Easier than anything I'll ever do again

I heard our song the other day, that awful country thing you sang to me while we stared into each other’s eyes all those years ago. I thought of you standing there in the lavender shirt I loved, the one that picked up the lavender in your beautiful, soulful eyes. I remember the long dark lashes, the wavy black hair, and how …wait, I remember why you were there. You had just returned after having left two weeks earlier with out so much as a “see ya later”. I was the idiot who was tangled naked with you in the bed sheets within an hour of your homecoming. Okay, it wasn’t just the sex, you had to know I loved you and would have followed you down the toughest road you could imagine. You left again of course, giving up what could have been your salvation. I wonder where you are from time to time, but since I never knew where you came from, or where you went when I finally sent you away for good, there’s no point in looking. The picture of you standing there, sheepish grin, eyes flashing fire, fine as fine has ever been, will stay with me forever though. And that stupid song, it still gets me every time.

Dawn comes 'round again

I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. I am working diligently on a serious piece I want to submit for publication. Eva’s whirlwind arrivals and departures always leave me a bit pensive, but mostly I dread the upcoming holiday season. I have noticed that Christmas lights are suddenly appearing in stores and houses, while my front porch still sports pumpkins and autumn leaves. As I passed through the living room last night my husband was watching “Charlie Brown Christmas”, reminding me of the deadline I set for myself for leaving him. While I’ve been gathering my courage, I have also been trying to talk myself into staying. I asked myself, why now? Heaven knows things are no worse than they have been in the past; in fact they aren’t as bad. I know I’m the one who has changed, regained my confidence, found my pride again. He made an effort after I told him it was over, but he can’t sustain it because it didn’t come from any conviction on his part. He says I have changed him a great deal, but I’m not sure of that anymore. I made his life more comfortable. I made him look good to all our friends and family. The only time I showed my anger was when he was too drunk to remember anything. By the next morning I was calm and reasonable when I related the horrors of the night before to him. I let it slide, year after year, and tolerated his duality. I was unwilling to leave the gentle, loving father of my children, but to have that man in the daytime I had to live with the drunk at night. For these few months I thought the vampire might be able to change his nature, but we’re almost back to where we were before. I just heard him pick himself up from the living room floor and head down the hall to the bedroom. I’m not going to warn him this time.

The Idiots Guide to Zen

The calming music is stuck on a 60 second replay loop and the room is dark and decorated in shades of brown, teal, and orange. There are flickering candles, and an atmosphere somewhere between a high class brothel and a hospital operating room. After charging through a busy noisy day, I am suddenly thrust into a deprivation chamber with no human contact, and I am beginning to have scary little visions of the world outside changing so rapidly while I am stuck in slow motion, that I will not recognize anything when I step outside the door of the spa. Facials” my girl said yesterday, “are amazing. We have to get one Mom”. So that was all settled, and here I am setting in the darkness, having rushed to make my appointment, only to be told it’s going to be a half hour late, that I can’t talk to my daughter who’s already in with Deborah getting her treatment, and would I please turn my cell phone off? I search through my pocketbook for a pen so I can at least write, but I must have dumped them all in the car when it overturned. I pace from end to end of the tiny room and then out into the hall. I am embarrassed to admit that I have no capacity for relaxation right now, no desire for quiet meditation, and no interest in even sitting down.

I make a dash for the front door and pull out my cell. I call my son to find out what time our dinner reservations are, but he has no idea as Eva had been gone with his car since early that morning. Cold in my light jacket, I decide I must face the music and head back to the muted tones of the perfectly appointed room. An attendant drops by to remind me of the importance of hydration, and goes off to fetch me water with lemon. I alternated drinking and pacing until I see a door open in the darkened hallway and a smiling Greek goddess emerges and immediately begins to apologize for being late. Eva is getting dressed she says, and I mull over in my mind why one has to get undressed for a facial. My girl gives me that do not embarrass me look the minute she sees me, so I keep my questions to a minimum. When my turn comes, I take my clothes off with out a murmur, slip under the sheet in the darkened room, and wait for the talented Deborah. She enters with a smile and tells me we will start with a sensory journey, which I would have sworn was total BS until the smell of the Bergemot hit me and I felt myself physically sinking deeper into the soft heated table. After an hour with her plying me with lotions, hot towels, massage, and some reflexology moves, I was not only relaxed, I was ready to reconsider my sexual preference. I’m not sure paying someone to make me feel that good is legal in Virginia.

When I emerged almost 90 minutes later, my children were waiting to go to dinner, but on the way we had to stop by the Apple store and buy Eva a computer. I floated through the evening calm and relaxed, extending my debit and credit card numerous times. We ended the night at an amazing restaurant where my children had all American artery clogging steaks, almost raw, along with salad and potatoes. Did I mention that she’s vegetarian too, but like me, not a real righteous one? We stumbled upon the weekly special at the restaurant, all wine at half price, so we had a bit of the hearty house red while Eva recounted her shopping adventures. She had just as much fun as I did at Kiss and Make Up and discovered she was also wearing the wrong size bra. She also got new running shoes to jog off that steak, and lots of accessories and clothing. Jason and I just sit on the other side of the table, totally entertained, me still calm, relaxed, and glowing from my facial. Tomorrow, or even next week I will think about the money. I am grateful now that I have excellent credit, wonderful children, and the good sense to live in this moment.

LUNGS...ON...FIRE!!!

Trailing my warm up jacket behind me by one sleeve, watching the retreating backs of my 20 something spawn of Satan. Oh, wait, those are my lovely children. This is my fault, as usual. Since I have been putting in about two miles or more on the treadmill everyday for the last three months, I insanely believed I could keep up when my daughter said, “Oh, Mom, would you like to go out for a jog instead?” I did pretty well the first mile, except for the intervals when she and Jason ran backwards and Eva insisted it was just so she could talk to me. I could still form words at that point, so after the mile warm up she realized if I could still talk I wasn’t pushing myself enough. Then the fun began. I am proud to say that I made it home alive and I did the ab workout with them afterwards. It was so good to lie down on the floor, even if I didn’t get to stay prone for long.

She’s in the shower now getting ready for another marathon, this one at the mall. She’s still on London time, so when I woke this morning all the empty wine bottles we left on the table last night after dinner were cleaned up, the table was pristine, and she even ran the dishwasher. I’m off now to make coffee and make sure my debit card is in my wallet. I know, but it’s a small price for the excitement she brings with her. I do love it when my girl comes home.

This from a dear friend, the kind every woman should have

WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...one old love she can imagine going back to and one who reminds her how far she has come...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own even if she never wants to or needs to...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE …something perfect to wear if the employer or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...a youth she's content to leave behind...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old age...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .a set of screwdrivers, cordless drill, and a black lace bra...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE…one friend who always makes her laugh... and one who lets her cry...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family..
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal that will make her guests feel honoured.
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...a feeling of control over her destiny...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW. ..how to fall in love without losing herself...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... .how to quit a job, break up with a lover, and confront a friend without ruining the friendship..and how to change a tire...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...when to try harder... and when to walk away...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... ...that she can't change the length of her calves, the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW......that her childhood may not have been perfect...but it’s over...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW….what she would and wouldn't do for love or more...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... .how to live alone... even if she doesn't like it
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...whom she can trust, whom she can't, and why she shouldn't take it personally...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... where to go... be it to her best friend's kitchen table.. or a charming inn in the woods... when her soul needs soothing...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... what she can and can't accomplish in a day.. a month...and a year...


According to this, I almost have it all. Wish I'd gotten the list sooner.

REMATCH

They didn't even have to ask me. My boss sent me an email this morning about the next paintball game. My exact reply was "Bring it on". I got a new email just now with many added comments from around the office. One of them said, "Told you she wasn't concerned about the bruises..." My only problem is that my cover is blown. Maybe I better get some practice in this weekend. Oh, and that new gun I saw, and maybe some better ammunition. Anyone else up for a game December 3?

Standing on the threshold is great for earthquakes, but not such a good place to live

My girl, the force of nature, will be here next Saturday. We’ll be in the kitchen together on Thanksgiving (American that is, November 23) cooking up free range organic turkey, probably stuffed with something that cost $30 an ounce and she needs about a stone, or maybe a little more for her recipe. Is that okay? I will roll my eyes and try to say no as she drops it in the cart and I’m still calculating the American equivalent in pounds. She didn’t know how to boil water 3 years ago, but she has since become a chef. She does nothing by half measures, charging full force through grocery stores and protest marches. She has no strings attached and she offers no apologies. Thanksgiving will be all warm, homey, family time. If anyone, and by that, I mean me, tries to bring up unpleasantness, she will tell us we need an adventure and whisk us off to Mexico, or maybe just up the side of a sheer cliff, with no rope or any visible means of support. I can just see her retreating backside, face turned around to mine, “Come on Mom. It’s not that hard.”

There will be no rain while she is here, or if there is, she will somehow stay dry and in the sunshine. Right now it’s raining like gangbusters and the basement is flooded. My husband took the week off to clean the gutters and do some maintenance on the house, but he never got around to any of the chores. The pump that empties the east end of the drainage field was clogged and not running. The gutters, full of those lovely autumn leaves, overflowed and sent torrents of water down unfamiliar pathway around the foundation of the house. I moved the electrical cords, turned on all the pumps, opened the garage door to drain that area, and then got him up off the floor where he was passed out again. I don’t feel like being down in the water right now, so I’m hiding out upstairs in the computer room because, well, it’s my birthday. No big deal really because I require no brass bands, or standing ovations, just an hour away from the deluge, please.

Someone put an emergency procedure manual in my cube the other day. I looked it over because evidently there will be a test. Each section begins exactly the same, REMAIN CALM. Everything from nuclear war to bee stings will be simple to deal with if we just don’t panic, according to my manual. It included floods, but had nothing that would help me with this marital quagmire in which I am firmly stuck. I try to remember the last time I panicked in a crisis and realize that would be never. I stood in the hospital emergency room holding a significant piece of my oldest son’s scalp in place while the overworked Doc went off to look for needles and sutures. I pulled a blue toddler from a screaming mom’s arms and removed the piece of hotdog from his tiny throat. I stayed inside and called 911 when my insane husband decided to clean the gutters in a lightning storm and fell off the roof. He does tend to procrastinate, but I saw no reason for both of us to die that night. So, we’re back to the rain. It’s still falling and it doesn't show signs it’s going to let up. So why do I whine to the computer instead of packing my bags? Do I love crisis that much? Am I such a big egotist that I don’t think anyone else can deal with this train wreck? Or just maybe, do you hear it boys and girls? That high childish soprano that rings out in the background, “Sun-ul come out Tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar…” I wish I could smack that curly red wig off her little optimistic head.

I DO LOVE THE GAME

My husband, you remember him, right? My husband came to bed at 2:30 this morning, sober, woke me, and asked if I wanted to go to a hockey game Saturday night to celebrate my birthday. Whoa! Can an old dog really learn new tricks? We haven’t been to a sporting event of any kind for more years than I can count and I’m not sure who is to blame for that. He is a spectator and will watch any sport on TV, but I never got the feeling he liked live games as much. No play by play or analysis no doubt. I on the other hand have not the slightest interest in TV sport, but the live games, well, what’s not to like. As I lie there in his arms, he tells me he likes the changes I’m making in my life. It only takes me seconds to analyze that one. I am becoming more like the girl he married, before the weary days of being the one in charge of everything weighted me down, figuratively and literally. After long years of taking me for granted, he still likes the chase, the feeling of insecurity I have given him. We have come a long way in the short time since I told him I was already out the door. I still don’t know what I’m going to decide, but my life is certainly much more interesting than it was before. I have the freedom I needed and it seems to suit him as well as it does me. He never asks questions about where I’m going or what I’ve done anymore, and he’s mostly quit drinking. That “mostly” thing is the kicker, but still, a hockey game! I have to give the man credit; he’s still knows how to get my attention.

Strange Day

I am feeling a bit nervous. Net nanny is gone I can suddenly access my blog and everyone else’s from my desk at work. One of my outbound calls today that came up automatically on my dialer was to my mother in law. That was a hoot. My candidate, the Democrat, won in Virginia. My boss moved me to a window seat, and there is a man hanging outside on the 3rd floor, washing the space behind my head on this windy, rainy, day. My boobs are covered with purple bruises.

Is that you God? Well, you can just forget it. I'm not changing my plans for the evening.

It was only a flesh wound

I smell like wood smoke, I have 4 technicolor circular bruises across my chest, a patch of pink paint I can’t seem to wash off my neck, and a pile of sweaty, leaf and mud covered camouflage clothing in the laundry. On a more positive note, I have no wounds anywhere on my backside like the IT guys I killed, my face has a nice rosy flush, and my adrenaline level is way off the charts. In other words, I have a new favorite hobby. It was righteous! All the bad hits I took were after I had already declared myself dead. Evidently yelling "I'm out" is the best way to draw fire in the take no prisioners paintball game. I took one clean shot to the head, and a few sideswipes that were in the rules as killing blows. I took out the best player while I was being fired on in two directions, and almost got the other sniper. The contest was declared a draw, but I think we all won a day of great exercise and good fun. I also think I shouldn’t have any more trouble getting my computer problems fixed in the future.

They're going down

I’ve been a busy girl today traveling both to the sex shop and the gun store. Now that got your attention, right? You think there was a story in there, wouldn’t you, but actually the two are unrelated, just a few of the errands on my list for the day. Before you let your imagination go too far I will mention that the guns my son and I purchased were of the paint ball variety. I took him home before going to the Kiss and Make Up because no matter how liberal a mom I am, well, he’s my son.

I had no idea there was a sex/spicy lingerie shop in our rather conservative burg until last week. My, my, that was interesting. A very nice Jewish lady named Ruth asked what size bra I wore, and then flung open my jacket, and so help me, felt me up! She then announced I was not a C, but a DD and went about proving to me she was right. After trying on half the store, I went home with nice unmarked pink bag of 10 silk and lace items more expensive per ounce than gold, and feeling pretty happy with myself.

I carefully hid my new naughty things in the back of the lingerie chest I inherited from my Mom, listened carefully for sound of enraged angels for a moment, and then joined my son in the back yard. We spent an hour racing about the yard killing trees with splats of yellow paint. It seems pretty easy and fun, but of course trees don’t fire back. I realized we needed more ammo after a short time, and headed back to the store. The sales clerk remembered me. After all how many crazy, red headed women come in to buy paint ball guns and camouflage on the average day? He looked me in the eye and said, “You’re really playing paint ball, hum?” When I answered in the affirmative, he gave me a cool appraising look and said, “ Take lots of pictures.” Our rendezvous with destiny is on Sunday, when we will be fighting it out with the IT department on 20 acres of woodlands in New Kent County. I’m glad Jason is going with me. Unlike the guy in the gun store, and the tech support guys on Sunday, he knows it’s dangerous to underestimate me.