Buddhism 101: The Four Noble Truths

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

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

The eight-fold path:

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

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

Happy Channukah, Merry Christmas ... namaste.

Joint Custody and Early Onset

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red flag - but I shrugged it off as Cuban.

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

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

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

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

This was going too fast.

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

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

Early onset alzheimers or disrespect? Both are red flags.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am the man.

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

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

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

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

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

The Hobbler suggested we meet at Casa Blanca.

There is no Casa Blanca Mexican restaurant in Fort Myers.

I corrected him ... "Cabasca's?"

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

Red flag Bogart.

Early onset ...

###

The Ancient Places We Call Home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Fast forward five years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boomer Bastards; I Got You Babe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They won’t have to live it.

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





 

Free Singles Sites and Stalkers.

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

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

Getting a sense for the creepiness of it all??

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is about a month ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Last Saturday Before Sixty

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

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

I'm not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only it had been real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bottom line is "on vacation with furniture."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is Looking Cheating? The Singles Sites

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

I am currently on two singles sites. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do something about it.

Drive Therapy: My Month in Michigan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THEY WOULD NOT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom at the Fourth of July fireworks in Bruce Crossing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who knows anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Master of my (new) domain: babblingboomer.com

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

Well, that path led to a cliff.

DO NOT buy a domain name from Blogger.


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

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


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


It's very easy.


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

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

Liberals, Bigots and Hate in General.

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

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

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

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

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

The surf was warm as bathwater.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gasp.

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

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

I ignored it.

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wrote back "stop".

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

I wrote back "FUCK OFF."

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

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

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

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

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

THE GULF IS THE TIE THAT BINDS.

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

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

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alone Again. God this sucks.

Happy Birthday Emma:-)

Wish I was there.

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

Swear more

Or less

Sleep all day

Stay awake all night

Pursue causes with extreme prejudice

Center your text

Change your font

Clean; or not

Drink more beer
If you had any

Read maps

Order pizza

Call your mom

Text an ex; or two

Aspire to a better kayak

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

Check emails with ridiculous frequency

Spend more money on birthdays

Ship gifts so early they arrive on time

Tell the people you love that you love them

Redecorate your condo (in your head)

Provoke socio-political shitstorms on Facebook

Avoid friends who might care enough to ask how you are

Think about adopting a large tropical bird

Look at beachfront real estate you could never afford

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

Which will, of course, get in the way

Should you meet someone

But that's not going to happen

So you do it.

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

Check out "Patients"

They have birds there. Of course these could

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

Body language, breakups and movin' on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How does that make you feel?

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

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

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

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

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

Does the intereaction make you feel better or worse?

Is it essential or can you let it go?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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