Old Haunts Past Lives

Perhaps it’s a writer thing. Perhaps it’s just a me thing. Some kind of spiritual quest, a questioning nature, an urge to explore the things inside that can’t be touched, to play with the strings of one’s soul and see what songs it plays. I have no explanation. But sometimes I want to visit the places that haunt my past. I want to see the ghosts. I want to listen to what they tell me and feel if they have any power left to pluck the strings. I want to taste the air that I tasted when I was a different person.

I went today—to an old haunt.

With the help of a friend, a friend who I don’t think understood my desire or what I hoped to find. He’s way too grounded in reality and fact and reason. But it is the nature of good friends to not question things like this, so he went with me.

I drove up into the driveway I used to drive up into. A different car, a different me. It felt weird and familiar, but yet not familiar. I knew immediately this place was haunted. It wasn’t a good place. The air felt almost hard to breathe, oppressive. I felt the ghosts hovering. It felt like visiting a prison cell where one was once held captive. There have been lives march through these ghosts of mine, but they didn’t erase what I left behind. I felt the overgrowth of the weeping cherry I loved in the spring, the tree I’d fought for early on—a battle I’d won when I still wasn’t broken, when the battles shouldn’t have been fought at all.  I felt the loss of the weeping willow in the back yard. The long arms of that willow whispered in the wind, but it fell over after I left, crashing down like the dreams I’d held on the day I’d planted it. All that is left are weeds that stretch as high as trees themselves.

I looked at the dirt and the decay staining the walls, the broken lattice, the faded stain on bowed planks of a deck. It’d been clean to the eyes when I’d been there, but now I wonder if somehow it had always been like this, hidden from eyes that saw only the surface. It’s a good metaphor regardless. The weeds are in the process of ripping it all apart, reclaiming it like some sort of Chernobyl of my past.

Inside there is a new paint and carpet in empty rooms.

It felt like a house at first and in the moment I was there. I noticed things like none of the doors fitting properly. The light switches are warped and not flush against the walls and most have don’t cover the uneven carelessly cut holes for the electrical boxes. I remember how the electrical didn’t work right, how the flow of power waned and waxed at different times. I noticed these things with eyes trained by a man I love teaching me how things should be done, how things should be built with care. Something I suddenly appreciate about him so much more than I did when I woke up this morning.

The rooms are emptied of furniture and photos; and, when I first went through, I wondered at how this had become just a house. But now that I’m analyzing the why, I think I was lulled by those ghosts into being blind to the things I was always blind to in that place. Every room had a memory of sadness. The emptiness had always been there, but once it had tried to fill itself with pieces of me. Now, there’s no sloughing off of pieces of my soul. This house holds my sadness.  Which is strange for the me I have become in the house I now live in because every room here in this place I am now, holds joy and laughter and peace. It’s a smaller house, but the rooms are holding so much more.

In that garage, I remember the piles of old carpet that lay there for months, the ladders lifted up to places where I couldn't reach them and could never use them and could never get anyone to help me get them, the pile of tools holding two empty tool boxes that had once been filled with what had been mine—lost in the pile and whisked away because tools belong to guys, even guys who won’t use them apparently.  In my garage now, I see the blue and I smile because while I will fully admit that the garage isn’t “mine” it is a place where I welcome where I can find what I need, where if I need something I can get it and use it without reaching and failing. It’s a room where I see Doug cleaning his car with a little tiny brush to get dirt out of cracks he can’t reach into. I see him and his son working on a car and looking over the lifted hood to give me Subway orders.

The kitchen of that house is open and spacious and frankly I like it better than mine. But, mine is where once I accidentally sprayed Doug with the kitchen sprayer—a memory that I’m laughing about even as I write it down. My kitchen is where I painted it and accidentally got paint on the cabinet. There is bamboo on the wall, terra cotta army on a shelf, a jade Buddha laughing.

That living room and dining room had a chandelier which was taken down and laid in a box for more than a year, bare wires hanging over a Thanksgiving dinner despite begging for just a third arm to stand there and put it back up. That arm never walked the 10 feet from the couch, I had to get my dad over after I sold the house to help put it back together. My living room and dining room have light fixtures I hung, a fan I hung myself. It has pictures and plants. That living room used to have a big fern I’d had for years and a live ficus tree I’d kept since my grandmother’s funeral—the fern ended up mysteriously dying, the ficus too.  But this living room is teaming with plants and light.  The blinds are always open while they never were in the other place.

My office in that house was a cave with one small window and a desk with hutch placed so that it blocked the room’s door. It gave me just that window and the computer screen. I remember getting yelled at for buying a stereo and headphones so I could listen to music while I wrote. I remember being told I didn’t need an iPod or MP3 player like he did. My office now has a shrunken head and swords and a knight in shining armor down on one knee holding out a pen (it’s the first gift Doug ever gave me).

This house has nights filled with laughter and giggles like slumber party talks. That house had restless sleep and resentment and tears.  This house has patches of sun with a dog filling it. That house had someone upset because a book was being read and a dog condemned to the downstairs level.  This house has a sunroom with white curtains that blow in summer breezes like they do in movies with exotic palaces. That house had closed blinds and shadows.

“You should move back here,” said the neighbor. “Fix this place up again.”

I laugh at the idea. “I can never come back here. This is the past. This is writing research. This is the memory of a lost soul.”

I’m alive here. I love here. I love who I am. I am happy. My home is my sanctuary. If I ever leave this place, I won’t drive up the driveway and feel like I’m looking for high fences, barbed wire, and watch towers.  Here I will remember learning what I loved, the thrill of coming home after spending an afternoon at the range, dancing with Doug in the middle of the kitchen (which reminds me, I’m going to have to get the Echo Show to give us lessons on how to do The Git Up when Doug gets home—look it up Blanco Brown.), cooking breakfast in our pajamas with Doug screaming every time the bacon pops until I’m laughing so hard I’m crying, books in the sun while the sound of a router roars in the garage, the grin on Doug’s face as he looks at how shiny his car is after he cleans it. The Sponges, Raccoon Pee Guy. Let’s not forget the Gathering of the Bitches event in the driveway where the Sponges never came outside, but we laughed and listened to 80s music—a dozen 40 yr old women wearing lounge pants in the driveway, roasting hotdogs, kids laughing and running around until late.

Yes. It does seem this isn’t the story of a house after all, it’s the story of people. It’s the story of love, where it is and where it isn’t. It’s the story of friends who never visited and those who have driven by to deliver a cold diet Coke on a long afternoon or come to sit on the porch and talk about everything. It’s the story of two men, one who crushed my soul and one who makes it soar. It’s the story of darkness and light and where I found it and how I found it and how I treasure it. It’s the story about happiness and a lesson on how easy it is to lose. It’s about an empty house and a full one and who wins the poker hand at the end of the game.

RUNNING ON EMPTY: A Christmas Tale (revisted 2018)

I’m not one to believe in signs or omens or whatever someone might call them, but I should have known. Yes, I should have known and I should have taken action. I could have locked myself in my house—Christmas be damned (yes, that’s probably heresy)—and spent the day alone with my dog. I could have faked an illness. I could have gotten myself arrested. Anything. ANYTHING would have been better than living with the humiliation that will now follow me for the rest of my life.

The night before Christmas, the signs began to arrive. I missed those signs, because they really only visible in hindsight. Like Medusa’s face, you can only look at them in reflection.

My little brother had an accident which sent all of us to the Emergency Room. I use the world little because he is younger than me. By all rights, when someone is six feet four inches tall and two hundred fifty founds, the world “little” should never be used as a description. That’s the probably sometimes with being a writer. Accuracy is all based on perception. This is mine. My brother is my little brother, he’ll always be my little brother—the one who hasn’t had my life experience, who doesn’t quite know, who sometimes needs protection and who sometimes needs a kick in the ass. This ER visit was probably one of the latter times.

His accident was quite a horrible thing, a trauma which I’m sure he still relives in his mind to this day. Did he have a car accident? A nasty fall from heights? A slip on the ice? No. No, nothing like that. Nothing that normal would do for my family. On Christmas Eve, 1995, my little brother got one of his not-so-dainty, linebacker sized hands—the right hand to be specific—stuck in a Pringle’s can.

If it were his left hand, I suppose we wouldn’t have ended up in the emergency room. But, my brother is right-handed and he wasn’t doing so well in college even with the ability to take notes and tap a keg. In times of stress, I am often the one to whom everyone looks for support and solutions. I suggested we saw the can off.

My father and my brother both thought this was a good idea. This isn’t because they are stupid so much as it is because all men seem afflicted with the innate urge to use any excuse to break into a tool box and do “manly things” or solve problems without the assistance of professions. My father was halfway to the garage when my mother put the breaks on the plan which would have made this story considerably shorter.

My mother, with her proper European manners, unjustly fell in love with an American heathen. She came to this country and birthed two barbarian children. She announced that she didn’t think my idea was such a good one. She may have come to this conclusion because I was laughing. She’s deeply suspicious of my laughing—it’s a European mother thing, I think.

I then suggested—because I tend to get carried away when people start taking my advice—that we use the chainsaw. Because, hell, the chainsaw gets used only once a year anyway. It’s sole purpose in a house of bankers is to cut the bottom off of the live Christmas tree. But now, it could be used to rescue my brother from his dilemma. It was perfect!

The problem was then discussed. We had a moment of holiday togetherness and family unity which still brings a tear to my eye as I remember it. We didn’t argue because no one paid any more attention to my increasingly dramatic solutions. We all—well, they—decided that, since a Pringle’s can isn’t transparent and we couldn’t quite be sure where Tony’s fingers were, sawing might be difficult.  My brother, still salivating over the idea of a trip to the tool box, tried one last time. “I can tell you where my fingers are,” he offered. “I can feel the top chip. I can almost get it.”

“Are you sweating on them?” I asked him. “You know, the rest of us might have wanted one or two.”

He hit me with the can. Possibly this was a vain attempt to dislodge the thing. “I’m the one with the can stuck on my hand!” He’s the baby in the family; the victim card belongs to him always.

It was my mother’s idea to head to the emergency room when all the tugging failed. She usually wins our family discussions.

So, we went to the emergency room—all of us. It was Christmas Eve and my mother insists we all be together on Christmas Eve. My father insists that my mother gets what she asks for. After two hours in the waiting room, listening to children cry and watching them wipe snot off their dirty faces onto their dirty pajama sleeves, the can came off. Apparently vegetable oil from the hospital kitchen did the trick. Huh, never considered that.

On my way home, while my brother munched happily on the leftover Pringles, I figured the worst was over.

I was wrong.

Presents came. And these were omens as well.

My parents got me a few CDs. Remember this was 1995, no downloads available, kids, no iPods or MPS3s. CDs were the thing. My parents had bought themselves a CD player that year and had been frequenting the music stores in the mall. Once upon a time, there’d been music stores in malls instead of iTunes Top 40 lists. I eagerly unwrapped my gifts. My Christmas gifts were Abba’s Greatest Hits, Barry Manilow, Air Supply and the soundtrack for Saturday Night Fever. If the Bee Gees aren’t an evil omen, I don’t know what is, frankly.

“What’s wrong?” my father asked. “You really wanted that Saturday Night Fever album.”

“That was fifteen years ago!!” I exclaimed. “When I was young and stupid. I gave you a list. How could you mess this up? Where’s Pearl Jam? Green Day? Bush? Nine Inch Nails?” This was the hayday of my music. As far as I’m concerned, grunge never died; unfortunately, Barry Manilow hasn’t either. “These aren’t even in the same place in the store!”

My parents mumbled something which sounded like “ungrateful” under their breaths.

Hideous as all this sounds, I didn’t see them as omens. Horrible omens for the true horror which would scar me psychologically until this day and probably until the day I die. There’s no therapy for this kind of thing. There’s no safe place to run to. There just is this. It’s amazing I escaped without undiagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Christmas day would bring the true horrors, delivered by some creepy, soot-covered, imaginary dude straight to my already disturbed psyche.

Each and every Christmas, we pack up for the drive to my aunt’s house in New Bremen, Ohio. New Bremen is about three hours away, three hours of cornfields dotted with the occasional one-street no-stoplight town.

We packed up our things: presents for my cousins which I refrained from opening to search for Pearl Jam or better yet replace their gifts with ABBA or Barry, a six pack of Pepsi, a box of King Dongs, books to read on the trip for my mother and brother, a notepad and five pens for me. I once ran out of ink during one of these family trips and nearly had a nervous breakdown because my dad refused to stop to buy new ones. WE DON’T STOP FOR ANYTHING, is his mantra. Ever since that day, I’ve become paranoid about writing utensils and bring along spares. These days I have my trusty surface and a charging cord so if I die in a snow pile, I’ll be able to drain the battery of my vehicle with my last few words—which will probably not be words of kindness to snow plow drivers, by the way. Sorry.

Off we went. A cold, snowy 1995 Christmas morning spent in a car on the way to what might be described as a convention of over-indulgence preceded by disagreements and complaints.

Just past Fremont, about 30 minutes into the trip, my mother announced to my father, “When you find some place to stop, I have to use the bathroom.”

Not only would a similar request from my brother or me have been met with ridicule, but it would have been completely ignored. WE DON’T STOP. We certainly don’t make good time when we stop “every five damn minutes.” My brother and I exchanged a look. Then we looked out at the flat, empty fields waiting for farmers to revive them in the spring; at the scraggly bare trees that broke up the wasteland of tundra around us; at the swirling whirlwinds of snow racing across the emptiness in mockery of nuclear winter.

We drove through tiny towns with closed gas stations, closed stores, everything closed for Christmas! We drove past fields without a tree on them for miles. The worst were the houses along the way, knowing there inside each one was a bathroom, maybe even two, and knowing instinctively that those toilets were hopelessly unreachable, unapproachable, unwelcoming.

But still, nothing compares to the agony of sitting in a car with someone who is squeezing her eyes shut, bouncing up and down in the seat, sucking her breath, whipping her head back and forth in a wild frenzy to maintain control. You sit quietly. Afraid to laugh. Afraid to look at the suffering party. Afraid to make eye contact with anyone else. You fight the almost over-powering urge to open up one of those ice-cold Pepsi’s just because you want to hear the sound of the pressure inside being released.

Then, between Bettsville and Fostoria, facing miles of more closed gas stations and open farmland, my father pulled off the main road onto a little dirt road near a hedge which made a pathetic shelter. Thankfully, the snow had picked up and provided a little more camouflage. “You can squat in front of the car,” he told my mother. “None of us will look.”

Proper manners be damned!! My mother flings open the door and hurries into the negative temperatures in her high heels and brand new sparkling Christmas dress.

We all look at our feet and wait.

But, I can’t resist.

I’m always the one.

I look up.

I see a head above the hood of the Buick. Everything else is hidden. Snow sticks to my mother’s lipstick. Her dangling pearl earrings bounce in the wind. The expression of relief on her face is so profound, I imagine the Rapture.

I start to giggle.

My brother starts in.

My father covers his smirking with a well-paced cough.

My mother’s look of relief disappears as she returns to the vehicle yanking up her silk pantyhose. She stares at her barbarian children rolling in the back seat with tears rolling down their faces.

The Buick pulls carefully back onto the main road.

“It’s not funny!” she yells at us.

“Don’t laugh at your mother,” Dad threatens, but his voice is cracking and his usual authority is absent.

“Anyone thirsty?” I ask.

My brother’s Pepsi comes out his nose.

“It’s not funny!” my mother growls again.

The adventure becomes taboo. A family secret, unspeakable and best left forgotten. But family secrets aren’t so sacred in the home where a writer lives. It germinates in my mind all day until on the way back, I asked, “Dad, what’s the name of that street we pulled off on. I need the detail. It’s called local color.”

“You are NOT writing about this,” my mother warns.

I found the place where it happened.

Now, I have an image in my mind. An older couple stands hand-in-hand by a lit-up Christmas tree. Children and grandchildren fill their cozy home. A fireplace crackles and warms the room. Presents wrapped in shiny paper and bows glitter under the tree. All of them are blissfully unaware of how fortunate they are to have a bathroom they can use between Bettsville and Fostoria.

And then, the patriarch of this brood looks up and out the big front bay window. Through the big flakes of gently falling snow blanketing his yard in fluffy whiteness, like God’s grace bringing purity to those who accept love, the man sees something. “HEY! That lady is peeing on our driveway!!”

CLEAN MY FLAPS!! A foodie's guide to weight loss

Once upon a time, I was a skinny girl. Then some things happened. I hit 12 and I moved to a town I hated, a neighborhood filled with people where I didn’t fit in. How did I fill my loneliness and my time? Food. It was the year of the microwave and cheese-filled hot dogs. I was stuck in a neighborhood with kids who lived different lives than I did—dance lessons, designer clothing, and foreign nannies.  My foreign nanny was my mother who I could aggravate into cussing at me in Dutch (that’s how you learn all the good words when you’re bilingual). It was the year I discovered an obsession for writing too—a nice solitary and stationary activity that called to my soul more than those cheese dogs ever would.

This isn’t an excuse or a pity party. This is a statement of fact. This is where it began.

I struggled through junior high, high school, college. I couldn’t make friends easily. I don’t party. I am not a drinker. I’ll have a drink or two. I can talk a good game. But truth be told I don’t much care for it, I don’t like to lose control.

Which is ironic, because I can’t control my eating. Some say it’s a failure of character. Most will tell you that no one stuffed food into my face for me. But it’s an addiction. It’s mental. It’s a craving. Carbs whisper memories to me: the smell of a bakery, the smell of foods in Holland where I spent time visiting my grandparents. I can tell you love stories about having Dutch pancakes on the beach in Holland: big, thin crepe like things covered in powdered sugar and rolled into a tube. Dutch croquettes, the smell of hot chicken fried and put on a sweet roll from venders on the streets. Happiness and food.

I dealt with all this.

Then came a point in my life where I started to figure it out. I started to walk. I got into shape. I got thinner. I started to gain confidence and I didn’t feel the need for that barrier between myself and the rest of the world. Don’t let anyone fool you. Most fat people are soft inside and that layer of blubber is a barrier because it’s easier to be hated for that or called names for that than it is for someone to completely reject what’s really inside, that core that’s buried underneath. Fat is insulation. But I was losing it. I would walk every day. I would watch what I was eating. I lost a lot of weight. I fit into clothing that I hadn’t fit into since Junior High.

Then I met the man who would be my husband. I stopped walking,

I started eating again. To escape. To hide. To insulate.

It’s a habit. It’s an addiction. Your brain knows it’s wrong, but you do it anyway. Then you hate yourself for doing it and you eat some more to make yourself feel better about doing it. 

It’s a habit and even though I am at a point in my life where I don’t really care what people think about me, the habit continues. I’m happy. I don’t need to insulate. I’m pretty sure I’m strong enough to take whatever hatred comes my way. I know who I am. I am comfortable with who I am. Say what you want, I look myself in the mirror and I know things. I know I’m a good person. I know I have a good heart. I know all my sarcasm isn’t really mean spirited. I know that I need to remove myself from toxic people because they just aren’t healthy for me and I recognize that I’m not a person who can or wants to deal with that kind of drama.

The husband is gone. I love a new man, the right man, and he loves me back. He loves me, not what he sees or what others perceive. He’s seen what is behind all the walls and he didn’t run away.

But when I look in the mirror, I see someone who is an addict. A person who overeats because there’s some trigger inside that is convinced that insulation is needed.

I need to share great news. I’ve found something that works on my head, on my addiction. I have tried dieting. But let’s face it, I like food and I’m really not prepared at this point in my life to stand in front of everyone and swear off chocolate and ice cream for the rest of my life. I like the memories, I like trying new foods. I’m not going to become a vegan or a rabbit.

But I need to find a better way. I think I found it.

I watched the show Hoarders a few times. It has an effect on me. Usually what happens after I see that show and all their piles of filth, I’m up until two in the morning scrubbing the corners of my kitchen floor with a toothbrush.

I discovered this show My 600­-lb Life. It’s a show about people so insanely obese that they can’t function. I mean they can’t walk, they can’t get out of bed. They live for nothing other than food.

When I watch it, the thought of food is nauseating.

Seriously, try to eat some ice cream while watching a 700 woman who can’t fit in a shower so she’s got to go out on the porch and be hosed down by her boyfriend. I mean, these people. They’re young, they’re housebound. They can’t do anything for themselves. They get out of breath walking five feet. They think of nothing but their next meal.

And when they eat…..they spill food all over, it runs down from the corners of their mouths and to their double chins. Their clothing is covered in stains. 

They can’t put on their own clothes. One woman had to call her neighbor to come help her pull up her pants…and there comes her neighbor while she’s sitting there in all her bloated glory to help out.

There are other things which kill the appetite. They have these folds of flesh that don’t get clean and down get dry and they need help cleaning their folds and getting some baby powder in them. 

They have open sores on their legs or pustules of infection which are caused by lack of circulation from the excessive weight. They make excuses which sound a lot like me making an excuse for an extra serving of Chinese.

How does this work for me other than the obvious revulsion that I can’t possibly allow myself to come to that?

Well, I’ve started doing things to counter life like that.  I park far 

away from store exits, I only eat when I’m hungry, I try not to snack between meals, I need more vegetables…Blah, blah, blah…all that crap I’ve told myself for most of my life.

HERE’S THE SHIT THAT REALLY WORKS:

1] I told my cousin about my plan. She told me a story about a woman who decided to put bread in those folds to absorb all the moisture and then she forgot about them. Moldy, yeasty infection.  The green fuzzy nightmares I’ve had….and then Doug chimes in “Maybe she wanted to hold onto the sandwich for later in case she got hungry.” Which was barf-inducing enough to pretty much make me less carb addicted.

2] All those people can’t get into cars. They’re way too close to the steering wheel—I moved my seat closer so I can’t help but be a little uncomfortable and be reminded of those people who aren’t going to ever be ejected in case of an accident because they’re squeezed in so tight they can barely breathe.

3] I have a fat dog. I make her watch the show with me and I tell her that we’re going to have to do this together.

4] I bought a bunch of mandarin oranges. Whenever I have the urge to snack, I eat one of those instead of anything else. I’m pretty sure I now have enough vitamin C in my system to stave off the Bubonic plague.

5] The other day, when Doug got home from work, I laid on the bed all starfish like while he was in the bedroom talking off all the tools of his job and I yelled, “Clean my flaps! Clean my flaps!”  The look of sheer horror on his face was awesome motivation for continuing on this path for another day. I’ll probably try it again when I’m feeling the need for motivation. That one works best.

6] In secret, I lie on the floor and roll around like my arms and legs won’t come in to my body. Think Violet in Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. And then I yell “Help me! Help me!!”  and when no one comes, I know that if this happens to me, I’m going to die—or at least lay there until Doug gets home and can call EMS—he’s got a bad rotator cuff, this wouldn’t be good for him. Hopefully the dogs and the cat don’t eat me alive before he could get to that—they seem really a little too happy to jump around on me and bite me and bark at me while I do this.

I think I got this.

Perspective on the Hallmark holiday

I thought I’d been in love before. I thought I knew what love was. I got married. I thought that was love. But it was sick and it nearly destroyed me—not physically, but mentally. Ten years of struggle, of repeating that mantra that relationships are work and that nothing comes easy.

I remember sitting in my big house and looking around at all the stuff in it and thinking, “I am not in this house. This isn’t my place. I don’t belong here.” I lost myself in the effort of trying to make it work. Someone who claimed to love me, used the belief that I was supposed to work to make someone else happy, that I was supposed to sacrifice myself to that person’s will. It happened slow, it was subtle, but I disappeared. When I resisted, the mental attacks came, the guilt trips, the accusations of not being invested, the seeds of self-doubt sowed in unstable ground. And that is how I lost myself.

I remember the last day of my marriage quite clearly. It wasn’t easy. But, it did take this conscious thought. I had a choice. Was I to salvage this relationship, live up to the vows I took with all seriousness and absoluteness? To do that, I was going to have to kill off my soul. I knew this instinctively. The person I was could not survive this relationship. I could have killed my soul, the last spark of life burning inside me, and lived hollow and empty. My other choice was failure. Failing vows I’d made, failing myself, failing things I thought I could do, failing to do the work that I thought was required.

But in that failure, my soul could survive. I could live. This is the choice I made. I chose to give myself the love that no one else had. I chose to thrive.

Suddenly, I was free. My empty and hollow soul began to fill back up. I was happy. I could be myself again. I was suddenly not so alone. So today, on a hard day for so many people, I would like to tell all of you that you can be so much more alone when you’re denying yourself the right to live….just because society impresses upon people that we must “couple-up”.  I will tell you that while I laughed and played the bitter divorcee, I was happier being single than I had EVER been during my marriage. I learned to live again. I filled up my life with things to do, things I loved: work, friends, trips to places I’d never thought I would go. I set goals for myself and reached those goals—I didn’t reach some of those goals to, but I discovered that the benefits are always in the attempts.

Don’t let this holiday take that from you. Don’t let all these pictures of love and adoration and images of couples taint your soul and make it think that it’s less worthy. It took me a while to fill my soul back up. It took me a while to figure things out after that marriage.

To be honest, I would have sworn to you that love was an illusion created by not only Hallmark, but also by artists and musicians and poets. I would have told you that love meant sacrificing yourself and there was no way I was ever going to do that again. I refused to let myself believe.

However, life has a way of teaching me lessons. I’m grateful that I have learned how to listen. Because, two and a half years ago, in walked the biggest lesson of all.  Unexpected, unanticipated. I always had my door open for new friends, friends who could teach me things, friends who were interesting, friends who I could share things with. I didn’t believe in love so I certainly didn’t have my door open to it any more than it was open to rainbows, sparkles, unicorns and the color pink.

I met someone who’s soul belonged with mine. It’s not about work at all, apparently. That old cliché makes you think and do things that aren’t real. Doug Myers is the other half of my soul—which honestly was doing just fine, but I had no idea there was so much unrealized potential. I could have been happy the rest of my life, I could have felt fulfilled. There is nothing wrong with being single—life should be held on to no matter what. But I am lucky. Because my soul sings now. And there’s none of that bad stuff that I had before. I can be myself with this other half; just like I am by myself. There’s no pretending, there’s no acting. Just a smile from him makes me smile and makes my heart beat faster. And what makes me happy? When he is himself, when he does the things that makes him happy. I encourage him to be more of who he is, he encourages me to do the same. I love him. But I don’t feel like I’m in a relationship. I feel like he’s part of who I am. I cannot imagine me without him. There’s no sacrifice. There is only us.

I share this stuff.  Sappy and crappy. Because I know that this day is hard on many people. It’s hard because society tells you that you have to be with someone to be happy. That’s not the case. Always be true to yourself. Love is not another person, love is something that is inside you. So, you want flowers for Valentine’s Day? Go buy them for yourself. When I was single, and still today, if I want flowers, I go and buy them for myself. The flowers don’t smell better or look prettier if someone else gives them to you. You will say, I don’t know what I’m talking about because I’m crazy, stupid in love with this man I’ve let inside the walls around my heart. But I do know. I know that to live a life by society’s rules leads to making decisions that can destroy the essential you. When that person is gone, it’d be like cutting off the bruised sections of an apple—the good part of the apple doesn’t want to hook up with the bruised part because then everything gets ruined.

Is there someone out there for everyone? Maybe not. But that’s okay. Live free. Embrace life. Do good work. Be happy. Be your own Valentine first.

The United States of America is my country. I'm proud to be an American. When I was little and visiting my Dutch relatives, I used to proudly proclaim that I was an American like my dad and the dog. I'm not disgusted by the people who are angry about who won the election; I'm not disgusted by people who don't agree and are worried. However, I'm offended by this group of people who are flying flags of being tolerant people and protested the "other side" because they're racists, sexist, etcetera—which is really just calling names—bullying people who disagree with them and demanding that no one support what is. I am disgusted by people who are actively trying to cause violence and dissent. These people are causing fear and hatred and many of them are justifying their words and actions by saying “the other side said bad things about us for 8 years.”

I for one never liked President Obama. I didn't vote for him. However, I will admit that he's done some good things for the country. I don't agree with other things he's done. I feel like he’s painted targets on the backs of police officers and painted them all with the brush of racists, when I know that not to be the case. I feel like he doesn’t support our military. However, I do accept that he attempted to help people get health care who wouldn’t otherwise get it (the elimination of the ability to refuse health insurance for people with pre-existing conditions is an important thing). When the President came to Sandusky, I wanted to see him, because I thought it was cool that a sitting President would actually come to our little town. I was really upset that he blocked off the entire downtown and only allowed "his supporters" to see his speech. You know, I would have been okay if he'd come to a private venue to stump for candidates; but, to take up public space, shut down businesses (including the court house which stopped a bunch of people from getting their homes purchased that day) and then ban people he didn't like from that public place was wrong in my opinion.  Of course, I was called a racist by several people who assume that when you disagree with someone’s policies and that person isn’t of the same race as you that you are the worst kind of human being.

However, this did not incite me to violence or hatred. I just said: “Well, it's wrong and if I ever get an opportunity, I'll tell people I think so.” I hope they listen.

In the end, it's this country that I'm proud of. I am not a racist or a sexist or a homophobe. I like some people, I dislike other people. I've never truly wished ill on any other person (except my ex-husband and honestly, I think I can be forgiven for that because the feeling has long since passed). This country affords people of all races, backgrounds, and sexual orientations opportunities that no other country in the world does. The highest offices and statuses have been reached by those born into the lowest. Like my dad always told me “Some things might be harder to reach for you, some things might be handed to others that you don’t get handed to you. But, if you spend all your time looking at what others have, you’re missing your opportunity to work to get what you want. Hard work will bring you whatever you want.”

I am not denying the existence of racism, sexism, or bigotry in our country. I’m merely pointing out that constantly carrying it around as a banner, throwing those labels out at people who disagree with you causes those very things to fester and grow. It keeps those things alive.

Donald Trump won this election. He will be our President. I’ve never liked Donald Trump. I wish someone would take his damn Twitter account away. But do I wish him failure? Absolutely not. His failure would be the failure of this country, this great country, this country that I love. Will I fight to defend the basic principles of this country? Of course, I will. Do the basic principles of this country include hatred and venom spewed out at people who’ve chosen to be part of the inauguration, the systematic campaign of cyber-bullying of people who support the President, or the violent campaign to destroy anyone who holds a differing opinion of the possibilities of the future? No, they do not. What are you teaching the next generation? If they get a boss they don’t like, but some other co-worker likes that boss, is it okay to burn that co-worker’s house to the ground? This isn’t what this country is about.

If you don’t like this President to be, then go ahead and peacefully say so. If you don’t like something he sets in motion, then go ahead and write your Congressmen and women and tell them to oppose a policy. The man isn’t even President yet; no one knows what he’s going to do or how he’s going to govern. He was legally elected by the electoral college; if you take California out of the mix, he won the popular vote handily. This entire country cannot be ruled by the same standards as one state—it wouldn’t work—and our wise forefathers who made this great country understood that.

May the next four years be prosperous, may they be peaceful. May the inauguration go without hitch and without some third world coup attempt that some people seem to think would be okay and are actually advocating (many of them trying to ban guns at the same time, preaching love and understanding which is clearly something they know nothing about. You can’t just love and understand people who agree with you, you have to love and understand the bigot too, otherwise you’re just a damn hypocrite). May the doomsayers prove wrong. May everyone stop using the bad behavior of others as an excuse for their own bad behavior. We are all on the same boat. We need to work together, even with people who we don’t like, or the ship will be lost.

In my opinion. I am sure I will be called names, told I’m wrong, and be called hopelessly optimistic…which is funny because I’m cynical about everything, I no longer have faith in humanity. In the end, we got the President we all deserve. He is a reflection of our society. If any other person had run on a major ticket, that person would have won. This is the boat we decided to jump on, this is the ship of state.

Vegas Vacation Day 3 Impressions 3/24/16

Day three of our vacation.  Doug wakes up and says “I had a strange dream.” Apparently, he dreamt he was on the show Beat Bobby Flay. When the time starts and the bell rings, he grabs a frying pan and goes over to Bobby Flay and starts beating him with it.  This sets the tone for the day.

We are going to take on the other side of the Las Vegas Strip today. We take off across the bridge to MGM in search of adventure and breakfast. Wolfgang Puck, Emeril, Joel Robuchon, and Tom Collicio…no one to beat there, so we end up in the food court (we’re not looking for much, we’re anticipating a buffet tonight). McDonalds it is…we opt out of the omelet from Nathan’s hot dogs.  There is no military discount for this….which reminds me: When we asked the lady at Zumanity if there was a military discount, she replied with “No, because this show has strobe lights.”  So, the running joke has been, no military discount, must have strobe lights.  We both laugh hysterically each time we repeat this--Guess you had to be there.

Anyway, we pick a table and have our breakfasts. Next to us, there are two young men with beards and skinny jeans. One of them is talking angrily and waving his hands in the air as he talks. He’s complaining about injustice and how he can’t get a break because he was just better than the losers who were getting breaks. He pounds on the other guy’s plate with his fork as he makes his point. The other guy says nothing, just sits with a rigidly straight back and listens to the rant. Or maybe he’s mourning the death of his Panda Express mystery meat stuffed waffle. We linger to listen to the rant which runs from women who have dumped him to colleges that refuse to give him a free education to people who won’t consider him for a job because he’s white.  He does not mention his beard. Doug and I are judging him for his beard, it’s hideous. If we had someone apply for a job with that beard, we would not hire them either.

 

We hit the M&M store. There’s a midget employee who is shouting things. I didn’t know she was an employee; I thought she was some kind of mental homeless person, in need of an intervention, speaking a language of her own making. Then, the Coca-Cola store with all its trinkets and throngs of foreign families trying different flavors. Oh, speaking of different flavors, M&M was trying out Chili nut and coffee nut flavored M&Ms this visit…we passed on those.

More walking, my feet still hurt from yesterday…clearly today is going to test our relationship. I anticipate whining later tonight when I start to get tired.

We walk, skipping over the Miracle Mile Shops at Planet Hollywood because that’s the anticipated buffet (ranked number one on the internet polls). We check out the shops in Paris and I eye the Eiffel Tower. Neither of us have ever been up in the Vegas Eiffel Tower. We decide to check out the price. Military discount? Oh hell yes, the veteran gets in FREE…they don’t have strobe lights up there!!  Woohoo.  We wait in line and get all the way up there. Awesome pictures. Awesome views. High enough to make your knees a little weak. High enough that even Doug, who has absolutely no fear that I’ve ever seen, says that he feels that little twinge. Still, it’s cool.

After Paris, there’s Bally’s and these outdoor shops in a Bizarre-like atmosphere. Bizarre is a good word. There’s a place that takes photographs and stages fake weddings. There’s a brief temptation. There are t-shirts which light up to the sound of music. There are sunglasses and fake designer purses--Frendi, Guchi, Predia, Louis Vinton. And there’s a jerky shop. We’re stopping in the jerky shop. JoJo’s Jerky.  The man in the shop tells Doug: “We grow our own beef. Everything is handmade.” Doug and I exchange a look. We’ve reached that point in our relationship where we know the thought running through both of our brains at this moment is “How in the hell to you hand-make a cow? Isn’t that illegal?” Still, regardless of the suddenly suspect source of the meet, Doug buys jerky.  Doug cannot pass on jerky. For the record, the verdict on JoJo’s jerky wasn’t all that favorable. I had a friend who once said, “Pizza is like sex. You never get a bad slice.” This seems to mirror Doug’s theory on jerky--JoJos is apparently the equivalent of Tortino's frozen pizzas.

He eats this while we walk some more. More walking, yep. And finally, it’s starting to warm up a little. This almost makes me forget that I’m getting a blister.

Between the Flamingo and the Linq there’s a street (it’s new since that last time I was in Vegas years and years ago, or maybe it was there and I was just at the pool pissed off and drunk while all my money was being lost).  Anyway, we head down this street and the shops here.  Now, a friend told me to try the food at a place called the Yardbird.  I see a place called the Yardhouse, and I’m like, hey, we should stop to get something to drink and share a couple of appetizers for lunch….because really, I just want to stop the ever-growing blister that’s forming on my foot, right in the center between between the pad of my big toe and the other toes. The advice was to try the deviled eggs appetizer, so we do because, at that moment, I am not aware that I’m at the wrong place. We also order the fried cheese—in our endless quest for squeaky cheese like the kind we had once, fried at some fair or something.

After food and a feet reprieve, we head off to finish up the little street, which ends at a Ferris wheel called High Roller. The thing is MASSIVE.  I cannot express this enough. Nor can I express my lack of desire to ever be trapped in one of the huge pods with 20 sweaty strangers, unable to escape, glass-enclosed death trap that you have to get in to take a slow road up so high that I think airplanes from McCarran Airport are flying through the center of. Doug wants to get closer to it. He wants to see how it works. I take pictures. I don’t really even want to get close to it.  I mean, it might break off and go rolling down the strip, crushing small children and Asian families as they run down the streets, their screams travelling on a two second delay.

Next, it’s on to the shops at the Venetian. Lots of things we can’t afford. But, good browsing and people watching. Way too many aggressive salespeople. One woman tries to give me a free sample of perfume….but you know what, it’s not really free, because my time isn’t free and I don’t want to listen to their story about how their product will change my life. I tell one woman "No" and she says “Why the hell not, it’s free.” I almost turn around and confront her crappy sales attitude. I want to ask her if she makes a lot of sales being a bitch. She’s lucky that pivoting on a blister is not a good option. A guy tries to give Doug a sample of mousse for his hair. Another man wants to pawn off his free lotion--never accept free lotion from a metrosexual. When Doug says no, the salesperson mumbles under his breath “It was for her.” There are more 1 guy 2 girl groups everywhere. Is there some unwritten rule about needing a girlfriend to join you and your boyfriend on a trip to Vegas? Weird. 

In the Venetian, in the canals, there’s a married couple taking a trip in the white gondola. The woman is heavy set, wearing white and has a huge smile on her face. The man is wearing a kilt and looks like he’s hoping a sniper will take him out from one of the bridges over the canal. People are taking pictures. The gondolier is singing bad Italian. There are some claps, but I’m not sure if these are congratulations or thank-goodness-its-not-me claps. The woman grins. The man stares at the water. A camera man sits across from them filming. I think about an episode of Dateline I saw once.

The Venetian leads to the Wynn. My feet hurt. I’m in agony. I try to fake it and smile, but part of me knows that this is probably going to mark the end of my relationship. Goodbye happiness. Goodbye perfect match. I’m going to whine and ruin it all. And then, while I’m mourning the loss and sure I’m going to die alone, they’re going to amputate my feet and I’ll have to walk around on the calloused stumps that once were ankles. And God dammit, I am not coordinated enough to walk around with two feet, how am I ever going to manage walking around on two stumps? The man I love looks at me and says, “I’m farting in every hotel on the Strip.” He grins.  Okay, maybe there’s hope still.

I drink a lot of water. Smart Water. Fiji Water. Wynn Water. Propel Water---oh yes, the irony. I have to pee. The signs at Wynn for the restrooms have both a man and a woman on them. I head for the door. A security guard stops me. Apparently, I was headed for the mens/Jenner family/metrosexual room. I nearly walked in on things that I did not want to see and couldn’t run from without crying in pain.  I go in the women’s room.  Hey, this fancy people at the Wynn have nice restrooms. Marble floors and doors that actually close. Gold faucets and touchless hand dryers that remind me of those blowers at the end of a car wash—except for your hands.

Now it’s back. Back the way we came. It’s getting late and the street “performers” have come out. There’s short Darth Vader with his platform shoes and oversized head. There’s Spiderman who should have worn a cup or something; but, I can see why he wears a mask. I don’t have a penis and even I feel superior to Spiderman. There are two woman wearing only body paint advertising for a strip club. A woman hands them her baby and says: “Take a picture with my baby!”

Then, it’s the Miracle Mile of shops at Planet Hollywood. It’s going to be a miracle if I survive this night without an amputation. A mile of shops much like the rest. To be fair, these stores are more within my price range. If I wasn’t all whiny and tired and hurting, I might have taken more of an interest. We check it all out. With special attention to the electronics stores. While checking out a drone in Hammacher Schlemmer, Doug looks at me, farts loudly and says … “Planet Hollywood!”

Finally we’ve arrived at Spice Market. The Buffet.

Military discount or strobe lights? 

Military discount wins!!!  The people in front of us can’t decide where they want to sit. They take the hostess around the entire place pointing at different places and ruling them out. It takes them 20 minutes to pick a table. People with food piled high on two plates pass by in a hurry to their tables. I’d say something about them being able to go back for more instead of grabbing all the food at once, but I figure their feet might hurt and I think they’ve got a reasonable solution.

We get a table finally. Next to a table where a man has a plate filled with crab legs. The food is good. Or maybe it’s just the joy of being off my feet.

At another table, there are two woman in clothes one size too small. Leopard print leggings and lots of gold. Long lacquered nails. Bags by Louis Vinton and Predia or maybe Frendi and Guchi. Ankle boots with straps that cut into swollen feet and cankles bursting at the seams of the leggings. They talk with flourishes and hair whips. They scarf food trying to look elegant. Doug and I watch as they go back for several helpings. And then…at the end…..they start flossing their teeth at the table. One of them picks up the cloth napkin and blows her nose in it. Doug and I exchange looks of horror and shock.

The waitress yells at the busser for leaving too many unbussed tables. The busser yells at her in Spanish, mumbling under her breath behind her back as she rolls her eyes and throws up her arms.

We hobble back to the tram to Luxor. Full. The rest has done little to help my feet. 11.4 miles the days before. 11.9 miles today. 5.25 miles the first day.  It takes me three days to do a marathon. There’s a girl complaining about her feet on the tram. She shows her friends that they’ve taken 5000 steps. They ooh and ahh at how awesome they are. Doug looks at his phone. 24,639 steps. He’s hit a new record for the day. The tram also holds a family with a father who looks like he’s barely hit puberty. His wife/ mother of children/ nanny/ grandmother and he have 4 children. They are all wearing sandals. For some reason, I think they’re probably vegans. It must be the delirium setting in. Doug farts as we exit the tram and head back to the room, finishing our third day of vacation. 

Vegas Vacation Day 2 Impressions 3/23/16

3/23/16

Well, we want to try a buffet tonight in Vegas, so we don’t want to eat too much. Plus, we know we have to get back to our hotel in time for our Blue Man Group show. We elect the hotel café for a quick breakfast.  But oooh, they have hash!  And they have sourdough toast. We cannot pass these up. This is probably going to be a fulfilling day for food.

We decide to walk the Strip, our side, the one Luxor is on, so we can stay in the sun. It’s rather cold out and very windy. It’s nice not being in a hurry as we explore the huge hotels and the shops in them. Doug is good with checking out all the art gallery stores with me. The salespeople pounce on you when you enter and they follow you like you’re going to steal something. If only they knew that I don’t buy art for value or as an investment, I buy art when I like it---and that’s very few of the galleries I find. One that I really liked and so did Doug was a photographer named Rodney Lough Jr.; he’s got photos in the Smithsonian so you know we’re not the only ones who like him. The salesman actually talked to us like people rather than potential art thieves too. You should check out his website if you get a chance, his books and photographs were just stunning.  I’d love some of them in my house. The prices range from reasonable to never-gonna-happen.  Maybe one day I’ll get one.  We checked out Aria and The Cosmopolitan hotels, both new since either of us have been there, then we walked into the Bellagio because I’ve never seen the garden. The garden is filled with Japanese tourists using big tablets as cameras. By this time, we’re looking for restrooms, so why not hit the Bellagio restrooms.  They’re nice. They have heavy wooden doors on the stalls and real marble floors. This design makes for nice acoustics for the guy in the stall next to Doug’s who’s singing “Easy Lover.”

Further down the strip, the street performers appear. There’s a guy in Chuckie costume.  The costume has a fan in the head. There’s fat Elvis on a scooter.  There’s multiple Elvises (Elvi?) swapping money and one of them looks at the other and says in a heavy New York accent “I have a fucking headache today, Dude.” Darth Vader is short even with his huge platform shoes and his huge oversized head….seriously, the shoes add about 6 inches to him and he’s still shorter than Doug and I.

Finally, we reach the Fashion Show Mall.  All this time we’ve been dating and we’ve never been in a mall together (the Sandusky Mall apparently doesn’t count as a mall). We roam through the stores and wander into the “As Seen on TV” store.  While Doug looks, the clerk starts to talk. She tells me about living in Las Vegas and how the clubs are lame because she’s from New York and here in Las Vegas people just want to get drunk. Her allergies are bad today and all her friends in the mall tell her she sounds like Rosie Perez. When GaGa and Pitbull were in town at the same time, it was madness in Vegas. Even the shitty hotels way off the Strip were charping $500/night and the place was so full that police were trying to turn people away from the city at the airport. As we leave, Doug looks at me and says “What is it about you that people tell you everything?”  It’s a gift. We hit the Nike Store so I can buy a thin jacket because I’m cold.

After the weaving in and out of stores I am completely lost as far as direction. Usually I’m very good at it, but I think I’ve come to rely on Doug who is excellent at it. He has the sense of direction of a bloodhound. He leads us out of the Fashion Show Mall at the back and down a street. And Wah La…we are across the street from the Erotic Heritage Museum.

We cross the road and walk through the completely empty parking lot. There’s an open sign in the door though and we walk in. A tall girl with tats, dyed black hair, and horn-rimmed glasses greets us. I make sure Doug gets his military discount…haha! This discount thing is great. We explore dildoes and peep shoes and the dark circular room where about 8 screens are showing 8 different pornos at once. There’s Bill Clinton and Monica and the Star Wars porn parody. There’s art and historic erotic equipment that looks quite frightening.  Doug is checking out the peep show rooms and gives out a cry of surprise…he thought the dummy in one of the booths was a real person who was in there pleasuring himself. We giggle and laugh.  Too bad we won’t be around for the show “Puppetry of the Penis”….actually I don’t think Doug was upset about missing that show.

Back across the street to the mall again.  By this time, my feet are starting to hurt and I have a blister developing. We left the hotel at about 9 am…it’s now 2 pm, we haven’t stopped walking. And I’m kinda hungry. I only had toast afterall. We see Grimaldi’s pizza inside the mall. It was suggested. So we stop. We decide to get two personal pizzas and share.  Doug gets a white pizza with artichoke hearts, garlic, and ham. I get a regular red pizza with pepperoni, black olives, and garlic. The pizzas are huge…too big for us to eat. They’re coal fired brick oven and they’re awesome, but there’s so much left over. We decide to take some back to the room. We’re too full for a buffet now.

We walk back the same side, on the outside of the hotels this time. Doug gets stopped by a guy on the street who says “You guys smoke weed? I got some really good bud.”  I’m jealous, no one has ever offered me weed on the street. We take the shuttle from Excalibur to Mandalay Bay to Luxor.  A guy with two girls gets on.  The blonde girl is wearing 5 inch heels. The guy is telling her to sit down. He looks at us and says “Tell her to sit down.” I’m like “I’m not telling anyone to do anything.” Then I look at the girl and make a fist. “Girl power.” The blonde grins and nods in agreement.  “Yeah,” she says, “We have the strongest ankles of all the sexes.” Me: “Yes, all five of them.” We all laugh…good times. On the walk from the shuttle to our room, a fat 10-year-old points at Doug’s Star Wars shirt and says “cool shirt, Dude.”

We drop off the pizza, relax a little, and then head to Blue Man Group. As we’re going down in the elevator, a man in there with us tells us (well me) that his wife is claustrophobic and he’s going to the airport to pick her up right now. She’s not going to ride the elevator without him, he says. The elevators are too small. As we get off the elevator, Doug just looks at me and shakes his head. We stop at the sundry store and buy chapstick. The dry weather is bugging me. The clerk tells me about how awesome the show it and how we’ll enjoy it. She tells us that we can’t get discounts unless we gamble a lot, but it’s good that we don’t. Doug just shakes his head at me.

We get in line and watch people try to cut in line. We have good seats. I bought them months ago for Doug’s birthday. When we get in there, we find out just how good they are…we have a real danger of being picked to go on stage. We can practically reach out and touch the stage. We don’t get picked, thank goodness. Neither of us really want that. The show is awesome. As it ends, we all stand up. Some woman from the middle of the show, pushes past all of us, shoving us back as she gets out first; she leaves her husband behind as she tramples toes and knocks over old ladies.

After the show, we decide that we could eat a bite. We buy some souvenirs, then we head to the all night deli. There a man tells Doug that his shirt is awesome and starts to talk about the movie. The people in front of us can’t decide what they want and it takes them 15 minutes to order. Doug orders a four foot high pastrami and corned beef sandwich. I get onion rings and a hot dog. A guy is taste testing all the pop at the place where you fill your own cups. We get our food and head back up to the room. We want to sit in the big tub and much on dinner. Doug leaves the room to get pop at the pop machine. When he returns, he knocks on the wrong door.  The woman inside doesn’t open the door for him. 

We finish the day with dinner in the big soaking tub. It’s been a good second day.