The Elusive G-Spot

I was doing occasional work for a furniture company that did warehouse sales. I got in with them five years ago. It was part-time, but it was my first real live job after coming off Lyme Disease.  If I could survive their big sales in the Florida heat, I could do anything.

 It was a measure of Finnish SISU (strength – chutzpah – balls) to be able to walk the length of that aircraft hangar more times than I could count. I was proud that I could power on smiling as others – older and younger - fell into sweaty piles on distant couches, far from management eyes.   

It was like a Turkish prison except they made us wear heavy waffle-weave company shirts instead of rags and fed us pizza instead of gruel. The owners sat among the gaping boxes in the A/C, of course.  

The last time they called, I freaked. I knew I couldn’t do it anymore.  Put a fork in me, I’m done. I passed some ominous milestone that said “if you go, you will wind up face first on the concrete and bust your nose into teensy pieces.”

 I said “yes” but I prayed God would give me reason why I couldn’t follow through. I don’t pray for myself very often, but I was scared.

God always answers the important ones. Sure enough, I got a big freelance writing gig – a rush project. I sent a nice email that I’d received an emergency project and they understood.

 I think I’ve served my last time at the warehouse. They were adding salespeople to the floor; we were lucky if we made $10/hr.

Still, I needed something to fill in the gaps. In October I didn’t get any projects until the last three days of the month. I panicked.  Be careful what you wish for.

I wished for a part-time job to supplement my freelance writing gigs and omigod, how exhausting my first day was.  I came home at 5 and crashed until morning. Maybe I was coming down with something and it’s just now passing, or maybe I have a brain tumor and will be dead by Tuesday or maybe I’m just getting old.  For real.

In my case, 60 was the magic number for holy shit.  Harder to get out there and exercise, harder to walk 60 minutes instead of 30, harder not to make myself a big bowl of buttered popcorn before bedtime, and way harder to look in a mirror. In the old days I would be considering plastic surgery. Now I can only aspire to Botox.

The most important thing anyone ever said was “the harder I work, the luckier I get.” So my luck should be pretty good because I have SOME type of income-producing work do every day. The variety is pretty excellent and I’ve been writing high-profile Harley-Davidson ads. Not for local dealers, for the corporation. It’s through the agency, though, and I’m not sure which ones get approved. But writing those ads is the most fun I have.

My neighbor followed my example and applied for part-time work at the outlet mall. I told her she HAD to get the job, she looked sensational. She’s tall and thin and she dressed to the teeth that day. Sure enough, she landed the job.

The older I get, the more grateful I am. This little job could see me through some very lean times. My neighbor seems to be getting more demanding after all the hard knocks. At first she was afraid she wouldn’t get the job, then she complained about the starting wage and wondered if they would let her wear the clothes.

I wanted to say “who would want to buy clothes you’ve worn?” but I kept my mouth shut.  If she says anything to management, she will set the tone for possible future employment.

Pffft. Not my problem.  If she screws herself out of that job and has to leave, I’ll have a new next-door neighbor and that could be for better or for worse. We shall see. Whatever.

The holidays are everywhere already. I would like to go north and be with family, but writing gigs and part-time job come first. What boomer can refuse any kind of work at this age in this economy. We have a responsibility to – at best, be able to help our family members; at worst – to take care of ourselves physically and financially so they won’t have to worry about us.  Because they do.

Hopefully I will be too tired to cry from loneliness at Christmas.  I did give one friend up north cartes blanche to come down and stay as long as she likes. I know she’s having problems with her husband and doesn’t want to talk about it. She said my invitation meant “more than you will ever know.”

She thinks I don’t know, but I do.

My “g” spot is the “g” as in “grateful.”   Grateful to love where I live, that my family up north is all in good health, that my critters are happy and well cared for, that Bodhi’s eye infection healed, that Bobby the Cockatoo isn’t plucking and that I have work coming in. Grateful that my writers group is a lot of fun, that my book is coming along, that I’ll be a little less lonely with the part-time job. I do enjoy people, especially tourists.

There will be a time when I will be forced to “not be lonely” – when my mother will need me to be there for her and I will have to freeze my ass off 9 months a year in Bumfuck U.P.

Way effing grateful.

Battling Bloat

Image from http://www.formerfatguy.com/



Despite my years with Lyme, I don’t usually blog about health; but this is really important. It's about boomer bellies; yours may not be some vague middle-age thing. Mine wasn't.

In January I was doing everything the medical community advises to lose weight and feel better. I was seriously worried about my belly and bowels. My tummy felt like it was second trimester or stuffed with sandbags; my bowels would not work without laxatives or mass quantities of prune juice. When the laxatives or juice finally took effect, it was like giving birth to rocks.

This problem has been going on for almost as long as I can remember. Back when I was on staff at ad agencies in Detroit, I had to set aside one full weekend morning each week to activate and complete a bodily function most take for granted.

I can’t believe I’m talking about this stuff in public. Well, you’re not reading it unless you searched for it, in which case my story may be helpful.

I walk, kayak and do yoga. I’m vegetarian, but I do eat eggs and dairy. I was eating fruits, vegetables and whole grains. Breakfast was usually steel cut oats – lunch might be a salad or a whey protein shake with fresh fruit. I had learned to make an amazing pasta fagioli with oil, garlic, onion, tomato sauce, pecorino romano cheese, white beans and whole grain pasta. It was so delicious it had become a mainstay.

So why did I feel like shit? Why did I never feel satisfied? I don’t have health insurance, I can’t just go to the doctor and find out; I can only take care of myself, pay attention and do some research when there’s a problem.

One week I had been especially mindful about what I ate. I know the principles of Atkins, so I’ve always been wary of carbs. But one night I was STARVED so I pulled out two pieces of high fiber whole grain wheat bread, organic peanut butter – crunchy of course, creamy is for wussies - and high quality raspberry jelly. Within an hour I felt like I was going to explode; then it occurred to me. I’ve heard of this before.

I have a friend who is gluten intolerant. I sent her an email – what does it feel like when you eat wheat? She said “bloated and sluggish beyond belief.” So I researched more. If you’re gluten intolerant, you WILL bloat and you may be horribly constipated or diarrheic. (I made that word up – I think.)

If you are gluten intolerant your body isn’t absorbing the nutrition from the food; no wonder I would eat and not feel satisfied. I was eating high quality healthy foods – but they weren't good for me.

After a week at my mothers, with her pancakes, cookies and pies, my bloat was at tilt and I felt like death on a soda cracker.

I read that some people who have this disorder can develop serious problems with their small intestines. My Gram and her annoying adventist sister nearly died from intestinal problems.

I called my mom to talk about it and she vaguely implied I was as much a food zealot as my Gram; who – by the way – lived to 96.

So if I hit a wall with mom, that’s ok. Some of my best friends are nurses. I talked to one on the phone and she said absolutely, it sounded like I needed to be off gluten. And she said it reminded her that she probably should too.

One of my long and lean yoga buddies is also a nurse. We have Starbucks after class and she always gets some weird soy thing because she’s lactose intolerant. While we talked she leaned back and said “Look at my belly. I shouldn’t even be having soy but I can’t give up everything.”

Another yoga buddy suggested I looked at the blood type diet. I hadn’t really thought much about that. When I looked up my blood type – rH negative – I found my type doesn’t do well on any grains at all.

(This blood type thing is fascinating, well worth checking into.)

Eat Right 4 Your Type: The Individualized Diet Solution to Staying Healthy, Living Longer & Achieving Your Ideal Weight

That was a month ago. That peanut butter and jelly sandwich was my last gluten. I feel SO MUCH BETTER NOW. I’m satisfied after meals and my bowels are starting to work on their own.

Gluten is in grains and flours – white, whole wheat and rye.I don't feel like I had to give up that much. I gave up steel cut oats, whey protein, bread and pasta. I read labels on everything now – something I’ll have to continue doing until I’ve got the thing down.  I discovered gluten-free products in the health food aisle; the ginger snaps and animal cookies are excellent. I don’t feel like I’m missing a thing.

Food tastes better – I think because I know it’s serving as nutrition now. When I want carbs, I eat potatoes or brown rice. My yoga buddy nurse friend was worried about my protein intake so I've added humane organic chicken to my diet. DO NOT poison yourself with factory farmed meat and poultry. (Please research that.)

The foods I’m eating now are not the enemy.

Beer? Hello my gluten-rich frienemy. I had already learned I couldn’t drink it without getting a headache within an hour; now I know why. If I want a drink I have wine or something with rum.

So if you’re chronically bloated and constipated or diarrheic – it may be that “healthy” gluten rich food and drink you’ve been consuming.

This book looks excellent:

The Gluten Connection: How Gluten Sensitivity May Be Sabotaging Your Health--And What You Can Do to Take Control Now

Pay attention to how you feel after eating certain types of foods. I think it’s a good habit to get into.

Namaste my belly boomer friends.

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.

Screw Fear.

Hey, we Boomers expected we'd get old with all our gold.

I spent this past summer worrying about how I was going to survive financially and it started reminding me of being a Jehovah's Witness, back when the elders were telling us the world was gonna end in 1975.

I had been hammered with that damned Armageddon thing since I was a little kid. We would be persecuted, we would be killed. Just like the death camps in WWII. Imagine teaching your kids about the death camps. Who does that??

I can remember being 6 years old and my mother sitting across from me at the kitchen table, telling me "one day you may be taken away from me, but you will have to be strong."

WTF. Strong? At 6? How?

As a young adult I would bow my head and mumble "but the Bible says no man knows the day nor the hour"; unfortunately, nobody hears you when you when you bow your head and mumble. And when you're female in that religion nobody would have heard you if you screamed, ripped off your bra and set your tits on fire.

The elders said the righteous (us) would be tortured and persecuted. And then God would sweep down from on high and smite all evildoers (anyone who wasn't us) and resurrect the righteous who had already died (only 144,000) and suck them right into heaven. Sort of a mini-rapture.

The rest of us would live forever on a paradise earth.

Even then, fresh and innocent, I can remember thinking "that sounds sort of boring. With THESE people? Foreverrrr?"

Fear gets really old after a while. You get numb. And then you get pissed off.

I bailed in 1974. And it felt GOOD. Screw fear, screw worrying about what's going to happen.

Guess what - the world didn't end in 1975. Just as I suspected.

So I spent all last summer terrified I couldn't make it financially one more month and you finally get to the point of fuggit, what's the worst that can happen? What poor friend or relative would YOU call if you lost your job and your house? Or which of your friends or relatives may wind up calling YOU when THEY lose THEIRS?

Which option is WORSE - and which has the potential for (gasp) good things? Like that sense of family and friendship, of pulling together that our spoiled brat generation lost a long damned time ago.

My daughter-in-law grew up in communist Poland. This is nothing compared to what she's been through.

So if you have to move, to room with someone, what will you take? What will you give away? What will you abandon?

When I hit the blackest of the black, lowest of the low an amazing thing happened. I looked around and asked myself what I could sell. What I should sell. I brought more furniture than I needed anyway.

Turns out I could get rid of a 7' tall antique oak sideboard, almost 4' wide. It was beautiful, but it ate my living area. I'd tried posting it to eBay before, got a hit, sold it and the buyer renigged. This is why I hate eBay. And this is why I hate being from Michigan, I'm too polite to post negative feedback. I might as well be Canadian.

(No offense Connie.)

I posted it to Craigslist instead and got a few lowball offers. Then the snowbirds started coming back. I used to hate to see the out of state plates, but now it's like the cavalry's comin. Feels good. Feels like cash.

I posted the sideboard to Craigslist and sold it within three hours. Got paid in hundred dollar bills. Not as much as I would have liked, but I basically broke even. I had a great gaping hole in the middle of my room, but wow. What a great feeling to let something go. And the space - there was something soothing about it.

Now nothing is safe. Well, the dogs and my late 70s German porn...

When I worry I organize my stuff and it just feels good. Those bags of clothes that are going to charity - they feel GREAT. The brown bags full of papers for recycling? EXCELLENT. I am thinning this shit out.

There's no crap in the fridge either - garbage in, garbage out. Literally. Every dollar counts, especially when you don't have health insurance.

And when I worry about where I could go, I think of it as an adventure my grandkids will tell their kids. Heck, I can aspire to become an unwelcome scourge in their lives - like the grandmother in Sixteen Candles.

I can give them the nervous tic they sometimes give me. Something to tell their therapists in years to come.

Maybe I will never have to go anywhere and then again, there is always a gray area. To be broke and alone and getting older in this economy doesn't necessarily mean you have to impose your sorry ass on someone else or that you may be asked to share YOUR home or condo - it may mean you will fall into something meaningful.

Because I've noticed a very weird change lately.

Last year at this time the guys on match were arrogant and condescending. Now they're kinder/gentler - a little bit humbled. Some are desperate and needy, looking for anyone solid and honest and not a golddigger.

Wood is less of a priority than gold and there's not enough of that to spend on bimps any more.

So it's getting pretty funny. I'm blowing off anyone with a Harley and taking more time with the boat photos; just for fun.

I am suddenly hearing from the men I loved most in the past, those bridges I never burned. "Are you seeing anyone?" It feels like musical chairs, where everyone realizes they're getting old and they don't want to be alone for the rest of this rocky ride.

So it could be good. None of us know where we'll be this time next year. One thing we know for sure - it's going to be interesting.

The First Boomers to Bite the Big One

The face that launched a million whacks and the whacko that launched a thousand inappropriate sleepovers.

How awful for her, totally trumped in death. The New York Times had the photo of Michael above smeared all over the top of their online version while Farrah is a thumbnail the size of a postage stamp below.

Within the hour they replaced the red one with a younger one of Michael in white, arms raised against a backdrop of stormclouds. Way better choice.

Farrah had a valiant battle against death while Michael had always had a valiant struggle with life. He's poster child for what can happen when you're raised in the crushing repression of a fundamentalist household*.

The only one who comes out on the sunny side of all this is Governor Sanford; nobody cares about him or his mistress now. We'll be busy watching reruns of the infamous Farrah/Letterman interview and Michael's amazing Thriller video.

*Like me, Michael was raised Jehovah's Witness.

How flawed are YOU?

Went to another networking event at the Edison last night. The first had minimum attendance - this second event was well attended.

Of course we were lured by that first free drink, along with meatballs, pasta, spinach dip, etc.

Meatballs are not easy to eat with plastic forks.

Free food and the first drink is free. I don't know how they're making any money on this. Maybe - as announced - they really ARE giving back to the community.

Speaking as a resident of the advertising - marketing community, I am understandably skeptical. I'm thinking they're doing ok with alcohol sales. Since there was no true structure to the event, it took a fair amount of alcohol to fortify the self-promotion machine.

The Edison could count on the fact that many of us would stay to listen and dance to music by David C. Johnson of The Neville Brothers (a personal favorite of mine - he gives great motown!).

During the networking event I hung with the chicks at a big table at the far end of the room. (I imagine the correct term for single women over 50 would be BROADS - "politically correct" ain't for me pal.) One particular southern gentleman sat with us, but he did so at his own risk. He didn't mind that he was with a table full of women; he minded that they were all from New York. (?!) Suddenly "Michigan" wasn't so "Yankee" after all.

He drawled "can't you hear the accents?" I said "I don't even notice any more."

It was all very tedious - as expected. Well, I have the attention span of a gnat.

The others drank several drinks, I didn't dare. I was wearing a long skirt. I've seen women who've had a few too many tuck their hems into their panties before leaving the restroom. I guess that's ok if you have a perfect ass ...

Which leads me to our discussion of self-loathing. That was fascinating. I think it started with somebody commenting on my skin, which I turned into "well, it's one thing I don't hate about myself". Then someone said "I can think of two things I don't like about me." I was like "Oh hell, I can easily think of five."

Those of us who could think of five or more were in the minority. I thought that was really interesting.

Like I told my best friend the other day, Buddhism isn't about being optimistic or pessimistic ... it's about being REALISTIC. It's about loving yourself and others for who you all REALLY are.

We met a few interesting people. Our unofficial social director glommed onto a hunky massage therapist and his eyes lit up like little stars when she brought him back to us. I got a strange vibe. So appropriate - later we were introduced to his associate who specializes in sex toys.

I dunno, the combination diminished his credibility.

I will end this blog (appropriately) with the fact that one of my favorite crazy girlfriends was hit on by her PROCTOLOGIST last week. She's scheduled for her colonoscopy this coming week.

Euuuuw. Maybe he's buying her dinner first ...

If you're looking for love, adopt a dog.

This is a photo of my Shih Tzu hanging out with my neighbor's cat when we first moved here. Mine is the door to the right, Kandy's is the door to the left.

My townhouse on stilts is only the second building from a busy street. There is one small 4-unit condo between me, a busy 2-lane and the gorgeous golf course beyond.

One day I was out and I saw a Shih Tzu wandering on our cul de sac a short distance from the BUSY road where the speed limit is 35 but jackasses drive 70.

And I picked the dog up and looked around - there was an upstairs condo with the door wide open. So I went up there and knocked - no answer - then I yelled in DID SOMEBODY LOSE A DOG???

And I frightened a somewhat drugged out looking skinny blonde, about my age.

And she said yeah, that's (can't remember the name) and she was grateful. I told her she needed to be careful about leaving her door open. She said the dog is old and going blind and her friends keep telling her to put him down, but she can't do that.

What I wanted to say but didn't - GET NEW FRIENDS.

Now let me tell you Kandy - my next-door neighbor - owns an 11 year old blonde Pekingese who is nearly fully blind and that little dog is as much of a delight as a sighted dog - just as happy, just as functional, just as sweet to interact with.

Anyway, I walked away from the skinny druggie without another thought. I noticed that unlike most of us, when she takes him down to do his business, she doesn't leash him. And she's very distracted.

Just little warning signals going off in my head.

So Friday night I had gone to CinCin and had a wonderful time. I am getting strong from all the yoga and beach walks and guys are just crawling out of the woodwork.

One Italian looking guy was just gaga ... he said he knew he could fall in love with me. (?!) I said "friends first." He implied he felt the same way. Very muscular, a great dancer, nice to talk to. Has an ability with four syllable words. (Amazing in this town.)

He said he was very spiritual - asked for my number and wanted to take me to a movie on Saturday.

It's all very pleasant, but I have also been celibate about a year now and I'm viewing it as part of my healing process.

Saturday morning I was tired, but I went to yoga - which was awesome - then walked the beach. At which time I met an absolute Adonis - holy shit, tanned and tall and dark with a short graying beard. On his bike wearing only shorts, shades and a helmet. (He could have modeled for 300; Gladiator fantasy comes into play ...)

I thought I recognized him from Fort Myers Beach and asked "is your name Tommy?" He grinned a perfect white toothy grin and said "No, try again."

This guy was a movie star. I'm thinking he's my age. So many are YOUNGER and I have trouble wrapping my brain around a teensy one.

Anyway, we talked for about 15 minutes. I told him I had come from yoga. He said he's a personal trainer on Sanibel - said it gets pretty boring counting to 12 all the time. And then he said "you're going to give me your number now." That was SO sexy. He must be a total player. And he pulled out his cell phone and programmed my number.

Anyway, I was in a bathing suit top that lacked adequate structural reinforcement ... and shorts ... and the fact that a guy like that hit on me. Wow. Maybe he's lowering his standards ...

So we said our goodbyes, I did my walk, and I've got to tell you I was WIPED OUT. Sure enough the guy from Friday night calls and he wants to take me to a movie. He loves Clint Eastwood. In my head I'm thinking Eastwood lost my respect when he took off his shirt in Bridges of Madison County. I threw up a little bit in my mouth.

God I can be so shallow sometimes. But people have to be realistic about their stage in the aging process. Maybe that's not possible in Hollywood.

So I'm thinking before I meet him I'll grab a nap. I have my bedroom window open - my bedroom is right above the front door. And I hear a knock on my next-door neighbors door and talking. Then there's a knock on mine. I'm thinking DAMN. Naw, really I'm thinking FUCK.

It's a middle-aged guy with long brown hair holding the skinny druggie's Shih Tzu. And he asks "is this your dog?" And I said "no, mine are right here - but I know who owns it."

So I walked him over to the other condo and wait below while he goes upstairs to knock. He said there was no answer but he could hear people talking. And he came back down and I was pissed.

He actually seemed pleased they didn't answer the door.

Somehow within a 20 foot walk we silently made up our minds that the best thing for the dog would be that skinny druggie would NEVER KNOW her dog had been found by someone who WOULD love him until the end of his days. Which could be soon. Which might have been immediate had Rick not found him.

Rick could see the dog was blind and he showed me his throat - no collars, no tags. I'm guessing her friends might have let him loose to die.

If she ever winds up living in a refrigerator box, I hope she remembers there's this little thing called KARMA.

I asked Rick if there was anything he needed because it was clear he was keeping the dog. (If he didn't I would have - which would have been dicey with the skank living so close.)

And he said no, but he told me where he lived. I will probably check on him to see if they're doing OK.

And oh - the date? It was awful. He seemed shorter and older, although he still smelled good. He asked what I wanted to eat before the movie - he wanted pizza but told me to pick. I'm thinking of every mistake I made when I met Randy so I actually told him what I wanted - an antipasto.

He talked about working out with weights every day ... then he told me about his hip replacements.

We talked about dogs and he made some comment about "when my hunting dog couldn't hunt any more, I had her put down." I imagined horrible illness and let it slide.

Then he bought two SENIOR tickets at the movies. That's a moment that will hang in my subconscious for the rest of this lifetime. Ugh. I'd rather pay the two extra dollars per person than come off like the Costanzas on Seinfeld.

He couldn't wait to see the movie - Gran Torino - and I thought I was gonna die. It was like it was real time, even worse than Bridges of Madison County. (Am I the only woman who hates that movie?) I watched for consistencies and production values; I don't know what was worse, the script or the acting. They need to shave at least 30 minutes. But then last night WASN'T about the movie.

Afterwards he asks if I want to go for a drink and the place was on my way to where I parked my car so I said OK.

I can't remember where it started downhill like a friggin luge ... he made some sexual remark. I could feel my back tighten. (Yoga is amazing for putting you in touch with your body.) And I straightened up and (proudly) said "it has been about a year for me."

And he put his arm around my waist (I have one now) and says "it's time to change all that."

I'm thinking bite me.

And I say "no, I'm perfectly happy sleeping with my dogs."

And he looks grossed out. I confess, that was the desired effect.

He said "how is there room?" Well, my bed is big as an aircraft carrier and my dogs are small; but he will never find out.

Then he starts telling me we only have so much time left to live. I'm thinking of all these stories we all heard about soldiers going off to WWII ... "I might die over there, this could be our last night together" and I just wanted to tell him to GO FUCK HIMSELF.

And I said "but I thought you were spiritual. When you're deeply spiritual, you don't see life that way." I explained the Hanged Man in Tarot, how in centuries past they thought if they hung upside down their sexual energies would go to head and heart.

He was clearly aghast. Again, the desired effect.

And we get into this big discussion where it is very clear he's all talk, doesn't have an ounce of spirituality. He only knows John Edwards the politician. He keeps repeating that, old guy talk - like saying the same dumb thing twice makes him clever. (This is a retired Civil Engineer - he's no dummy.)

We got up to leave and he wanted to walk me to my car. I said "no thanks, it's a long way." And he says "mine is right here - I'll drive you." Me - envisioning some gross pawing scenario said "no thanks, I'll walk."

If he attempted to follow, I know I could outrun him with those fake hips.

I was so relieved to be out of there. I got home and my cell phone rang - it was him. (It rang again as I write this.)

I can't answer until I calm down. I am PISSED. I REALLY DO NOT LIKE BEING TREATED THAT WAY.

He needs to go find himself a tramp. There are plenty of women - of all ages - who think a blow job is equivalent to a handshake. Find one, they're there.

I am still pissed. Hated the movie, disliked the company and absolutely DESPISED the bait and switch from a friendly movie to inappropriate sexual pressure.

The next time I talk to him - if I do - I will just say we're not on the same page.

So this morning, my precious Sunday morning I used to love so much with Randy. This morning I wake up happy and rested and there is Bodhi on her back staring at me with her beautiful adoring eyes and Princess the rescue dog cuddling up - so happy we found her.

Just a few moments of absolute love.

My dogs will never be on the street, if money gets that tight, they will have food before I'll feed myself. I think God gave us dogs so we'd know what real love is.

My life is pretty amazing overall.

Bigots, bare feet and dealbreakers.

I met Shelly about 8 months ago. Her husband died a year ago. He was very sick for a very long time and I think the sex died YEARS before he did. She was chompin' at the bit.

She is tall, blonde, sweet and near perfect; she proceeded to lose another 15 lbs. making her maybe 2% of her age group who are that thin and that beautiful.

Still reeling from the shock of turning 60 a few weeks back, she has been dating anyone who will ask.

We were out on a friend's boat - I call him "Good Randy", as opposed to "Bad Randy" - my ex. It was me, Shelly, another girlfriend and a retired cop. At one point he was telling your classic cop stories and bragged about "running all the niggers out of my town - even the big sports stars."

I gasped.

Good Randy turned from the helm and laughed it off. "He's not bigoted at all."

How would Cop react to my plans to vote for Obama? My inner Buddhist said to keep my yap shut.

Shelly's been out with him a few times. Her biggest concern that afternoon was whether his hair was real. Good Randy told her it was a weave. We weren't sure.

Over the past coupla weeks, Shelly continued to date him. And about four others.

Last night, after week two of brain-crushing radio & tv script deadlines, I found it impossible to stay home. I could have had a date but I can't take the pressure. I don't think I'm over my alcoholic yet. The wounds haven't healed. But I won't stay home alone if I'm lonely!

I decided to break my own rule and head out to the Fort Myers Beach bars with Shelly and our peeps.

We met up with our core group ... Good Randy, Bigot Cop, the girlfriend who's married to a gay guy, etc. Met the gay husband for the first time; gave him a spontaneous kiss on the cheek and he recoiled.

There was another stiff looking couple present ... the man looked detached and had beautiful eyes. I assumed he was the real partner of my friend's husband. The one I had heard about. He could not stand the place or the people. HIS wife was well-dressed and completely miserable.

The men were obvious in their cautious attempts to maintain a discreet distance from each other.

Gay or not, having two sets of mismatched spousal units made everyone uncomfortable and incredibly dull. Yeah, I know - you'd expect exactly the opposite.

Shelly and I wandered off to the other beach bars. She knows them all.

By the third waterfront bar, Shelly gave me an opportunity to express my opinions about indiscriminate dating. She thought it was odd that I won't date unless there is a huge mental connection - or a lot of whining and guilt. (Them, not me.) I would just rather stay home with my dogs.

We agreed that neither of us respect anyone who would fall in love with us quickly. It was so Rodney Dangerfield ... wouldn't want to join any club that would have us as a member. That was our breakthrough moment that transformed us from acquaintances to friends. We shared a deep, dark secret and a big laugh.

Then we started talking about her guys. I asked if she knew the retired cop was a bigot. She hadn't overheard that particular conversation on the boat. I told her about it and she was appalled.

I suggested she analyze those she's dating - her eyes lit up and she asked "make a list?" And I said "yeah, an Excel spreadsheet if you like! These are the core qualities ...

They should be in good health.
They should CARE about their health. (Good Randy has recovered from lung cancer and continues to smoke.)
They should not be whores.
They should make at least as much as us.
They should OWN at least as much as us.
And most important, they should be someone we could see spending the rest of our lives with. Why waste our time???"

She liked it. Besides which, it caused the instant removal of several from her list, lessening her confusion.

The bar was The Cottage. I loved it. You could see the waves coming in, little shimmering threads of white against the darkness. Guitar music and a happy laid back crowd.

I went to the john and brushed my hair. On the way back I was hit on by a very tall good-looking lunatic wearing a shark's tooth wrapped in leather. It was as big as my head.

He reminded me of Dog the Bounty Hunter and had a nickname ... can't remember for sure. Dave something. All long-time locals have nicknames.

His wasn't quite on a par with "Fuckin' George" - who actually has that printed on his business card.

Dave tried to buy me a drink. I said Diet Coke, he said the bartender would throw him out if he asked for that. I said "come sit with me and my girlfriend" and pointed in the general direction of our table. He said he'd be there in a minute.

I enjoy characters. Shelly does too. As fate would have it, he was too drunk to find us. He was tall enough that I could see him looking, but I wasn't intrigued enough to stand up and wave him in.

Shelly and I walked back to our core group at our core bar. Everyone moved around so we could position ourselves (??)

Good Randy has a habit of trying to pimp us out.

Shelly and I sat next to each other and the cop sat across from us.

Good Randy made a joke about my boobs; that far into the beverages, boob jokes happen. I had grabbed his ass earlier when he said something about giving me his seat, so all is fair.

There were maybe eight other acquaintances at the table when the Cop made a sideways remark that I felt was disrespectful of Shelly. I turned to her and whispered "it's bad enough he's a bigot - did you get a load of the socks?"

She sat up lightly to look and plunked back down. "MY GOD!"

His weave was only noticeable if you looked from behind, the "Bigot" thing was bad, but mid-calf white socks - in Shelly's discerning criteria - were the death blow.

She said "HE IS OFF THE LIST!!"

It made me think of a great date I had last weekend. We went to Sanibel, had brilliant conversation, glorious weather and no shortage of shells. (I customized a mirror frame with them - it turned out great.)

I didn't care that he was a few inches shorter than his profile stated. Didn't care that I was a little taller. My waist is far smaller than his. Good 'nuff. I can still feel sort of girly.

The afternoon held no need for me to remove my shorts and reveal my fluffy white ass. I felt our imperfections were fairly equal.

Until I looked down at our bare feet as we sat on our towels chatting.

Mine are bigger than his. Stompers. Gunboats.

Idiocy knows no age restrictions. I will see him again because I enjoy his conversation, but we can never be anything meaningful because of my own insecurities.

Uma Thurman wears a size 10. I wonder how she deals with guys with smaller feet ...

From plastic soup to recycling plastics... and people.

If this photo doesn't break your heart, you don't have one.

I watched PBS last night for two hours - I would have been better off watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It was two hours of why lions and elephants are disappearing and why birds in remote areas are dying. Why there is "plastic soup" in areas of our oceans that should be pristine.

I couldn’t track down the PBS program, but I did find part of the information they used:

http://patagonia-under-siege.blogspot.com/2008/01/plastic-killing-fields-pacific-ocean.html

I found the photo on that blog.

Search “plastic soup.” Spread the word!!!

I vow to be even more attentive to purchasing only recyclables and recycling everything I can. I will drink from glasses, not plastic bottles. I will get my groceries in paper bags and recycle those. I am already riding my bike for short errands.

None of it seems like it’s nearly enough.

Carl – the vulture we rescued last week – didn’t make it. The doctor at Crow Wildlife Rescue on Sanibel explained that the infection from the broken wing was too great. That he’d had a few good meals, pain management and loving care. She thanked us and said there weren’t many who’d go to all that trouble for a vulture.

He was a soul. He was suffering. We did what was right. We’re sad.

Speaking of sad. Got weak before Christmas and - after many months apart - I walked back into the big strong arms of my favorite emotionally abusive alcoholic. Of course it didn’t last. Of course I'm back at square one.

I left him during a blackout last month and still feel a little guilty. Well, hell - it'll give him something to obsess. A reason to drink.

I suspect bipolar as well, since I can almost see a cloud passing over him, transforming him from fun and charming to moody with rage.

This time I refuse to hole up and mourn. That’s so stupid. So much of the pain is more loneliness than loss.

Went out with a shrink earlier this month. Brilliant guy – warm – a little too intense. Gave me a bit of a tic, but it’s so hard to find people who are capable of intelligent conversation. I just held my finger on it. (The tic.)

We met at Starbucks twice. He came on fast, intense … I listened to my vibes this time, kept a distance and even backed off at one point - cancelling a date. I said I had vibes that there was someone else in the picture.

He believes in vibes and intuition. That's a rare quality, one of the things I liked about him.

He called me a week later, in the morning, as if he had something urgent to tell me. My vibes were right … he met someone else … wanted me to know, made a big point of it. He sounded surprised (disappointed?) when I told him I was very happy for him and wished him the best.

This was sincere, I really didn’t care. I wasn't staring at my cell phone, I was having fun with friends last weekend.

He seemed like a lot of work.

OK. How big is the ego of someone who expects an acquaintance to be crushed after a coupla coffees? He didn’t even need to call, it was sort of annoying.

Maybe I’m destined to be alone for the rest of this lifetime.

Maybe that’ll be just fine.

My biggest fear is I'll die alone in the condo and no one will know to take care of my dogs.

Boomers and Bankruptcy

Yesterday it occurred to me that my generation has seen it all. Sure, there are some who have managed to live in a vacuum, but most of us have been there, done - or watched that.

There was a radio commercial on the other morning. I write radio commercials now, so I pay extra close attention. It was for a jewelry shop. And they said "If you give her a pearl necklace, maybe she'll give you one."

I was absolutely HORKED that a jewelry store would sink THAT low to get attention. I wonder if the twenty somethings find it shocking or even interesting; to me, it was cheap and ... wow, yeah, maybe a little offensive. I'm a Grandma - but I'm not the traditional Gram. I've dated everything from wise guys to Greek Orthodox priests. I hang out in biker bars because I can't handle pretense or BULLSHI*.

My mind is so open it's nearly impossible to offend or shock me.

But this commercial did. I guess if it were for an adult toy store, it wouldn't bug me; but I expect better of the folks who sell gold and diamonds.

I guess that's what led me to thinking that our generation is the only one that has seen it all. (Our parents' generation had more grace, integrity and class.)

Good luck trying to shock us. Like the interview Diane Sawyer conducted with Grace Slick some years back. Grace said being who she is made it nearly impossible for her daughter to shock her. But she did - by being mega-straight and buttoned up:-)

It was a hilalrious interview. Diane Sawyer asked "what's the strangest thing about being 60" and Grace said "nobody wants to *uck me any more." I was about on the floor.

Which brings me to age and appearances.

I'm organizer of a few meetup groups and I'll call this one member Karen. We did not hit it off. We sort of gave each other a once over and could sense some tension. Two strong, opinionated females.

She's a beautiful blonde - tall, mid-30s, smart, married - an attorney. I was impressed. She was everything I wasn't. At that time I had just landed here after losing everything to my long battle with Lyme Disease. I was alone, older, unemployed and afraid - living on Bran Chex and apples - selling websites to survive.

I think my bankruptcy was finalized around the time we met. I was ashamed, embarrassed ... but yeah, relieved.

This was a writers meetup and our personal lives come out in the writings. A new member came in and made a comment about "people who file for bankruptcy are losers who bring it on themselves" - and Karen went nuclear. Not immediately, but in our next meeting. She wrote a piece that tore the woman apart limb by limb.

Turns out Karen had just set off in the bankruptcy boat. Her causes were optimism and business deals ... and it was much worse than I thought. We compared notes on selling our jewelry. I told her about taking my prize diamond and putting it on my little granddaughters finger (thinking "too bad about your luck") before shipping it off to an ecstatic eBay buyer.

But I have come out the other side. I am finally at the point where I can take advantage of the lease option offered by my landlord and lock in a land contract. I asked Karen if she would be my attorney, maybe we could trade. I'd do a website for her. And I apologized for being that broke. And she understood because she is just as broke.

She said I give her hope that she can come out the other side.

I told her we're the leading edge of the people who have fallen. As we get back on our feet, there are opportunities to take the burdens off others. This condo is a financial dead weight on my landlord and he made me a deal I would be nuts to refuse. We both believe God brought us together - I was desperate for a place to live and he was desperate for a tenant who would actually pay as promised.

Sure, the condo may blow away in the next hurricane; but the whole thing is little more than I'd be paying for rent. And I love it. It has a wonderful vibe.

Having been one of the first to "go down" in this economy, all I can say is that others are falling like dominoes and opportunities to land on your feet - or even better off than you were in the first place DO exist.

My condo is not my beautiful riverfront Victorian in Michigan; but it costs far less and is smack dab in the middle of a tropical paradise. It's within 5 miles of two of the best beaches in Florida.

My new job pays less than half of what I made at the time my illness struck, but I am now basically without debt. Math-wise, I'm better off where I am today.

I love the people I work with and never dreamed I would have such an exciting job ... at this age. At any age. This week I got an office - walls, a door and everything. I haven't had better than a cubicle in 15 years.

I asked what color I could paint it and the boss said "anything you want." (It will look like an opium den by the time I'd done:-)

I am truly blessed. I appreciate everything and everyone in my life.

Some mornings I get down on hands and knees with my forehead on the floor and thank God.

I'm sure Karen's experience will be very much the same.