Out There on my Own

Sometimes I wonder who I am, where I've been, do I fit in?  No, not really.

Here is what I really wonder.

Why, no matter how busy I am, do I insist upon cutting out the box tops for school.  I remember a time when my world had literally collapsed, all was lost. I had trouble finding a reason to live and yet I could not physically throw away that cereal box without snipping the box top. Was it a desperate attempt to hold on to normalcy or was it a matter of sanity?

Why do I love marching bands and bagpipes? If I see a marching band with bagpipes I will cry.  The same holds true for fireworks if the Lee Greenwood song, "Proud to be an American" is played.

How can I hate politicians and politics so much that I refuse to watch, participate or expose myself to news, other than that which I carefully screen through my rose colored glasses while I clearly feel unsettled enough to lose sleep at night?

Why do I test the limits of health and well being? I mean, for God's sake, what is this wreckless behavior all about? Mom used to say I was well adept at cutting off my nose to spite my face. But what if my face was happy to be rid of my nose? Sometimes you have to lose by a nose, right?

Why have I spent the last year and a half not the slightest bit interested in having a mate, counterpart, companion, lover or whatever the hell else one might normally desire in their life?  Is there something wrong with me, this need to be on my own? There have been times when I thought about my grandmother who lost her husband at a young age and never married or once even dated to the day she died at the age of 93. I adored her.  Did I admire her too much?  Did I receive her gutsy determination or did I inherit her thankfullness to be free?  Was she free or was she lonely? Did she choose to be single or was the choice made for her?  She raised three kids on her own but was she successful or sorry in the end?

Sometimes I wonder who I am, where I've been, do I fit in - but those thoughts are most often replaced by a fierce need to get through each day raising my three kids on my own; finding a way to make them feel my love beyond words, working hard to pay our bills and struggling, at times, to find a reason to wake up and cut another box top.

Am I missing the bigger picture here?

After all, what about God?

Tina Fey - Change of Life Baby

Today, on this very day, I had the rare opportunity to be without children under the age of 25 so I decided to read a book, carefully selected as a last minute impulse buy at Sam's Club.  Can you still technically call it an impulse buy when you've wanted to read it since the day it was released? I am a huge fan of Ms. Fey on so many levels, it's like one of those old fashioned high rise department stores where each area is on a different floor.

First Floor - Feminist issues relating to women in the workplace, working mom's, i.e., guilt. Or breastfeeding vs. formula, i.e., guilt squared.  Which sounds an awful lot like quilt squared but in this case it is important to note the difference.

Second Floor - Normal girl raised with real world values becomes success. She had a kick ass dad she obviously adored but with a healthy dose of fear.  I didn't have that.  My dad was kick ass with an unhealthy dose of fear and an addiction or two to back up the crazy ass shit he did.  Nonetheless, I am trying to act like a girl raised with real world values who becomes a success.

Third Floor - Brilliant writer - enough said. I originally wrote "nough said", but that didn't sound like something Tina would write so I edited it or dare I say Feydited it.  Being a brilliant writer is all I ever wanted to be, or as Oprah puts it, my "ultimate truth".

Fourth Floor - Wife, mother, honest and real. Tough shit - the doubt; always and forever - it simply does not die.  Am I doing the right thing or do I need to save for therapy instead of college?

Fifth Floor - Aging. I am just a skosh older than Tina.  With all honesty, maybe it's more like a tad older.  But I am certainly in the ballpark, sitting right behind home plate. Her references to having a baby at 40, formerly known as "a change of life baby" resonated with me.  I clearly remember my mom and dad talking about the next door neighbors who had a "change of life" baby.  Born 10 years after the elder two, they scoffed at the very idea of it.  I distinctly remember thinking this was a change of life for the worse, which was implied by the mere tone in which it was delivered.  I had the unexpected pleasure of recently connecting with the elder cheerleader daughter via Facebook.  She who had so patiently and graciously tried to unsuccessfully mentor me into cheerleading. To make it perfectly clear, her lack of success had nothing to do with her skills as a cheerleader or as a mentor but more in part because those fucking tryouts were rigged and Deanna Jimboy got in just because she had cool older brothers who were sleeping with the judges and fucking Brenda Gizzi could do back hand spring like her hands were literally HAND SPRINGS.  I was clearly out of my league.

Sixth Floor - Men.  She invades and conquers the planet, Testosterune.  She blazes a path through the world of comedy with a quirky, unconventional style that allowes her to sneak under their highly evolved border patrol, electronic fences, battery of TV remotes and fart gas.  She emerges out of it alive, and fully functioning with actual reconnaissance of how they pee in cups and jars because they are too lazy to walk to the men's room. Early in my career, I recall asking some of the more 'seasoned' women in my office why the men disappear for 45 minutes to an hour each day with a newspaper tucked beneath their arms.  I later dared to go into a men's room in my building, after hours, for proof. Color me repulsed when I discovered they actually had reading bins in there where they would place their used, if not slightly soiled Wall Street Journal or The Daily Oklahoman for example.

I don't need to travel up any further in this particular department store for I've been sold.  I came away knowing I'm not the only woman who dared to have a baby after the age of forty (going a step above, I had twins).  I'm not the only woman to scratch and claw my way through a man's world yet as hard as I've fought, she still found a way to teach me a lesson.  I am all riled up to the point of facing her Sesame Street challenge.  Do I figure out a way to go over, under or through these obstacles placed in front of me?

She pierced through my shroud of guilt for not being able to successfully breastfeed after so much effort, expectation and did I mention effort?  She made it okay for me to dismiss those that shamed me for not trying harder.  All I have to do is think of her aptly named Bret Michael's move (read the book) to know I did everything I could possibly do and then some.

Finally, she left me feeling as if "everything would be fine", no matter what happens with the rest of my life.  Which made me remember that all the cheerleaders who were selected in the 7th grade ended up pregnant by Senior year.  Not that I'm judging, God forbid, because my life hasn't exactly been by the rule book, the good book or otherwise but I just wanted to point that out, you know, how happy I am about Brenda's springy hands and Deanna's sexy as hell brothers.

As this is a website dedicated to the female gender's words, read the damn book.  If not for any other reason than to arm yourself with the perennial, "I don't care if you like it" philosophy. It's called Bossypants.  Don't let the cover put you off.

And you, Tina Fey, Greek Goddess of Baby Poop, conveyor of classically, funny shit shall live with or without a great deal of anxiety.  Tina, I loved you, even before I knew you existed. Rock on, you pear-shaped, overrated troll, for the rest of us apple-shaped overrated ogres will follow you knowing our journey will be made easier as ogres are not required to think of clever riddles.

My childhood neighbor's change of life baby went on to become a successful doctor, noted for changing the lives of countless patients. I suspect Tina Fey will be resonating with me in the weeks and months to come as I strive to be a brilliant writer and a guilt-free mom.  Whether I have to go under, over or through, I wonder....which one of these things is not like the other, which one of these things just doesn't belong. And that is the essence of the book.

They both do.

Concessions

Fucking bitter resentment. I am supposed to be all about Zen, calm, fucking smooth, relaxing and somewhat pleasurable contentment. Right?

Okay, so here's the deal. My dad, secret drug addict, abuser, terrifying man who later benefited from the invention of Prozac and became #1 Team Grandfather to my son's baseball team.  They provided him a reason for living and he provided them with countless blow pops, licorice sticks and whatever else they requested after a big win. That was my dad. My life was but a concession.

Mom - depressed, not available, now dead.

Oldest brother - dead.

Middle brother - dead to me.

Youngest brother - dead.

First husband - in prison.

Second husband - doing very well, thank God I had the strength to set him free.

Third husband - in a federal satellite camp (could be called prison) but my kids tend to refer to him as "away".

When my mom died in 2007 of depression, masked as breast cancer (because you truly cannot have a lump in your breast that size and not know it might be an issue) left everything in her estate to my middle brother because she knew he might not be far from death and she wanted him to always have a place to live.  She spent her life keeping my drug addicted brothers off the streets so of course, she naturally chose to keep him, the last of the three, in a safe harbor throughout her death.  It was easy for her, "my daughter has always provided for herself, so she most certainly always will".

When my ex-husband went to his country club, a/k/a prison camp last year, there were no provisions made as to how I was going to make ends meet as a full time mom.  Nobody to help with childcare.  Three kids, a full time job, a house.  I was barely able to keep my nose above the water as a 50% joint custody mom; yet, it was easy for him to see, "she has always provided for us when I didn't hold a job or spent us into debt or relied on her to pay all the kids expenses even after we were divorced, and she most certainly always will".

As I write this, I am approaching the fifth month of being a full time working, full time single mom and I fucking hate every single word of this post typed thus far, for it reeks of pity.  I have been swirling about in a cauldron of evil consisting of:  Hate, Resentment, Entitlement, Hair of the Dog, Bitterness, Red Dirt vs.White Snow, Shaved Spirit of the Innocent, Red Wine vs. White Wine or worse yet, no Whine at all.  And it comes to me. I want to move back to Oklahoma because it's not supposed to snow in late March. Oh and also......

Duh.  These are your lessons you dumb shit. Since when did you ever feel sorry for yourself?  Get the fuck up and manifest this anger into your destiny. I gave it to you for a reason.  You only do well, when you are pressed, pressured or pissed.  Now you are all P's to the three and I am sitting here, laughing my ass off, waiting to see how you swat at this ridiculous hornets nest I save for the only those I love the most.

My kid's dad recently told them God only punishes those he loves the most, that's why daddy ended up in camp "away". To which, the sick and much demented grandmother figure replied, "then God must really, really love your daddy". Concessions.  Holy, moldy shit, concessions.

I have picked up my giant ass fly/hornet swatter and I am going to destroy anything that stands in my way and that means you: Resentment, hate and pity - you were sent here to piss me off.  

But what happens when you catch yourself in the mirror and you stop, truly stop in your tracks? You try to deny it but it is there.  You look just like your brother, who looks just like your dad.  You said it yourself last Thanksgiving when you couldn't take your eyes off your brother because he made you uneasy, like he was going to send you to your room at any moment for being the worlds first and only virgin whore. And here I am, looking like my brother who looks like my dad.  Same fucking nose, same fucking eyes, same fucking.....?

Same fucking hero to a little league baseball team who counted on the gray haired man with a lawn chair, a huge smile, and a pocket full of dollars for a sugar coma provided by none other than a concession stand.

Fuck me - I have to stand on top of these concessions? I'm going to need more than a few licorice sticks.

The Strength of a Woman and Two Aleve Tablets Per Day

Sometimes I feel like an overused cliché.  Life isn’t about the breaths you take but the moments that take your breath away.  

Fuck that shit. Sometimes all I can do is take another breath, surviving breath by breath and when my breath is taken away, it’s only because I’m too fucking tired and numb to feel myself actually breathing.

I was given two hugs yesterday.  Two hugs before noon.  The first was from my daughter’s third grade teacher.  I had forgotten to send lunch money with the girls so I had to get out of my car with my camouflage pajama leggings, black furry boots and yellow furry teeth from not yet brushing.  My bright red coat drew attention to me, like a Christmas tree, topped off by a flagrant display of bed head.  I delivered the money and had almost made a clean getaway when the teacher approached to ask how my son was doing.

Instinctively I told her enough without telling too much.  Watching every word as they floated off my tongue, I painting with a brushstroke large enough to cover the entire canvas with one swipe, recanting how my 12 year old son was struggling with anger, hurt and resentment from having his ultra conservative, right-wing Republican, ex-politician (wannabe),”I will save the world for you” father sent away for a two and half year stint in federal prison for fraud.

The highlights of my lowlights reduced her to tears and induced her to hug me, there in my pajama bottoms, as the kids were making their way to class. She went on to ask if we were “okay” for Christmas. At first I wasn’t sure what she meant.  “Okay for Christmas”, I asked?  “Yes, do you need help with presents for the kids?”  Aside from the obvious, i.e., me looking like a cleaned up version of a disheveled street person, I was a bit taken aback by her offer.  So many people have come forward to help us.  All friends, no family; family has been busy looking after the convict.  I have had help from other moms and dads willing to pick up the kids, feed them dinner, take them to Brownie meetings….but help for Christmas? No. I had already explained to the minions, Christmas past was gone.  This year, we are going to be about family.  This year, we are volunteering our time to help with moms and dads and kids who are less fortunate than we.  This year, we learn the true meaning.  In other words kids, this year, you aren’t getting what you are accustomed to getting.

“No, we are fine.”  We won’t need help for Christmas, but thank you so much for thinking of us (insert hug here).  “This year, we will be a gift to others.”  I walked out the door, holding my head a bit higher and praying like hell I wouldn’t encounter another person above the height of five feet on my way to the car.

After quickly showering and attempting to present myself with some sort of professional modicum; a little make-up, a pair of heels, I am off to work for a few hours before my dentist appointment.  For the past six weeks, I have opened my eyes each and every day to a cocktail of Diet Coke and Aleve.  The soda is my coffee and the Aleve is to get me through the day without the right side of my lower jaw feeling as if a voodoo sorcerer has decided that side of my face needs to fall off.  The use of rusty instruments, dull from centuries of neglect was, in my opinion, totally uncalled for.  What was my unsuspecting doppelganger dolly supposed to do? But I say nothing because the Aleve works and I know I’m seeing my dentist in December.

Tall, dark and Greek dentist walks in after his assistant has taken it upon herself to ex-ray my roots to oblivion.  I am expecting the worst: Root canal, tooth extraction, partials, retainers, braces, TMJ, TMI, fuck it – you’re just getting old and need new teeth, etc.  He pushes and prods. He pressures and pokes. Then he looks at me with those big brown eyes and says, “Sweetie, you have never had problems with your dentally boring teeth. Are you experiencing a particularly high amount of stress in your life right now?”

And just like that, I gave into my pain and I lost it, in a dental chair, just before noon on a Thursday. I thought I was being so strong to stand up to these pressures but my teeth gave me away.  It’s the fucking holidays so let it flow, let it flow, let it flow.   Second hug was administered, immediately, with love.  Without knowing the financial strains on me, doc said the ex-rays and biting device, yes I said biting device, as in I am clenching my teeth, would be an early Christmas present. You know that shit only makes me cry harder, right doc? I am known to have the world’s ugliest cry face which is made exponentially worse when accompanied by a bib and goggles.

Once I’ve pulled myself back together, the dental assistant continues with her cleaning, simply shaking her head and saying to me, “the strength of a woman, the strength of a woman, it constantly amazes me the strength we have as women, you know?”  With my mouth open, I give her a nod.  “And the fight in a mother, there is nothing like it.  By the way, don’t worry about the gums bleeding, that’s just stress too, you are going to be okay."

Breathe.  I am breathing, and yet I am bleeding from my gums and my heart and my liver and my vagina and from the deepest, most indistinct fear that resonates within my soul that perhaps, I am not enough. 

   

But Friday arrives and I realize we’ve made it through another week. Give me breath, and I will give you life.  Life that doesn’t have to come from my body, but life I will sustain nonetheless, as a mother. Those moments that take your breath away are not always the happy Hallmark times; sometimes, they come in the form of unthinkable challenges and struggle for basic survival.  Either way, with the strength of a woman, I continue to breathe.   

Who are you calling a Princess?

I’m a girly girl, always have been. I don’t like fishing, hunting or camping, though I admire the women in my life who do.  They are able to bait their own hooks, pull the disgustingly slimy fish off the line, shoot a deer, field dress it and cook up both using an arsenal of creative culinary techniques. It’s reminiscent of those vintage Enjoli advertisements, I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never ever let you forget you’re a man, cause I’m a woman. Wherein, I’m generally satisfied with Mrs. Paul’s beer battered fish fillets. Which by the way, is itself reminiscent of the smell of Enjoli.

       

Hunting in Wisconsin is more than a pastime or a hobby. When the season opens, work comes to a standstill.  Good luck finding a contractor during that week, unless you have some land “up north” with a few deer stands in it, you’re not likely to see one. They sit in these rickety old stands, generally alone, in minus twenty-fuck degrees. They don’t realize when hypothermia is about to set in because along with their weapons of choice, they have packed enough liquor to sustain that fine line between being drunk off your ass and being drunk on your ass. It’s not uncommon to see photos of them passed out at the top of a tree with a cigar in one hand and a rifle in the other. Does anybody else see this as dangerous?  I like to imagine the woodland animals with makeshift cameras and tiny reading glasses hiding behind rocks while taking detailed notes on the peculiar habitats of these large orange creatures:

It continues to drink from the bottle, causing loud noises to pass from the regions of its mouth and buttocks, the latter of which sends off an odor of most foul proportion.  Have not been able to identify a pattern to these guttural sounds, thus have ruled out the theory of a mating call.

Be that as it may. Here I am, living among the large orange creatures. I am certain I was communicating with one who happened to be on duty that night in Walworth County. He opened the door of my cell, handed me a blanket so thin it folded up to the size of a cell phone and pointed me in the direction of the green vinyl mat that would serve as my bed for the night. Just before he closed the door, I asked if he might possibly have forgotten to give me my pillow. The look he gave me was something along the lines of, boys, we got another one. “No princess, I did not forget your pillow.”

There is a big difference between a girl who doesn’t care for camping and a girl who is a princess.  I don’t like roughing it, woman against nature, but I also don’t need to be pampered. I’m not one to volunteer to sleep in a place with no running water but then again, I’m no prima donna.  After all, I survived my childhood.

Does This Look Like A Mug Shot To You?

It is October and I am in jail.  

Moments earlier, I had the most surreal experience when I realized they were about to take my mug shot and I remembered how I always wondered what I might do in the event of a mug shot. Would I want to fix my lipstick, slick down my hair and smile or would I want to look surly and disheveled? I had spent more than a few minutes contemplating this after seeing mug shots of Mel Gibson, Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan and that guy from 48 Hours, what was his name?  Nick Nolte.  Paris smiled, Lindsey looked trashed, as usual, while Mel and Nick really had no business being in front of a camera at that moment.

The fingerprinting process had been fascinating. I chatted nervously with the deputy as he rolled my fingers over a tiny computer screen until it beeped. I watched as he gingerly manipulated each of my fingers with his purple rubber-gloved hands until the beeps indicated all ten had been registered, viewed and approved for picture perfect clarity and content. Like a fine diamond. 

These were the same fingers that spent the day wrapped around my golf clubs, happily chipping away at the Grand Geneva resort. It was the first time I had golfed the magnificent and aptly named Brute, at over 7,000 yards, it is one of the most challenging layouts in the Midwest and is considered one of Wisconsin's best golf courses. Enhanced with 68 bunkers and huge rolling greens, this par-72 perfectly manicured and immaculately maintained course had kicked my ass for the better part of an afternoon.

My fingers had also spent most of the day wrapped around an assortment of Styrofoam cupped free cocktails. Funny, but I never paid much attention to alcohol until I moved to Wisconsin. Now I’m considered one of their own.  I don’t drink domestic beer or cheap wine the way they do in Oklahoma.  I live in Brew City where there is a tavern on every corner, directly across the street from the Catholic Church and immediately adjacent to the church cemetery. Drinking is a serious business here. It is embedded in the fiber of every tight knit community up and down the shores of Lake Michigan. 

On this particular work sponsored golf outing, I ordered a few Bloody Marys, followed by a few beer chasers, followed by a pre-dinner Vodka cocktail, followed by white wine with raw fish appetizers and red wine with my gorgonzola encrusted filet.  I had the impression after dinner that I somehow still needed to catch a buzz so I rallied the troops and headed out to the resort’s fire pit for more wine where I kid you not, there was a convention of office supply sales people from around the country, doing their conventioneer thing, drinking heavily, hiding their wedding rings and hogging all the good seats to the fire pit.

Surveying the situation, I immediately noticed they were all men, save a few token females who were referred to as the hired help.  In my impaired state of mind, I stood up and asked for the dick who was in charge of this mess to show himself.  The time for reckoning had come. Little did I know, the time for my mug shot was soon to come. 

While staring down the lens of the DMV style camera, preparing for my Mr. De Mille moment, I am told to stand with my feet against the wall, do not move your head, look straight into the camera. No, do not tilt your chin, this is not Vogue, look up here.  

What to do, what to do?  If I become a well known author, this shot will be seen by millions.  If I smile, it could appear apathetic and smarmy, as if I were saying not a problem, I got this.  On the other hand, if I don’t smile, I risk pulling a Gibson or Nolte, and I can’t have that. I mean, how embarrassing. Maybe I could ride the fence, looking calm with just a hint of a curl at the edge of my lips, not nearly a full smile.  Some will question whether it’s a smile at all, like the Mona Lisa.  It could become a pop culture debate as countless intellectuals joust enthusiastically as to the meaning of my facial expression, or lack thereof.

       

And like that, the photo was taken and I was unceremoniously escorted to my cell in the Walworth County jail.

The Nobility of the Mundane

As I sit to write this, I've just received a series of messages from my soul mate. She resides in a castle in the Hills of Nichols, yet she intuitively knows when I need her.  She has produced the softest tears in me. They are flowing steadily but without the twisted, painful emotion that would usually accompany them. I've been beaten and broken and left for dead in so many ways; yet, this moisture runinng from my eyes, down my neck and into my clothing feels as if it could, just possibly, be cleansing me.

I wipe my neck and then notice I have soaked the keyboard with my fingers. The thought occurs to me, are  my tears being transmitting electronically through this post?

When I awoke this morning, I wasn't sure where to begin. What do I do now? Should I be working on the large trees that fell into my house or should I be working on me.  Should I write, should I walk, what should I do to begin to feel human again?

Then her first message arrived, in a Jacob Marley-esque manner, forewarning me she would be sending three thoughts to me today. They began to arrive at slow, thoughtful intervals.

Message One:  Keep waking up.  Many would be in more pain than you feel now without you.

Message Two:  This time, suffering and pain brings a lesson.  Be with it, ask it questions. Listen. Learn. Pain is the crucible that brings peace.

Message Three:  While you are 'being' with the pain, remember the repetitive meditation of the ordinary. Start a load of laundry, clean the kitchen sink. Watch Nemo or Top Gun. Find the comfort and nobility of the mundane.

I sometimes wonder if it's easier to find nobility in the mundane when you live in a castle and not a house with trees in it but I must believe the universe has gone to great lengths to bring these lessons to me. The sharp popping, cracking sound at 2am that split one tree in half and hurled it into my house, and then the fifty foot tall, majestic hickory tree that was pulled from it's roots, leaving not so much as a stump of evidence that it once stood there came thundering across the fence line at 3am. I sat up in bed when I felt my house shake, looked up to the sky and said one word to God, "Seriously?".

You see, the trees were not the worst thing that happened to me this week.

My friend may reside in a castle but it's really just a fancy nest. She made it that way by always being able to find the nobility of the mundane. She found it while staring down the same demons that have possessed me. She found it while standing strong against the storms of family turmoil and gail force winds that try to take you down when you watched loved ones dying. She found it when trees were falling, not on her home but in her mind. And she brought these reminders to me today.

That was an hour ago, and the tears haven't stopped. It makes so much sense. All I have to do is start with a load of laundry, or perhaps take a shower to wash the smell of quiet yet anguished desperation off my body. Then I will simply accept and be with my lessons until the tall trees in my mind have been stripped of their leaves, branches and bark in order to make way for new growth, tiny buds of hope and the promise of a new life.

I got it Universe, I am listening. In fact, you have my full attention. Now strip me bare, cut me down to size then let me commence to grow into the direction of the sun this time, for I am so very tired of the dark.

The Dark Side of the Moon

"We are led to those who help us the most. I'm not sure if they change us for the better but I do know when we meet these people, they change us forever." I put this in quotes because I'm not sure if it's something I read or perhaps heard in a song lyric. Maybe I dreamed it or mixed part of a quote with a song lyric with some degree of original thought, hell - admittedly, I don't know. I do know I've been  staring at these words for a few weeks now, internally debating between the right and left hemispheres of my brain. The emotional side in a battle with the logical side, the angry hurt woman against the "ain't gonna take no shit from no one anymore" chick. How can words, simple words linked together in a quasi-inspirational way, screw with me like this?

To begin, I took exception with the notion of being led to those who help us the most. Are we really led to people? And if we are led to them, is it because they are specifically charged with the divine mission of helping our sorry asses?  I mean, aren't we placed here to fall into the paths of other souls we can inspire?  I know the obvious answer, when you help others - you help yourself, true; yet, the conundrum here, the part that is fucking with me are those two words at the end of the first sentence, "the most". Is there really such a thing as a mutually beneficial relationship? Who is helping whom, the most?

In contrast, I actually delight in the second sentence. Especially the part about how they, these illusive people we are allegedly drawn to on our journey, may not actually change us for the better. Cynical, calloused, bitchy Zen Mama (yes, an oxymoron) realizes I've allowed some negative influences into my life over the years, most often in the name of love, or rather, in the name of foolish, impetuous infatuation or sexual gratification or financial insecurity or plain old lack of fucking sense the good Lord gave me.

But the esoteric, romantic, spiritually enlightened Zen Mama (chant with me: nam-myoho-renge-kyo) is still fighting to surface above the trough of  swine slop I've been wallowing in for the past two months. I know he changed me forever but for God's sake, did he have to implode my belief system, causing me to question the instincts it took thirty years and three marriages (one didn't count) to finely hone? How is it possible to give yourself  fully to a man for sixteen months, to spend copious hours studying him, exploring his nuances and nature, questioning his past, present and future, his intellect, values, parenting style, priorities, career and  yes, even checking background and references and end up not have a clue who the fuck he was?  We waited over a year to bring our kids together.  How long must one wait before one can say they know this  person was sent to you to change you forever, for light or lesson, future or fury? A year, two years? I was the Queen of Cautious. He was the Knight of Darkness, lurking in the shadows until I handed over my last precious commodity, the hearts, faith and trust of my children.

It was then, and only then I saw the dark side of the moon that had previously shone so brightly on my life. We are all damaged in our own unique way. We all carry baggage, issues, sensitive buttons, personality flaws, triggers, various levels of tolerance and patience.  Funny thing is, what I saw during that lunar eclipse was worse than anything I had ever experienced. And this from a woman who has seen more than her fair share of ugly. I was attracted mostly to his brilliance, speaking four languages, rising to the top of his industry and standing out as a person with a one of a kind mind. Now I realize he used that same brilliance against me to perpetrate his deceptions, keeping his disturbing mental proclivities cloaked for one year and four months.

As with all endings, you find yourself looking back to see if there were signs you missed, perhaps subtle oversights or those that were colossal, nearly impassable flashing red stop lights. Yet, I cannot find any, not one precursor to what was yet to come. No foreshadowing of my fate, and that is where he changed me, not for the better, but forever indeed.

Coming back to that first sentence, we are drawn to those who help us the most. Maybe what I needed was a healthy dose of wake the fuck up, force fed down my throat until I gagged, spit it back in his face, then had to be restrained while he numbed the rest of my senses, pinched my nose, blindfolded me, shut off my hearing with repetitive stirrings of Enigma and shot the elixir directly into my veins until I sprang awake, gasping for air while proclaiming, son of a mother fucking bitch. The only way to embrace change is to stay focused on the prize. And guess what, I am the prize.

Rebel Without A Pause

Steven Slater, a Jet Blue Flight Attendant with 28 years experience under his beverage cart, gets hit on the head by an aggregiously obnoxious passenger, and without stopping to pause, he snapped. America has fallen in love with this man for, if nothing else, the flare with which he bid his adieu. As I understand it, he took to the public address system to apologize to the other passengers, called the head banging bastard a name the implies he likes to fuck his mother, grabbed a beer from the galley, pulled the emergency chute, slid down as only a Queen could, walked past tarmacs and runways to his car, drove home and waited for the police.

Can't you just see him sitting there with his uniform uncharacteristically askew, looking at the beer still in his hand, thinking to himself, I grabbed a fucking BEER?

Or how about this young girl. Hard to say whether this actually happened or it was staged.  Either way, it's the way so many of us would love to go.  Telling our employers to stick that in their pipe and take a good long hit of shut the fuck up.

I had my own mental breakdown at work last month. Mine had flare as well but there were no arrests made and I didn't get to grab a beer on my way out. It would seem my pause button was not functioning that day. Rule #1 of office etiquette is to type angry emails but never send them right away. You should let them steep while you simmer. I know this, really I do. But on this day, I had managed to walk into work for the first time in months and direct my attention to my duties in a positive and productive manner.

I'm not saying I'd been slacking but I certainly hadn't been giving it my all. I'm grappling with an ex-husband who will be sentenced later this month for a white collar crime, embezzeling just over $1.3 from his employer, yet still not paying me for his share of the kids medical and educational expenses. I had just broken up with my long term boyfriend who went from being a God to a festering, puss spewing, Mephistopheles seemingly overnight. I'm carrying a bit of a chip, ney a boulder, on my shoulder when it comes to our penis endowed counterparts.

But on this particular morning, I had managed to overcome. I was plugged into my Ipod and I was back on my game. Then the most arogant and unholy email arrived from a man, addressed to the entire network of companies. It felt like someone popped my lovely little happy bubble and I began to seeth with anger. Hormonally speaking, this is what I refer to as "random bouts of rage". Being the creative writer I am, I couldn't reply with something simple like, oh say for example, that wasn't very nice.

No, not me. Instead I typed with my 95 WPM fingers moving every bit as fast as my brain could tick off every known explitive I could imagine. Along with berading him for numbing the morale of the masses, I suggested he should take a good long look at his own moral fiber. Then I ended by giving myself an out, suggesting perhaps he was being sarcastic, just joking, because then I could go back to thinking he wasn't going to be damned to hell to burn for all eternity.  Did I mention, this man is the President of one of our companies? Oh, I did I also mention, I hit reply to all?

I spent the rest of the day being lauded as a hero. My phone lit up, people were lined up outside my office to worship me. I was the Steven Slater of my industry. But like Mr. Slater, I knew I needed to sit still and wait for the repercusion. It came in the form of a call from my boss, the President of my company, who told me the Board of Directors would be meeting over the weekend to discuss my fate. He assured me he would do everything in his power to save me but he told me it did not look good. He was preparing me for the enevitability of unemployment. The last thing he said to me, in his south side Chicago, deadpan style was, Jesus Christ, couldn't you just have waited until you calmed down?

How could I tell him my pause button wasn't functioning?  How could he know I was chemically unbalanced with menopausal homones, hot flashes and rage against mankind or man(un)kind in my case. Was I subconsciously trying to sabotage a twenty year career in this industry so I could run off like Elizabeth Gilbert and do some Eating, Praying, Loving and Writing? Perhaps.

I didn't lose my job. I was given a two-week suspension without pay to "send a message", that being - yes, it does suck to work here and we don't want to hear from you about how bad it sucks because the economy sucks right now and you're not going to find anything better. So shut up and work like you're living the dream.

And all it makes me want to do is pull the emergency chute on my life, grab a beer and go home to write.