or already graduated. Our street was our territory and those who invaded it, most of the time weren’t welcomed. Hmmmm…come to think of it, what I just wrote makes us sound like a bunch of little bullies. I assure you we weren’t. And, we were not the new generation replicas of the Little Rascals either. But there were a couple times someone was initiated into our spur of the moment clubs. We did stupid things to them, like blindfolding someone and making them smell a concoction of rotten fruit that fell off the trees and ended up throwing rotten fruit at everyone in rotten fruit tag. We made up stuff to do and yes, there were a couple kids who were picked on more than others, but no one was ever immuned. Eventually everyone was the blunt of a prank, you know how the saying goes, what goes around comes around. It came around that eventually our school peers picked us on…something like a rite of passage without the ceremony. No one is inoculated from being victimized once or twice in his or her lives.

This leads me back to the beginning of why I started to write today’s blog. Words. Words are spoken from being hurt. Words are written when you’re hurt and can’t express them any other way. Both forms have hurt me. I have hurt others by both. Words can be vicious hooks with enormous power, becoming a living entity that grows, spreads, and influences others directly or indirectly. Words can be taken out of context. I am not above saying I have held grudges because of spoken and written words, hell, I’m the Queen of Grudges! One word, just one frickin’ word out of place driven by emotion can submerge a relationship. I know. I think of my mother cautioning me, “Don’t ever put in writing what you wouldn’t want repeated. You can never take it back.” She was a wise woman in many ways. Now, I will close and let you ponder the power of the written and the spoken word. Notice how it provokes and divides or calms and connects. Does it create and produce change? I have pondered the same questions and my own faults. I am increasingly more cautious in what I say and how I listen to the words around me.

Oh, and one last thought, if you ever hear a kid scream, “Your mother wears Army boots!” Tell them that you personally want to thank her for wearing them and God Bless Her!

Peace everyone...

...Another example of, "Here's Your Sign"...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Mon, 22 Oct 2012 14:13:00 -0400

Setting: A warm sunny afternoon in the mountains. We’ve been driving with no place in particular enjoying the colors of autumn when the thought of ice cream becomes desirable. There weren’t any ice cream parlors nearby, so we pulled into McDonalds.

Voice: “Welcome to McDonald’s. Would you like to try a warm apple pie?”
Spouse: “No thank you. Two ice cream cones, please.”
Voice: “Your total is $1.08. Pay at the first window.”
Spouse: “I ordered two cones.”
Voice: Hesitation. “Yes, I got that. Pay at the first window.”
Spouse: Do you suppose she took two separate orders? I shrugged my shoulders and considered where we were. “Who knows,” I replied.
Spouse: Pushes the order button and states, “I ordered two ice cream cones.”
Voice: “Yes, I know. Please pull up to the first window.”
Spouse: Shakes head and pulls up to the first window to pay. “That will be $1.08,” she says with her hand out.
Spouse: “I ordered two cones.”
Voice: “I know. It will be $1.08, and another $1.08 for the second order.”
Spouse: Hands the attendant $2.16 for both orders.
Voice: “Your change is $1.08,” and hands him back $1.08. “The second order will also be $1.08.”
Spouse: “Really? No kidding.” He scrunched his face and looked at me in disbelief. Shook his head and handed her the $1.08 for the second cone. “Stupidity knows no boundaries,” he says.

We drive up to second window to receive our order, another employee slides open the window and my husband chuckled, (I was really hoping he wasn’t going to comment on the first employee who I am referring to as ‘the voice’) and said, “Now I really got my laughs for the day,” pointing to the vinyl sign on the outside of the drive thru window.

I noticed the employee had a puzzled look on her face and once again, my spouse pointed to the sign that read, ‘Braille menu available.’
Spouse: “Duh…Now why would a person at a drive thru window need a Braille menu?”

Employee Two: She shrugged her shoulders. Dumbfounded she says, “I don’t know, but if you come inside you can see the whole Braille menu.”
I am trying to control my laughter as he hands me my cone. “I don’t think she got it,” I whispered, not wanting to hurt her feelings.
Spouse: “I’m sorry, but could you clarify this for me? If I am driving, why would I need a Braille menu?”

I was sure from the pissed off look on her face she was ready to get the manager to take care of the smart-ass patron harassing her. Obviously, she still didn’t get it.

Spouse: “I’ll answer for you,” he said amused. “If I needed a Braille menu I certainly wouldn’t be driving.”
Employee Two: “Why?” She shook her head and with a sarcastic expression, she let out a loud sigh.
Spouse: In a slow and deliberate manner he answered her question, “Because it would mean I would be blind.”
The girl at the window laughed, “Oh yeah.” You know, the kind of laugh that tells you she still didn’t get what blindness had to do with a Braille menu. We lost it when she said, “Remember, the next time you come back you’ll need to come inside to read the Braille menu.”

We were still kidding about the McDonald’s incident when we arrived at the mall a short time later. Dillard’s was offering a gift with purchase that I like to take advantage of. I didn’t recognize a couple new faces at the cosmetics counter among the familiar ones who were assisting other customers. The girl who waited on me certainly was pleasant enough and got the product I came to purchase. Then she came out with a great sales pitch about a similar product I should try. I told her no thank you because I was pleased with the results of the moisturizer I always use. Not wanting to lose a probable high dollar sale, she asks, “Can I ask which eye cream you use?” I mentioned that I get the same results from using the same moisturizing cream for my face, neck and my eyes. Her eyes widened and with complete astonishment, and she leaned closer to me as she assessed my skin. “Oh no,” she said shaking her head. “You can’t use the same products for your eyes that you use on your face. You could have some serious affects because of it…you could go blind or worse yet, the area around could melt or worse.”

I couldn’t help myself. I really didn’t think she was serious and I broke out laughing, my husband had to walk away because I thought his head was going to explode. “You’re kidding, right?” I giggled.

No, I honestly don’t think she was, kidding, that is. I’m not sure how to exactly describe the expression she displayed towards me. Was she appalled that I laughed? I don’t know. But, I am certain she was genuinely misinformed. I regained my composure and calmly mentioned that I’ve been using the same product for several years, and if I used all the products the company suggests a woman use to maintain a youthful appearing complexion, I would go broke.

Bill Engvall’s tag, “Here’s Your Sign” comes to mind in situations like the ones I just described. Engvall metaphorically gives these people a sign declaring their stupidity as a warning to others interacting with this person. Who knows, maybe we just happened to interact with some nice folks who were having less than a perfect day. We caught them off their game and therefore, seemed a little off-balance. Admit it, we all have those “dork fish” moments, I know I have. Some people refer to them as blond moments, senior moments, brain farts, or a barrage of other sometimes, unflattering terms when an ordinary person momentarily loses their sense of logic, and says or does something dumb. Abraham Lincoln’s quote also comes to mind in these type situations, “Tis better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.”

Have you ever watched ‘The Tonight Show’ when Jay Leno interviews random people on the street when he’s Jay Walking? The last interview I remember was when Jay asked a twenty-something year old woman, how many stars were on a flag that was whipping in the wind? She said she couldn’t count them because it (the flag) wouldn’t stop moving. What did these clueless people learn in school? It’s obvious from her answer she would also be clueless about the meaning of the stars, stripes, and what the colors of the flag represented. I know common sense is not taught, it is learned from basic practical knowledge and judgment through experience. But come on people, what are our young people being taught in school? This is the generation who will be making the decisions when we are old. Scary, isn’t it?

Peace...

Failure is only a delay...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Tue, 2 Oct 2012 16:57:00 -0400

...Bad Boys & Why We Love Them...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Tue, 2 Oct 2012 15:59:00 -0400

“…Sometimes I'm a strong man

Sometimes cold and scared

And sometimes I cry

But that time I saw you

Knew with you to light my nights

Somehow I'd get by…”

~Stevie Nicks, Leather and Lace

The setting: Menacing clouds continued to move in and hover our little cabin. Thunder rolled and lightening eerily illuminated the darkness. The rain plummeted against the windows and roof with force. It’s nearly midnight and a few friends, girlfriends to be specific, got together. The torrential rain made it impossible to travel unlit flooded roads. The local radio station broadcasted tornado warnings for several more hours, and with the affects of too much wine, we declared it a sleepover. After all, no one had to be anywhere specific the next morning.

I suppose one wouldn’t think of middle-aged women having a sleepover, but the thought of our younger days made us giggle at the suggestion of having an old-fashioned pajama party. Why not, we may be getting older, but some of us refuse to grow up! Candles burned and the conversations varied like the shadows on the wall from the flickering flames. The last and the longest topic we talked about was about boys. Yes, even at our age we still talk about boys like we were teenagers again. Specifically, the conversation was mainly about bad boys and what the attraction to them is. We all dated a few of these stereotyped boys, and a couple of us married them. (Most guys are probably rolling their eyes, you don’t have to finish reading the blog, but I invite you to stay.) Many of the women who have read the first sentence have their eyebrows raised and are now sitting on the edge of their chairs, thinking this may be juicy reading. The rhetoric from a few lit women won’t nearly be as spicy as it was that night, so, I’m just going to highlight the night in a PG rating.

I believe the conversation started when one of us mentioned she wouldn’t mind if a particular movie star, put his shoes under her bed, and naturally, the more recent parts he played were about the proverbial bad boy. Well…after we wiped the drool from our lips, and some racy comments, one thing triggered another and what followed were some observations about the bad boys we have known.
Some women/girls just happen to think bad boy types are more fun than the jock type guys. Often their boyish mannerisms, no matter what their age, these naughty guys take themselves less seriously, and are often the sexiest. Besides a simmering sensuality, these guys possess a strong physical presence…part primal, part alpha male, with a big dose of testosterone mixed in. They’re the sorts of men most women want to be with. The problem is, they’re likely to be in bed with someone else while you sit around waiting for a phone call.

The bad boys I’m talking about are not the social renegades wreaking havoc in society or the pretty boy toy types. It’s the rugged, Clint Eastwood kind of guy, not the accountant, or in the terms of my generation, the greaser, not the frat boy. Remember all the girls who fell for “The Fonz” in the TV series Happy Days? With the snap of his fingers, girls came cooing from all directions. It certainly wasn’t ole Potsy or Richie Cunningham they were interested in going after. Then there’s John Travolta in the role of bad boy, Vinnie Barbarino in Welcome Back Kotter, or the greaser part Danny Zuko, which the good girl Sandy Olson (Olivia Newton-John) fell for in Grease. The list of examples goes on and on. You see them at the movies, you read about them, and they are the subjects of country songs. These bad boys tempt women because most women find them hot, unpredictable, and mysterious. As outsider types, they are misunderstood or in need of redemption. They’re not bad men/bad boys, they just don’t play by the rules. They often have secrets, and often have been wronged in the past, making it a journey to have their faith in humanity restored.

When we got together for our little tête-à-tête, none of us imagined that we’d talk about this particular subject for the length of time we dedicated to it. (I see you guys rolling your eyes again…Quit! Unless, you’re one of the bad boys, I’m talking about! In that case, read on and let me know if we were off base.) These are some more qualities we discussed to be intrinsic of a bad boy. Bad boys tend to be a lighter sort of guy, not light enough to be considered happy-go-lucky, optimistic, or in any way traditional. The bad boys we’ve known were rule breakers and full of sass and brass, some came with a swagger and a deliberate grin that made you blush. They drove motorcycles and wore leather; they loved hot cars and drove them way too fast. There is something a little dangerous, sexy, irresistible, and macho about a bad boy. They are usually flawed, they’re risk takers, and they are impossible. We feared them and we loved them. They are the type of men women/girls are attracted to despite their mother’s warnings. They’re rebellious and yet magnetic, sort of like heat seeking missiles. Some of the bad boys even come from the wrong side of the tracks, and hated authority. Yet, they were memorable because they were often the most honest and even principled guys we dated. I wondered if the bad boys I crossed paths were somehow emotionally tortured, and haven’t reconciled their needs for love and family.

Most of the time, they avoid or have a hard time admitting they have vulnerabilities. And, the women who are drawn to them stay for the excitement and the thrill of the ride they provide. These bad boys were usually interested in freedom and adventure, over security and safety. Usually, they were unconstrained, untamed, highly promiscuous, and some considered themselves the black sheep of the family. They were not interested in maintaining a certain reputation. They were cocky, straightforward, and extremely self-assured. Bad boys are typically less than noble, or as under control as the straight-laced good guy. The overall conclusion is even when these bad boys are breaking hearts, seeking revenge, or walking barely on the right side of the law, we sometimes empathize with them and are truly fascinated by what makes them tick.

Are you wondering if the women/girls who are drawn to bad boys are bad girls? No, not necessarily. Many times, it’s not the aggressive female who is attracted to these types, but the good girls. The quiet, awkward, don’t make waves kind of girl who were never accepted into a group by their fellow peers, or the wallflowers that were bullied. They are magnetically drawn to the bad boys to be rescued, for protection and acceptance. Perhaps, some women/girls are able to express themselves more honestly and freely with a bad boy, finding friendship and not necessarily a relationship. Unfortunately, for most good girls who hook up with one of these alpha males types, they are sorry to say, penned with the same title, many times strictly by association. It’s the way society thinks. Oh yes, don’t get me wrong, there are the bad girls, and there are the bitches, an entirely different breed from the Pollyanna types who does a complete 180 because they no longer want to be someone’s verbal punching bag. But, that’s entirely a different blog for another day.

Karma

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Mon, 24 Sep 2012 23:27:00 -0400

...Finding Inner Peace

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Sat, 22 Sep 2012 01:03:00 -0400

...Why constipation? This is why...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Thu, 20 Sep 2012 00:39:00 -0400

“I am woman watch me grow

See me standing toe to toe

As I spread my lovin' arms across the land

But I'm still an embryo

With a long long way to go

Until I make my brothers understand...”

~Helen Reddy “I Am Woman”

I recently had lunch with a friend that I had not seen in a few years, due to our busy and changing lives. Catching up is nearly impossible to do in a couple hours, especially when you have family, children and grandchildren to talk about, not to mention a new marriage in the mix. Time flew by quickly and it was unfortunate that the employees at the café was giving us more than a few subtle hints without actually coming out and rudely saying, “Go home!” We really weren’t there very long, and certainly, we wouldn’t have decided to experience the new establishment if we knew they were about to close. If I recall, the hours of operation was not posted, or maybe they were and we didn’t notice. Anyway...

The short lunch didn’t dampen our afternoon, so, before going back to my friend’s home, we visited the owner of one of the town’s two hardware stores. This particular hardware store has been serving the community for many years and is a bit of an icon in the small town where I used to live, along with the lovely woman who owns it. She was as surprised to see me (it was probably the blond hair that threw her off), as much as I was delighted to see her. One subject led to another, and the topic of conversation led to the recent completion of my first novel. I gave her and a few others a quick synopsis without giving too much of the story away, then my friend told the owner about my blog and thought it might be something she would be interested in. After a short introduction about the blog and the purpose behind it, we had a lengthily exchange of theories why women have a need to find themselves when we reach a certain age. She then asked me what my blog was called, I knew I was going to hear the usual laugh and I nonchalantly said, “The Constipated Woman.” A few aisles over and obviously in earshot, I heard a man snicker which in turn made all who was part of the discussion chuckle too. I smiled and conveyed that the name is an attention getter, after all, isn’t that what every blogger wants?

So, what’s so constipated about it?” he inquires. That certainly was a loaded question, and since he was the only man in the store, I was polite. For those of you who know me, really I was (I mean, I really am…polite that is)! I explained I chose the title many years ago when I thought I was literally going to explode. I went on to tell them how I kept “it” all inside without ever expressing my feelings or my opinion, and getting angrier at myself and those around me for feeling helpless for not having the guts to do it, thus, getting more constipated. I wanted to tell everyone just what I thought about everything without naming names, no bars hold, like the style of an Erma Bombeck or Anne Lamott type book, but not be so politically correct, or “nice.”

I put it in plain words that constipation is a condition in which the emptying of waste matter is infrequent and difficult, and I wanted to create a forum to work like a laxative, where women (and men) could vent freely. Hence, the blog was born. He expressed his amusement with laughter and shook his head. I can imagine what he was thinking when he eyed me with a silly smirk before exiting the store. He nudged his wife and said, “I think I will now be referred to as the constipated mathematician.” And, I said with a wide grin, “Whatever it takes to feel better.”

How many women or men alike do you think hold “it” all in? More folks than you can imagine. Some people are fortunate enough to expel regularly, and the people who know them practically expect it. In fact, they could even set their watches by the explosive bouts.

I remember the expressions on a few people’s faces when I mentioned over dinner how furious I was at someone when I asked them, “Have you ever been so angry at someone that you wanted to shove gas soaked rags down their throat and set their f*%*!*g head on fire?” I felt an intense chill and I think I even clenched my jaw. “What the hell?” said one of the people sitting across from me. It was an awkward moment indeed. They sat on the edge of their seats stunned and wide-eyed. My ears couldn’t believe the words actually came out of my dainty little mouth, but there it was, unrehearsed. I have to admit, it was mildly liberating to break the Female Code of Conduct. One of my dinner companions was completely speechless, while the other produced a nervous laugh in the back of his throat. “And, who are you talking about?” he reluctantly asked. “No one in particular,” I answered.

Everyone glanced briefly at one another and I was I convinced they were thinking, “Okay, she’s finally lost it…haha hehe hoho!” How could that calm, don’t make waves, “nice” kind of person actually mention (out loud) doing something that horrific to someone. I don’t think they believed me when I said it was only a hypothetical question. My purpose was to provoke a reaction and I did…honestly, that’s all it was! (It’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it…)

That’s an example of what I wanted to accomplish. Have I done it? No…not exactly. I had to get other issues out of the way first. I tried to get my point across in a roundabout way without making my readers feel uncomfortable. This blog has been a healing process with the support of some very special people. I have received numerous emails from people who do not wish to comment publicly and share their personal stories about depression, rape, incest, and abuse. In a sense, this little blog has become a healing chain for them and for me. I have spent many hours reading and answering all the correspondence. I have made many friends on this journey, some whom I will sadly; never get the opportunity to meet. We became friends because of a common component…NEED…we all need something. Whether it’s acceptance, validation, love, or understanding, we need to understand the why of it all and nurture ourselves.

I would like to extend an invitation to comment and share your “Constipated” story. Make us laugh or make us cry, it doesn’t matter because it’s all about the journey and how we get where to where we need to be. Sound off, let your hair down and express whatever it is you need to say about anything you've bottled up for heaven knows how long. Everyone has a story!

P.S. I invite you subscribe to The Constipated Woman and have this blog deposited in your inbox. The best thing about it is, you can always remain Anonymous.

Soon, I will be posting guest blogs from other readers and subscribers. If you would like to submit some candid thoughts, please send your submission to my email or visit me on Facebook.

Until next time…God Bless!

Ramblings from an unfocused mind...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Tue, 11 Sep 2012 01:07:00 -0400

“I often warn people: "Somewhere along the way, someone is going to tell you, 'There is no "I" in team.' What you should tell them is, 'Maybe not. But there is an "I" in independence, individuality and integrity.” ~George Carlin

Today, was the first day in a few months that the temperature and the high humidity were lower, and naturally, it was a great day to be outside working on my semi-neglected flowerbeds. When the steady temps reach and stay near one hundred degrees, I don’t know about most people, but I eventually lose some interest when it’s a necessity to work in the yard. No mater how diligent I am about watering, fertilizing, and deadheading faded blooms, by the end of the summer the heat gets the best of me. And, if it’s not the heat, it’s a combination of that and the pesky squirrels that have eaten or dug up my incessant efforts.

I wonder what’s the use after putting so much time and money into a hobby that doesn’t last the whole season. Oh, I know the answer, it’s because I love the simplistic beauty that flowers provide, and more than anything, it’s the domino effect that thrills me. Plant flowers and they bring of course the bumblebees, but it’s really the brilliantly colored butterflies and the Ruby Throated Hummingbirds I patiently wait to visit.

I went out to pull weeds in the garden furthest from the house and mumbled more than a few four-letter words under my breath when I saw how those rotten little buggers (squirrels) gnawed what I thought were fairly sturdy plastic pots. When taking the baskets to the garbage containers, I happened to notice how full and luscious my neighbor’s roses were. This is not one of those cases where something actually looks better on the other side of the fence, because I can actually say those roses bushes were indeed stunning!

If you’ve followed my blogs long enough, you’ll know how one thought triggers another and then I’m off on a totally unrelated subject. Today is not any different. I mentioned before that I hum a lot when I do any tedious task, so, here I am looking at my neighbor’s roses lining her clear sparkling pool, and I recall the volcanic performance Bette Milder gave when she belted out The Rose, from the final scene of the movie by the same name. I loved that movie, but if you ask my husband his thoughts about it, he’ll shake his head, roll his eyes and say, “Don’t ask.”

When it first came out, I saw it twice at the theatre and once at the drive in. I know it drove my husband insane, but gracious as he was, he tagged along. The movie was based loosely on the life of Janis Joplin, who in the late 60’s (in my estimation) was the one female vocalist who could make you feel her pain and frustration about love, being in love, being afraid to love, making love or being jilted by a lover.

The emotional honesty about her music was what moved me. It’s also the kind of thinking that can get a girl mixed up in the emotional complexities of growing up too fast and making bad decisions about herself and her liberating libido. I believe Janis was a legitimately great blues singer with correspondingly huge personal issues that interfered with her music and ended her life. Unfortunately, for her and many other musicians who left this world before their time, drugs became a religious experiment and a movement of freedom.

All this makes me speculate about the world we live in now with billboards plastered along well traveled roads telling our young people, and reminding an absentminded parent to tell their children…just say no to smoking, drugs, and sex. I don’t remember anyone promoting, just be yourself…stand up to bullies…just say no to anything that doesn’t feel right when I was young. I wonder if the musicians of yesteryear would be with us now if there were campaigns telling them it’s all right to have insecurities. Probably not.

I can honestly say, “I’m glad I’m not grading this blog!” Writing is a skill, like any other and I seem to forget that when I write this blog. The main thing is to stay focused. For serious writing I do, but when I blog it is more an extension of self. A college English professor once told our class, "Many people don’t remain focused who have had bad experiences with terrible and mean teachers growing up, and with people for when writing is their means of expression." In my case, it was both. On this act of contrition, I refrain from any further conjecture tonight.

The Rose

By Amanda McBroom

Some say love it is a river

That drowns the tender reed

Some say love it is a razor

That leaves your soul to bleed

Some say love it is a hunger

An endless aching need

I say love it is a flower

And you it's only seed

It's the heart afraid of breaking

That never learns to dance

It's the dream afraid of waking that never takes the chance

It's the one who won't be taken

Who cannot seem to give

And the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live

When the night has been too lonely

And the road has been too long

And you think that love is only

For the lucky and the strong

Just remember in the winter far beneath the bitter snows

Lies the seed

That with the sun's love

In the spring

Becomes the rose

..."Life is Good"..."It's all good"..."Don't Worry Be Happy"...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Wed, 22 Aug 2012 00:52:00 -0400

“Thank goodness for all the things you are not, thank goodness you're not something someone forgot, and left all alone in some punkerish place, like a rusty tin coat hanger hanging in space.” ~Dr. Seuss

Bob Marley’s song, “Don’t Worry Be Happy,” was playing on the local radio station. It was the last song I heard before I went out and mowed the grass, which seemed to have sprung up an additional three inches overnight. I hummed the tune while the lyrics played in my mind. With each pass across the lawn, I started thinking about the accuracy of any of those popular expressions and how my more human nature wanted to argue with the statements. Things in my life and the lives of others did not always seem so wonderful. Dr. Seuss once said, “In my world, everyone's a pony and they all eat rainbows and poop butterflies!” I know the statement is absurd and may even put a smile on your face, but how can we pretend everything is good when so many painful things are happening to people, animals and to the earth itself? Wouldn’t it be better if there were peace, prosperity, and happiness for everyone, and all parts of the world were treated with the greatest kindness?

This beautiful planet and its inhabitants have been suffering for a long period of time. We have experienced all kinds of fear-based events. People of one country, religion, or race have been taught to hate those who are different. We have felt powerless to create the lives we want, where peace, love, health and prosperity prevail. We have stood by and watched Mother Earth being devastated from wars, pollution, and a plundering of her resources.

This planet has been a difficult place to live and many have realized that the right thing to do is to learn from our mistakes and do whatever serves the highest good of all concerned. Yes, life can be good. It can all become good by watching and experiencing extremes of what didn’t seem fair and right, and protest such unfairness whether it’s in our private lives, in our communities or world wide. The awakening we are experiencing is growing. We have faith and our combined energies are shifting to hopefully make all our lives all good.

Some of the things I have learned

I’ve learned that maturity has more to do with what types of experiences you’ve had and what you learned from them.

I’ve learned that a diploma hanging on the wall doesn’t make someone a smart or decent human being.

I’ve learned the school of hard knocks may be the best education out there.

I’ve learned that money doesn’t even the playing field and is a lousy way to keep score.

I’ve learned that members of your family may not always be there for you, nor are they always biological.

I’ve learned that a stranger can change your life in a matter of minutes.

I learned a secret could change your life forever.

I’ve learned that book smart is not the same as experience on the job.

I’ve learned no matter how hard to try to protect your children, they will eventually get hurt, and you will hurt in the process.

I’ve learned that real heroes are the people who do what has to be done when it needs to be done, despite the consequences.

I’ve learned that the people you care about most in life are taken from you too soon.

I’ve learned to tell someone what he or she means to you because we’re not promised another day.

I’ve learned to be at peace with my flaws and imperfections.

...I Remember You...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Thu, 16 Aug 2012 01:46:00 -0400

A vacation is supposed to make you feel revived. When you come back home you should feel rejuvenated and re-energized to take on the world again. But when your vacation involves a poignant journey into your past it can reveal a lot about the person you have become. You can either come home renewed or depressed. Nothing about the vacation I returned home from this summer was anything less than uplifting. Time flickered away like the many candles that were burned, and before I knew it, two weeks had passed. Secrets, splendid points of view, and spirited conversations arose.

Adventurous antiquing, good food and being back in my home state surrounded by the beautiful Great Lakes filled the gaps of my heart as we consumed a variety of good wine. Girlfriends and Sisters of the Heart made this one of the most memorable trips I have made in a very long time. There is enough joy in my heart to last me until the next time we all meet again.

I recently invited my son to lunch. He wanted to know, and I wanted to tell him, where I went, and whom I met with. Well naturally, I brought pictures to the restaurant to give him a slide show. After all, what is a good story without pictures? When he came upon one of the pictures of myself with two other women in a restaurant, he wanted to know who they were and how they fit into my life. I told him about that particular evening, and as I told how the events unfolded it brought tears to my eyes.

It all started many years ago when two girls were born three days apart and lived two doors away from one another from the day they were born. I’m talking about my friend Sue, and me. I liked to rub it in when we were kids about being the oldest, but it was always in fun. We were the first two babies to be baptized on the same Sunday at the same church. We went to the same schools, and did all the childhood things together, learning to ride bikes, skate, and no matter what we did, it was non-competitive, no quarrels, and no jealousy. We did everything together and for the most part were inseparable for many years, especially during the formidable and character building years of our youth.

I moved away after we started high school. I was so mad at the world during that time, I abandoned my childhood friend and my prior life and reinvented myself (I’m not going into that historical era, because it’s irrelevant to this story). Sue was my Maid of Honor when I married two weeks out of high school, it only seemed fitting she would be the one. After that, our lives became very different, and although she was forever in my heart, we drifted apart.

We reconnected during the past couple years and agreed to meet half way from where I was staying and from where she lived. Sue was bringing her 93-year-old mother with her, who I considered my second mom growing up. Mrs. S’s law was my mom’s law and if I screwed up or misbehaved, she had the inherent right to scold me like one of her own kids. But, I also remember many hugs and kind words that made me cherish those growing years.

Mrs. S suffers from Alzheimer’s and has for some time now. Sue told me she may not remember me because she has days she doesn’t recognize her own daughter or other family members. I assured her it didn’t matter, because I remember who she is and who she was to me. They arrived at the restaurant shortly after I did, and in a blink of an eye, the past forty years was blurred and I saw my friend and her mom as I remembered so long ago. I fought back the tears, because I knew there would be plenty when we said good-bye. The wait staff graciously ushered us to our own private area to reminisce, which ended up being way too short. I thought Mrs. S may have remembered my mother or me from the bright glimpse in her eyes when Sue tried to convey who I was, but the conversation was thwarted in a matter of a few minutes. Flutters of memories flashed in my mind, I saw her laughing with my mom and planning our combined birthday parties, the Mother and Daughter Banquets we attended with our grandmothers. I smelled the cookies she made and the warmth of the hot cocoa she fixed after we froze ourselves ice-skating, all of which seemed like yesterday.

Like all good things, they sometimes come to an end. I hate goodbyes. I loathe the sinking feeling I get when the words pass over my lips. It’s inevitable and you know it’s going to happen. It doesn’t mean you have to like it, you just accept it. Placing my sunglasses on before the tears welled in my eyes, Sue and I hugged. I hid what I dreaded the most…another goodbye. I reached in the car and hugged my dear friend’s mom, and as I did, she kissed me on the cheek and said, “I love you, Mary Louise.” In that instant, I was reduced to being six years old again.

...Log Cabins, Sweet Red Wine, Laughter & Bats

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Wed, 8 Aug 2012 17:38:00 -0400

There are some people in life who bring out the best in you. With them, you are able to say whatever’s on your mind. You connect with them in a way that’s easy and unforced. ~M

Pick any one of the title words and there will be a story to follow. Ask any one of the four middle-aged, once hippie types females who spent a week together in a log cabin with one bathroom and uninvited midnight visitors, and each one will tell you their version of exactly what happened. The short of it is, (sorry girls) we once again became little screaming girls coving our heads with beach towels as we dodged the unwelcome flying critters.

I often wonder when things happen in three’s if there’s a symbolic meaning to it. In my life it has, it’s usually been either good or bad and rarely anything in between. But, being the curious woman I am, I wanted to know what the meaning of being visited by bats on three separate occasions meant. Let's face it; the bat isn't the most popular of animals. In fact, it's largely misunderstood and so therefore, many of its symbolic meanings are inappropriately fear-based. So together, we delved into the meaning of bats from the Native American perspective and this is what we found out about them after the last sleepless night in cabin number one.

The Native American animal symbolism of the bat comes from keen observation. These spiritual people recognized that the bat was highly sensitive to their surroundings and so therefore was considered a symbol of intuition, dreaming, and vision. This made the bat a powerful symbol for Native American shamans and medicine people. Often the spirit of the bat would be invoked when special energy was needed, like "night-sight" which is the ability to see through illusion or ambiguity and dive straight to the truth of matters.

The bat is a highly social creature and has strong family ties. They are very nurturing, exhibiting verbal communication, touching, and sensitivity to members of their group. The bat also symbolizes awareness of your surroundings and sensitivity to the feelings of others and perception on a psychic level. The bat is a symbol of rebirth and depth because it is a creature that lives in the belly of the Mother (Earth). From the womb-like caves, it emerges every evening at dusk; and so, from the womb it is reborn every evening.

Native Americans view the bat as a commitment to spiritual growth and self-improvement. It helps us reap some of the most profound rewards like:
· Dying to our ego
· Loving our enemies as ourselves
· Going within to touch our inner demons
· Exploring reality (which can be scary)
· Renewing our thoughts and beliefs on a moment-to-moment basis

All of these tasks can be harrowing experiences. This is why the Native American symbolism of the bat deals with initiation, because this creature takes us to outlandish extremes, and rest assured, the bat is never leaves our side while we are journeying.

Interestingly enough, our small group of like-minded women saw the symbolism of our nocturnal visitors. We came together after thirty-five years to a familiar place and put our differences and our pasts behind us. We touched and buried the demons that made us who we are and what we have become today because of them. We forgave one another for acts of betrayal. We talked, we cried, and we drank a lot of wine. We held onto one another and we laughed sometimes in a stupor for the lack of sleep. We did this until seven days passed.

These are a few things I leaned from this experience; incidentally, most of them are intrinsic of the Native American bat animal symbolism:
· Illusion
· Rebirth
· Dreams
· Intuition
· Initiation
· Journeying
· Inner Depth
· Communication

We were up early that last Saturday morning, our faces hurt from smiling, our throats sore from talking, our eyes red from the tears and lack of sleep (or was it from the burning sage and cigarette smoke?) After an emotional goodbye, we all went our separate ways hiding our tears behind our dark sunglasses and will ardently await our next reunion.

“It takes a while to earn the title “girl” friend and a lifetime to know its true meaning. But once this person enters your soul, she will walk forever beside you…”

Why does it have to be this way?

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Sat, 30 Jun 2012 21:00:00 -0400

"Three may keep a secret," wrote Ben Frannklin, "if two of them are dead."

I wish I were one of the few lucky people in the world who sees everything through rose-colored glasses. I am not. I wish I were one of those who think they were blessed with no character flaws. Once again, I am not. I am a practical person with realistic and down to earth values. Occasionally, I do lean in the direction of being a misanthropist when I get on my soapbox, and today is one of those times. I am deeply saddened. I feel I should have done something to alleviate a situation many years ago, but I did not. I didn’t know how. I am angry. I am angry with myself. Period.

I read the words on a social network post, that someone, a family member, is in the care of hospice. She didn’t want anyone to worry or fuss over her and kept the burden about having the ‘Big C’ to herself after being diagnosed terminal a few months ago. I know that is the kind of person she is, and I have accepted that. The truth about her life is the anger within me that has no limits. I don’t know where or how to begin to write about her tragic life, when my thoughts are reeling of guilt.

This is a story about a family with a few dirty secrets and turned a blind eye to help a child in need. Secrets that became an exercise in avoiding the situation, driving a cleft between those in the family who know the secret and those who don't, and members on the two sides are driven apart by the knowledge. We all knew who was harmed, and who was being protected. We were all noble enough to perpetuate this secret, clearly knowing how damaging it was. It’s a tragic story of abuse on all levels. I asked myself, “Where was God in all this?” Who knows…maybe this is the answer.

The first time I saw her she was nine months old. She was a preemie that wasn’t much bigger than one of my dolls. In fact, she was a blonde haired cherub, with big trusting eyes and pink cheeks. She joined our family fifty years ago with the union of marriage. She was a sweet child who always wore a big smile and as she got older, she became the scapegoat for everything that seemed to go wrong in everyone else’s life. I’m not going to write about her demons and how she coped with them. We all have our ways, some self-destructive, some not. But what I can tell the world is that she is truly a good person. She’s a loving mother and grandmother. She’s a trusting, sensitive, and caring person for as long as I have known her and I love her very much.

This story is not finished...it has yet to be written...

...Remembering Dad on June 17, 2012...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Thu, 14 Jun 2012 13:36:00 -0400

Here it is…almost Father’s Day. Every time this special holiday rolls around for the past thirty-four years, I find myself in a bit of a funk missing my dad terribly. I am not going to write a story about my father today; nor am I writing a story about myself. This will not really even be a story; there is no beginning and no end, unless you say that I was born and later on he died. The middle is only a collection of incidents that mean something special only to me.

I wanted his company after he died. I wanted his voice in my head. I wrote because I didn’t want the conversation to end when we were finally getting to know one another on a different level. I needed to continue to think and write about him, so I could have the last word. I wanted him alive. I wanted to introduce him to people who mattered to me. I wanted him to be there to hold my children and see me graduate from college. I wanted him to see in the face of adversity, I did succeed.

My dad was a gentle soul, mild and introspective, artistic in disposition even though he never finished the eighth grade. He was admired for his kindness and generosity. When I look back at my childhood, my dad was the quietest of mythic heroes, the kind that followed his own dreams and encouraged me, not by preaching, but by his inner sense of what was right.

He was the first man I ever saw with tears in his eyes. He wept as he mourned for the loss of his brother. His eyes welled with tears when I came home after running away, on my wedding day and the day he first saw my newborn daughter. I saw and felt his anger and disappointment when I rebelled, stayed out past my curfew, and got caught doing a few illegal things. He forgave me and loved me in spite of my own flaws.

Those well meaning but flawed human beings who love their children and yet, like my own father, have a hard time putting their feelings into words. They have a hard time inserting themselves into the private bond of mothers and daughters, and they have a hard time knowing how to deal with their daughter’s fledging sexuality. To most daughters, fathers are perhaps the most personal topic of all, you can’t escape them and yet feel you can’t quite pin them down.

This anthology is not complete, as no anthology on this powerful and universal relationship between a father and his child could be. This is not so much about who my father was, or what my father did, as about what he could make me feel.

For those of you who have fathers still here on this planet, give them a hug and tell them “Thanks.” They did their best, even when it may not have always produced the best outcome. They loved you in their own ways, even though sometimes that way was difficult to understand. They are proud of you, even if they never say or said it.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

I love you and miss you…

"Doodle Bug"

...Blow me to the wind...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Mon, 11 Jun 2012 02:59:00 -0400

Not long ago my son told me of a cemetery that is on one of the most haunted cemeteries list in South Carolina and so naturally, I wanted to check it out myself. The first thing I asked him was, “Did you sense anything while you were there?” He said, “No, but I want to go back at night.” My reply was, “Take me with you.” We haven’t done it yet.

The cemetery was abandoned many years ago after the adjacent church burned to its foundation. With a little investigating, property records show it is presently owned by a private enterprise, namely one of the real estate moguls in the area. Which makes me wonder what will eventually happen to the property, and the remains of those buried there. I didn’t sense anything while I climbed over briars and decaying trees, except for an overpowering sadness that the gravestones held the names of many prominent families of the late 1800’s and were forgotten. Two of the graves were ravaged of the contents, headstones smashed and were crumbled, sunken in dirt under years of decay foliage. Many of the graves were children under ten years old, and my thoughts drifted to a time when a high percentage of children died from communicable diseases with a speed and virulence that amazes us today. There were no transcriptions left on most headstones except a small indentation here and there of a partial name or year. A weathered stone to indicate a resting place only marked many more graves.

You’re probably thinking where is this leading, is this blog about haunted places and abandoned cemeteries? Well, it’s neither. A question arose in a conversation with a friend a while back, and more recently, the same discussion was the topic of the evening. The question being, “Do you want to be cremated or buried when you pass away?” My answer was to be cremated. This upset my friend who came back with this, “My family buries the dead, and we also take burial pictures in the coffin which to some may seem disrespectful, but for us it is historical documentation. To just destroy Gods work in the burial process seems so wrong…”

I disagreed with my friend. I pointed out that I believe it depends on cultures where burying is normal, people bury their dead. In other cultures, they cremate them. Being buried or cremated is a personal decision. The Bible shows that Joseph had his father embalmed. (Gen. 50:2, 3) Jesus was bound with bandages with spices, as was Jewish custom. (John 19:40) The important thing to me is that the custom does not go against any of the Bible's teachings. After all, no matter what method one uses to dispose of the dead, we can all hope to see them again in the resurrection. (1 Thessalonians 4:13) “Moreover, brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant concerning those who are sleeping in death; that you may not sorrow just as the rest also do who have no hope.”

As a Christian, I know that when someone dies, they cease to exist. "His spirit goes out, he goes back to his ground; in that day his thoughts do perish." Ps. 146:4; "The dead ...are conscious of nothing at all." (Eccl. 9:5) Many people believed that the destruction of the body by fire was the thought that it made the resurrection of the body impossible. Resurrection is the accountability to God... "Every one of us shall give account of himself to God" (Rom. 14:12). "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap" (Gal. 6:7). "It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment" (Heb. 9:27). Our bodies are just vessels given to us in hopes of spreading God's word and help humanity, but as for the dead "they are conscious of nothing at all . . . Their love and their hate and their jealousy have already perished . . . There is no work nor devising nor knowledge nor wisdom in Sheol [mankind’s common grave], the place to which you are going." (Eccl. 9:5,6,10)

I showed my friend a picture I took of a tree that grows on the grounds of the Santa Barbara Mission in California. It completely unnerved me the first time I saw it. It's massive trunk and branches are ashen in color and smooth as skin. There were no birds that landed or nested within its branches. It grows in the middle of the courtyard behind the church taking nourishment from the thousands of remains buried underneath, all missionaries, priests, nuns, and Cardinals of the Catholic religion. I asked my friend, “Is this the biological life you feel goes on being part of the earth?” To which I answered my own question, “My ashes, whether they are buried (per my wishes) on Mackinaw Island or thrown to the wind, will move on because they are still part of the world we live in. Who knows, maybe I will provide nourishment for one of God’s creatures…thus, my life will go on as well.” I ended my sermon.

During the last days of my mother's life before cancer completely ravaged her mind and body, we talked about this subject often. I told mom I was afraid to die. I abhorred the idea that worms and insects would ravage my body. After telling her my fears, I listened to her and her views on death and everlasting life. She was content to leave her cancer-ridden body to know she would share in the resurrection of the righteous. And because of that faith and teachings from the Bible, she was freed from the trepidation of dying. I am not afraid of dying because of what she taught me. It was the last gift she had given me and today that "spirit" lives within me. It’s helped me move on to be the example of the human being God wanted us to be. We should not continue to grieve, we should rejoice in the lessons our parents taught us, that we might teach and love others.

Peace…

...I Got You, Babe...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Thu, 24 May 2012 13:57:00 -0400

Here's a toast to the future

A sigh for the past

We can love and remember

And hope to the last.

And for all the base lies

That the Almanacs hold

While there's love in the heart,

We can never grow old.

~Unknown

Forty years ago today, the final preparations were being made for the wedding that will take place in four short weeks. With time running out, my parents and my new in-laws were still disagreeing about the reception and where it would take place, the food that would be served, and the guests who were to be invited. Every day I sewed pearls and sequence on the wedding dress and veil my mother made for me. Many things crossed my mind during the time I hand sewed the details on my dress. It would have been so easy to elope like we planned and save everyone, including us a lot of headaches, bickering, and the financial obligations of having a wedding. Getting married and vowing to spend a lifetime with someone, for better or worse, is a tall order for two kids who just finished high school. The decision wore at me until I panicked. Four weeks to the big day, time demanded I confront those fears with the dark haired boy sitting next to me in the dining room of our first home. My mind wasn’t on the task of tediously addressing invitations. With every envelope I sealed, I felt myself becoming more stressed. I wrung my hands under the table trying to hide my nervousness and like someone possessed, the words poured out of my mouth, “I don’t think I can do this.” “Do what?” he asked. “Marry you,” I blurted staring out the window. The announcement was cold and unfeeling and it was too late to take it back.

The silence was overwhelming in that small dining room. I felt as though the ice green walls were going to smother me for breaking his heart. In my mind, marriage was supposed to last forever, when you agree to “until death do you part.” You accepted each other’s weaknesses and imperfections, and all the good and bad times that were part of the pact. Not only was it my religious beliefs, but also the way it’s supposed to be when two people truly pledge their love for one another. Forever is eternity. I just wasn’t sure at that very moment I could make that promise, or if I would, or wanted to be his forever. I told him what I had been hashing over in my mind and the fear and confusion I felt making a lifetime commitment.

The warmth of his hands eventually broke the surreal moment as he reached for mine and held them tight within his. Tears streaked his young face as he professed his love for me. He told me he had loved me from the first time he laid eyes on me. He told me what was in his heart. At that very moment, sitting at our small second hand dining room table, I really looked into his eyes and saw into his heart. I knew I loved him more than life and made the decision to be with him and to never look back. Oh, once in a while I wonder what would have happened if he took his love that day and walked away. I also wondered how that split second in time would have defined the rest of our lives. But...this is not a story of how life went on and we lived happily ever after. It’s not about the birth of our children nor is it about the deaths of our loved ones. It's not about the joy and heartbreak a couple endures. It’s not about our spirituality or the possessions we own. It’s not about trust, honesty and compatibility. It’s as simple as seeing the look of pure love in someone’s eyes. The unspoken words that the eyes reveal when they tell you are the love of their life that you always was, and always will be. It's the gel that meshes two people together...

One of our favorite things to do for the past 40 years is to scour for antiquities of the distant past and to find that one of a kind something that had meaning to each of us even if it meant digging, dragging, and hauling it from different areas of the country. One of our many shared interests has always been music and its many genres. More specifically, we love old gramophones, or as they are referred in general, the old talking machines. We have found many through the years but not one that had heart.

A few weeks ago, we happened to be browsing a shop we hadn’t frequented in quite a while. I usually go my way and my husband goes his, both of us searching to acquire a lost treasure. I already made my way to the farthest end of the shop and was peacefully browsing for some of the things I collect, when my husband comes around the corner, grabs my hand, and drags me with him to the opposite side of the store. “Why can’t it wait until I got done looking?” I protested. “It can wait,” he said. “What I need to show you can’t. You have to see what I found.” Well, you guessed it, my curiosity was peaked!

After practically dragging me to the farthest corner of the shop, there stood a beautiful mahogany sideboard hidden behind a montage of items. “What do you think?” he asked after he zigzagged through the maze and stood beside it. “Beautiful,” I replied. Indeed, it was a beautiful piece of furniture but I wasn’t sure if I needed something that ornate. He flashed me that devilish boyish grin that makes me melt and says, “Wait there’s more.” He revealed the cabinet had three compartments, and the one on the right was a phonograph. “And…it works!” He cranked the handle, placed the arm on the record he had waiting on the turntable, and the scratchy sound of Ethel Waters singing Stormy Weather began to play. Tears welled in my eyes and what I refer to as, “that mushy look” washed all over his face. When our eyes met, we both knew it was ours. “Do you think the records come with it?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders and before he could answer, I hurried to the counter to inquire about it. The answer was “yes.” When I returned to my excited spouse, he was closely examining the cabinet and the phonograph components. “Not only is this solid mahogany, it is hand carved. Look here, you can see a few chisel marks…” he pointed out. I ran my fingers over the cabinet’s detail as another record played. I didn’t have to say I wanted or needed it when he whispered, “Happy Anniversary.” I was given the Hope Diamond of record players to commemorate forty years of an ongoing hunt.

So, here it is...the new addition to our home, a Meteor, The Star Of The Talking Machines. We brought it home last Saturday with its original finish and placed it in its special place. Upon picking it up, the owner of the antique shop told us there were two owners of the phonograph, the woman who originally purchased it est. 1905, and her nephew who inherited it. His aunt would be pleased to know we've been having a wonderful time playing the old 78's to the flicker of candlelight in the evenings. It will take a while to play all 150 of them...Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, George Gershwin, Jimmy Dorsey, Ozzie Nelson collections along with some children’s stories and early country and jazz. Al Jolson, Ben Bernie, Paul Whiteman, and a few Enrico Caruso songs also grace this stack of vintage records.

I know “Auntie” will be smiling down on us this coming June 24th. We will be dancing cheek to cheek like we did years ago in the high school gym. The Peerless Quartet will be singing Let Me Call You Sweetheart, and we will be momentarily lost in time. Sometime during that sublime moment, we’ll tip our wedding glasses filled with a soft red wine, we will toast to the here, the now, and to our future, and hope that the warmth of our affections survive the frosts of old age…

...Remembering Opal...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Fri, 11 May 2012 20:52:00 -0400

“The common fallacy among women is that simply having children makes one a mother…which is as absurd as believing that having a piano makes one a musician.”

On this Mother’s Day, I would like to pay tribute to another woman who was a significant part of my life. She was a mother to me for another twenty-three years after my own mother passed away. My first, and most prominent memory was when I was about to become a member of the Sharpe family as their daughter-in-love, not just an ordinary daughter-in-law. Mom Sharpe made it very clear when I married her son, that I was every bit a daughter in their eyes, and in their hearts.

Opal was the youngest of eight children and didn’t grow up with many luxuries. Her parents were farmers, as were her grandparents. They nurtured their family on the values of selflessness, generosity over materialism and modesty over conceit, and she raised her children in the same manner. Growing up, her family lived off the fruits of the land, and enjoyed the splendor of life one day at a time.

When I think of my dear friend and “Mom,” floods of memories fill my mind. Endless conversations, filled with laughter and tears, special moments shared over hundreds of pots of our favorite beverage, coffee. I often thought she was trying to fatten me up by the number of times we used to sneak off for ice cream during the hot summer afternoons following our marriage. She mentioned it was a good excuse to leave a hot steamy laundromat while the clothes were in the dryer, and I couldn’t have agreed more.

I am reminded of her generous nature and her giving heart when our family went through some tough times. I loved her sense of humor and admired her for never giving it up at the end. Opal’s laugh was infectious, I never knew another woman who enjoyed a good practical joke as much as she. Just thinking about some of the pranks we pulled on her makes me smile.

Mom Sharpe took with her, stories we have not heard, or secrets we may not have discovered. How can I do justice to the task of packing a lifetime into a few words? I can’t. Not any more than I can write about my own mother in a few paragraphs.

Each one of us is put on earth to learn, share, love, appreciate, and give of ourselves. None of us knows when this fantastic experience will end. Perhaps, knowing such wonderful people in our lives is God’s way of telling us that we must make the most out of every single day as Opal, my mother-in-love did. Remembering is all that any of us can do, and the way I remember her is the way she will continue to exist in my world.

I welcome the course ahead because I had help getting here from a few amazing women. For if I have learned nothing else, it is that the journey will always be unfinished.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

Opal Sharpe

1924 - 2004

...Beer Blog...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Thu, 3 May 2012 16:19:00 -0400

“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.” ~Oliver Goldsmith

I recently told my friend I had so many things I could blog about, but deciding what the day’s subject would be is another toss of the coin. I could write about my ongoing fight with depression, but not today. Today the sun is shining, I feel fulfilled in my life and good about my mental and physical state. Don’t mess with karma, right? I could write about completing my first novel, and how I am letting it rest patiently in a drawer, so I can look at it with fresh eyes one day soon, but not today. I mentioned to her that I enjoy being a homebody, working in my yard, planting, mowing, and doing all the things it takes to keep a presentable landscape. You know how it is keeping up with the Jones’s and their professionally manicured yard…it’s grueling!

After much consideration and a smile on my face, I decided to write about beer. Yes, beer! I came from a long family line who enjoyed the golden concoction, most everyone that is, except me. With the popularity of new brewing companies popping up in every town, I have succumbed to the substance every Irish pub serves an abundance of, or a proper polka party can’t do without. It hooked me on one blistering Saturday afternoon, and if I remember right, it happened something like this… We, (as in my spouse and I) were hauling and placing new mulch about our shrubs since well before noon. The sun, the heat, and the high humidity made it hotter than Dutch love in a sauna. My partner in crime disappeared into the house and when he came out, he had a small cooler filled with ice and a several beers. I have to confess, it was difficult not to turn down a cold one, especially when the liquid is enticing me through a frosty mug right out of the freezer, “Drink me, you know you want to!” Ugghhh! I took the offered beverage, downed over half of it before it began to quench my thirst. Yes, I had been seduced, and I liked it. I liked it so much that day I had several more while spreading mulch (I think I used the excuse I was sweating it all out).

I know our taste for different substances change as we age, but never would anyone ever hear that I actually liked the taste of beer, let alone ask for one. My sister-in-law once told me I must not be a true LaRocque because I didn’t like beer and can become inebriated sipping “sissy wine.” (Please, give me a break…yes, she was laughing when I tripped going up the stairs to bed!) That sweltering Saturday last August marked the day I drank more than one golden elixir, the day was perfect, the company was first-rate, and I never went beyond acting silly. All this is coming from the girl who usually gets dizzy sniffing bottle caps!

I will never be a beer connoisseur, nor do I want to be. The summer afternoon I mentioned happened only once, but there is another hot summer day that comes in at a close second. (Oops, I shouldn’t have let that slip out!) If there happened to be contest among family members for burp talking then maybe I’d consider drinking it more often (probably not). My family gets a kick when I let my hair down, for them, it’s a rare sight to see me dance on the table (figure of speech)…but, I assure you, I don’t or have ever participated in a public hooley (at least I don’t remember)! If you’re wondering if I’m drinking a beer right now, I’m not. Geez, I hope you’re not getting the wrong impression of me! But, come to think about it, I think I have to finish up a few things out back!

When I think of beer on a warm summer’s day I can’t help but think of the fond memories I have of my dad, sipping on a Stroh’s longneck and listening to Tiger baseball on a transistor radio. He loved baseball, and as I recall, he never attended a professional game. Here’s the setting at our house for Game 7 of the 1968 World Series. My family gathered to watch the pitcher’s duel, Detroit’s pitcher Mickey Lolich, and St. Louis Cardinals pitcher Bob Gibson were both dominating the mound, both keeping their teams in the Series. Only one would win the duel and the Series. The Tigers had already been victimized by Gibson twice, striking out a Series record 17 times in Game 1, and managing only one run on five hits in Game 4. Lolich had already won two games in the Series himself and it was doubtful he was up to the challenge of taking on Gibson in Game 7. Lolich spun a gem, with only a ninth-inning homer by Mike Shannon spoiling his shutout as the Tigers won the World Series in seven games. It was a grand day even for me to see the Tigers win the Pennant, fresh beers for everyone and my dad’s famous hamburgers were part of that celebration. Summer, baseball, swimming at the lake, hamburgers, hotdogs, backyard games, and picnics were some of the best memories I have associated with the certified beer drinkers, I call family.

We recently went to dinner with another avid beer drinker and his lovely wife at one of the local brewing companies I spoke of earlier. He swirls his beer in his mug, examining the color and the aroma, while we all roll our eyes. Then in an English theatrical sort of way, he states (I’m going to adlib here) that good beers are powerful in an obvious, nose-punching way, but the best beers rely on the subtle subversions of the norm for their strength. The discerning public seeks it out, they consume it, they let its flavors coat their palates and its essence infiltrate their souls. They ponder, and move on to the next in an eternal cycle, which to the outsider appears intimidating at best and inane at worst, but to the connoisseur it is simply glorious. Each cycle presents fresh insights, a new chance to observe the majesty of creation and the beauty of innovation. Yes, our friend is a bit of a diva…sorry son, we love you and know you’re only searching for the perfect beer!

My dad’s birthday is May 8th, if he were alive, today he would be 105 years old, and if he saw me with a longneck in my hand he would smile and nod and never question my new acquired taste. We both would silently relish the memory when he saved a sip of the frothy substance at the bottom of the bottle for me when I was young, like he did with the rest of my older siblings. I didn’t like the taste then, but I was delighted in the moment he and I shared.

So in retrospect, if I could go back in time, I would want it to be in our old Detroit home. I would be an adult, not the fifteen year old I was when we moved. The soft breeze through the bay window carries the scent of freshly mowed grass into the room. I would be sitting across from my dad at the 50’s style red and gray kitchen table anxious to grant him my birthday wish. I would proudly lift my amber bottle and tip it in a casual toast and say, “Here’s to you dad, I hope you don’t have any plans next weekend because I have two tickets to the Tiger's home game! Happy Birthday!"

Raymond J. LaRocque May 8, 1907 - January 26, 1978

...Have you had your daily hug?

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 02:43:00 -0400

Her voice was soft and tender; they looked into each other’s eyes when I heard her say, “Walter, am I your bliss?” My cousin didn’t know I was around the corner when she said this to her spouse of fifty-five years. “Always,” he whispered back, confirming it with a gentle kiss. These two very special people hold hands wherever they go even if it’s in their garden. If they sit at the table over a morning cup of coffee, Walt will instinctively reach for Fran’s hand and pat it lovingly. And, the affectionate fixation of their eyes on each other over a shared Frosty, I know they see themselves as forever young.

I think it’s just amazing how a simple loving touch could effect change and could make the world a better place. My cousin also practices reiki healing. She is teaching me how essential touch, and the energy from touch has in healing properties. I have always realized how touch affects me and therefore, I have become a hugging type of person. I’m not a hug-a-holic mind you, and yes, I try to size up the person beforehand, body language being the usual indicator if someone is a willing recipient, or if they stiffly straighten their transparent, “Don’t touch me,” sign. Once, there was a particularly awkward moment (fortunately, I can only think of one), that I have ever been told by a relative, they didn’t liked to be hugged, “Not by anyone!” (My internal reaction was, “Exxccccuuuuuusssse me! What kind of a butthead doesn’t like to be touched?”) But, I politely apologized, smiled, and extended my hand, which was accepted with a hearty handshake. Whew!

Hugging, for me was a gradual transformation. My mother was a very affectionate person and when I was a teenager, I wanted to break loose of that bond, you know, the independence thing. One snowy afternoon, my sister, my mom, and myself were dancing and goofing around in our living room, when all of a sudden mom put a bear hug on me. My first reaction was to push her away, and out of my fifteen-year-old big mouth, I lashed back by calling her a queer. The words were out, too late to take them back, and to this day, I will never forget the shocked look on her face. I made her cry. Instead of saying I was sorry, I too, was shocked what came out of my mouth and ran to my room slamming the door behind me in shame. Today, I look back at that spiteful incident, and know it was an outburst of rage prompted by a prior unresolved incident. Unfortunately, I took it out on the wrong person. Several years went by after that adolescent eruption, I never apologized to my mother until a couple months before she passed away, when I laid next to her on her bed with her arms around me, and this time, we both cried.

The older I get, I have noticed how skin hunger/touch in any form is a sad, growing epidemic in our society. The elderly and disabled are at the greatest risk of being neglected, due to living in isolated homes and do not venture far from home from fear of victimization. Families are living further away in different states or countries keeping them from being close to their loved ones.

I read recently that the United States is known for being one of the lowest on the scale of touch or intimacy, and blames it on three trends. The first being technology. Yes, we can communicate with anyone at any time around the world, but it also dehumanizes physical interaction. Secondly, families live disconnected lifestyles because of urbanization and the loss of extended family. More families include careers for both parents, leading to less interaction with children. Children are taken to daycares in lieu of having a grandparent care for the child. Third, we live in an extremely litigious society, where touching someone can be deemed sexual harassment.

It’s hard for me to believe the United States rates at the bottom of the list when we have come to recognize the human touch as a healing mechanism. The healing-touch can be found in therapeutic massages, the most well-known and accepted method of healing sore and injured muscles. It is also known for reducing overall pain and engendering a feeling of relaxation and spiritual well being in the receiver. And, for those suffering from skin hunger, a massage may satisfy cravings. People live longer and happier lives if they receive a warm touch from a friend every now and then. A pat on the pack, squeeze of the hand, or a gentle hug can heal ailments and make both you and recipient happier.

Your hands are your body's second eyes, they allow you to experience and interact with the world. Through your hands, touch is sight. It allows you to perceive texture, shape, and form. Touch is important for survival. When a baby arrives into a strange world, he or she makes sense of our surroundings through our skins. An affectionate touch told us the world is safe, secure and a warm place to live, much like our mother’s uterus. Touch comforts us physically and mentally. Touch is the first sense to develop in the womb and the last sense to leave in old age. I don’t know who it was that stated human beings need four hugs a day for survival, eight hugs a day for maintenance and twelve hugs a day for growth, but, I tried to enforce it with my kids and I thank God they never pulled away!

Touch is a fundamental requirement of life, and I hope if you’re reading this, you will reach out and give your loved ones their required amount of hugs for the day! Just think of it as another essence and quintessence of life!

May the good Lord take a likin’ to you today and bestow you with many hugs!

...Morning Coffee...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 12:51:00 -0400

Thirty years ago, I would have never (and I mean that with a capital ‘N’) done what I do now most mornings. For example, I would have never sat and contemplated the world through a picture window. There wasn’t any time for such idle nonsense. What I would do is check the thermometer, looked to the sky for rain clouds and drink my coffee while putting my makeup on. I would have been speeding around the house like Speedy Gonzales, getting ready for work, putting a load of wash in, making lunches, eating on the run, and rushing around during morning rush hour shuttling kids off to school before the daily commute to my 9 to 5. All of this, I did before I took my first breath of fresh air!

If someone told me back then, I would be sitting at my dining room table drinking coffee out of a coffee mug large enough to be a cereal bowl and watching a variety of birds coming and going as they build their nests and forging for food in my backyard, frankly, I would have said, “Yeah, right, in my dreams!” That dream was like all the rest I had...it wasn’t going to happen any time soon!

This morning instead of reading or writing I took my bowl-sized cup of coffee outside and watched, and listened to nature in and around my little world. Once I managed to block out the usual sounds of daily commuters, I focused on the wonders going on in my own backyard and how it applies to the world in which we live. The ants were marching one by one, collectively working together to support the colony. Inchworms were measuring the Marigolds (really, they were...I have Marigolds in the flower garden). Social butterflies flitting around flower to flower. Blue Jays, Robins, Morning Doves, Wrens, Hummingbirds, Blackbirds, and Cardinals feeding on the abundance of seeds, bugs, and acorns that our yard provides. All of them minding their own business, except for the pesky mosquitoes and flies, which are not prejudice who or what they irritate. And lastly, no matter how many times we’ve tried to discourage the squirrels from digging up my bulbs, they sneak around and loot the garden with the quickness of a thief.

By no means am I an expert on this subject, and it doesn’t take someone with the intelligence of Einstein to observe how human and animal social structures interrelate. We interact with a variety of similarities, the obvious being, to live we need oxygen and nourishment, but what is similar is how practical attempts to survive on a daily basis are solved. I believe this is starting to sound like a term paper, so the best thing for me to do is back up, punt, and get back to the simplistic ponderings I started to write about. Recently, it’s been pointed out to me how easily I can get off track and wonder if it’s a medical thing…yikes!

Returning to my harmonious moment in the backyard garden, the similarities I saw were; social groups, employees, families, homemakers, thieves, home wreckers, racism, acceptance, and to sum it up, an industrial nation of living creatures making their way to survive in the world. I am saddened when I hear of a senseless act of violence on TV, and wake the next morning to find a pile of feathers, knowing an innocent little life was lost to a predator. I am filled with joy when I hear the newly hatched nestlings being fed by their nurturing parents. I am angry when a flock of Crows scares off the other birds or raids a nest. I am satisfied when the Red Tailed Hawk runs the Crows out of its territory with the precision of a fighter jet.

Off in the distance the sound of a train whistle echoed, taking my mind back to a different time. A reminder when my life was filled fulfilled with simple pleasures, like the smell of Lilies of the Valley and Lilacs. Searching for the elusive four-leaf clover and making clover necklaces, Kool-Aid tea parties and running through a sprinkler. When was the last time you poured yourself a generous cup of coffee or tea and listened (I mean really listen), to the great symphony nature performs for free?

Enjoy your day with peace and love…

...Pondering About Change...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 12:36:00 -0400

“We are taught you must blame your father, your sisters, your brothers, the school, the teachers - but never blame yourself. It's never your fault. But it's always your fault, because if you wanted to change you're the one who has got to change.” ~Katherine Hepburn, Me: Stories of My Life

“They say a leopard doesn’t change his spots; do you think that people ever really change the way they are?” This was the topic of a few conversations I’ve had recently. These are a few more responses I heard, “The only time in the lifetime you can change someone is when they are in diapers.” Another one was, “People don’t change, they redirect, i.e. a recovering alcoholic is still an alcoholic, they are just redirected.” And another response, “Change is much easier if one is motivated to change. If one is unmotivated, it is difficult, if not impossible, to force a change just because you want it to happen.” This question usually pops up when someone is frustrated with another’s behavior and has “tried everything” to get that person to change his ways. When nothing makes an impact, the pessimistic conclusion is that change is not possible.

In my opinion, for what it’s worth, there is truth in each one of these statements. I’m not sure if I entirely believe in the first response, but it did make me laugh. I believe the second statement is more accurate. Change doesn’t take place magically like it does in fairy tales. Sure, you can fantasize that people can change their habits the way they change their clothes. Just do it! Snap out of it! Out with the old and in with the new. Kiss a toad and find a prince. Sorry, this is not the way change works in the real world. Someone can't change if they can't see themselves doing anything wrong. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

I believe people can change, but I believe change takes time. From my personal observation, change that lasts precipitates from a crisis or some earth shattering epiphany and it doesn’t always include certain character traits. You have to feel it in your marrow before real true change can happen. When change happens quickly, I’m not certain it rarely lasts. It’s exhilarating when someone is stimulated by a motivational speaker or captivated with the achievements of reality show contestants, or even momentarily electrified by a spiritual leader. I know, because I have felt those temporary sensations. They are great ways to jumpstart change. But I also know that meaningful change, like honesty, love, and trust, must survive the test of time.

At times, I have thought that a narcissistic personality prohibits a person from truly changing. I discussed this notion with a “professional” and he confirmed much of my thinking is true by enlisting these following comments: “Narcissists seek out relationships that will feed their ego. People in their lives are treated as extensions of themselves. Whatever they want, the other person should want. Narcissists can, at times, by quite generous with others. Their generosity, however, has to feed their ego and their sense of importance. Narcissists need continuous validation from others to feel good about themselves. Feeling empty on the inside, they have an insatiable need for praise and acknowledgment from the outside, and show little empathy for others. Looking at a situation from a different viewpoint is either foreign to them or is shrugged off as unimportant.”

Yes, this was a fascinating conversation, which makes me ponder the phenomenal success of social networking websites. We show others our narcissist tendencies when we feel the need to post something about our lives (which I’m guilty of) and wait for others to “like” or “comment” on our statuses. We look for those we lost touch with until our eyes bleed, the jock, the cheerleader the most likely and the less likely to succeed, the old lover, the nerd, and of course, our childhood friends. We continue to judge them by the content of their posts, only to discover, in our minds, some of them have never changed. So, why do we continue to be voyeurs and continually visit their profiles to validate our suspicions? The answer…the need to know is inherent of human nature, and to prove without a doubt our suspicions were right. After Harry left Sally, what became of him and had he changed his cheating ways? Who did Sally marry after the break up? Our feelings, our lives, our children’s and our grandchildren’s lives are displayed for John and Jane Q World to see and interact with. While we are looking at them to see if they changed, they are looking back at us. Did we measure up to their expectations? Scary isn’t it? Then you wonder about change…

...I Believe in Angels...

noreply@blogger.com (Monica) — Fri, 6 Apr 2012 00:10:00 -0400

I sit here gazing at a blank page. The page is blank, but my thoughts are not. I have the urgent need to express some of them, but don’t know exactly where to start. I like being so consumed by an activity that my feelings about whatever I am thinking becomes a reality (well, eventually).

I planned to mow the grass, but the dew is still heavy. Instead, I decided to pull weeds on this cool Spring morning. About a half hour into weeding, I happened to look up to the sky when I heard the rumble of a large transport plane heading north. My first thought as I curiously watched the plane, was Tattoo standing next to Mr. Roarke. He was pointing to the eternal blue sky over Fantasy Island informing his boss he saw, “Da plane, da plane.” Then as quick as my jumbled up thoughts about an old television show left my mind, my thoughts drifted to angels. It was no surprise to me to be thinking of angels when I saw the military aircraft, and I couldn’t help but say a short prayer asking God to protect our men and women serving in the military, especially my nephew.

When I look to the sky, somewhere amongst my thoughts is always God and His wondrous creations, and how very fortunate we are to be a part of His plan. I also relate the level of clouds to the nine celestial hierarchies of Angels. I attended Catholic school, and was utterly fascinated by angels. We didn’t learn as much as I would have liked, so I studied about them on my own, Seraphim, Cherubim, Orpanim, Thrones, Dominions, Principalities (prince of angels), Powers, Archangels, and Angels (our guardian angel). I was taught at an early age, God assigns one guardian angel to each person as a spiritual friend for the person’s entire life on Earth. From the moment we are born, to the day we die, we are surrounded by their watchful care and intercession. Beside each believer stands an angel as protector and shepherd leading that person to eternal life.

Back then, that was a lot of information for a young mind to ponder. It disturbed me knowing an unseen entity is watching over my every move, like dressing, bathing and going to the bathroom (yes, these are things kids think about). I eventually got over musing about those trivial events and wondered if intuition was actually my guardian angel talking to me through subliminal messages, or thoughts. In my mind it was, and therefore, I took heed of most of those messages. Several times, I avoided accidents or something told me not to do what I really wanted to do, making me a believer in “trust your gut.” I have also heard that angels are thoughts or messages from God. Yes, there is much to be said about the subject of angels, far more than I am educated to write about. I never studied Theology and can only express what I believe in and have experienced. And, this is what I believe about angels.

I believe we see an angel in every child’s face.

How can you not believe in angels when you hear a children’s choir?

I believe my friend when she says Seraphim has comforted her after the loss of her husband.

I believe the look of serenity on my mother's and my mother-in-law’s face before they passed away was due to their angels taking them to their eternal home.

I believe angles help our friends lift us up in times of need.

I believe that if an atheist makes snow angels, they believe.

I believe my brother felt the kiss of an angel as a child.

I believe an angel was with me when I miscarried.

I believe an angel called my name. It was loud, clear, and unmistakenable.

I believe you experience their presence in music, scents, and in the splendor of nature.

I believe if you believe in God, you believe in angels.

This is an example how my son became a true believer. A few years ago a call came into our local 911 area, a homeless drug addict had overdosed. The paramedics on scene hooked the leads up to the patient to measure the electrical activity of his heart, and before they reached the hospital the man flat-lined. The attending medics were able to shock the heart back to life by administering medication. The diagnostic tool (EKG) recorded a series of abnormalities on the graph paper after they got a pulse, which clearly looked like the outline of an angel. When the ambulance arrived at the hospital the man who was not restrained, sat up, insisted on not being treated, and literally walked away. I saw the diagram my son printed out and it was like nothing I have ever seen. The tape was sent to the medical university to be studied after the equipment was thoroughly checked out. The anomaly was written about in medical publications to which no one has an answer to what exactly happened in the ambulance that day. The consensus among the paramedics was to accept the unexplained, and believe, that angels do indeed, exist.