Setting Goals and Conquering Mountains

When I was in my late teens I didn't have major goals.  I think my only goal was to have enough disposable income to have someone come to my house and clean up after me. We married and had two kids and I said if he wanted another child I wanted another bedroom in our home and a dishwasher. All three of our kids were surprises, or we were being really irresponsible. I got the bedroom.  Not the dishwasher.  I would love a dishwasher, they look like saved time and fewer broken nails.

My goals are shifting.

I still want to hire a housekeeper and get a dishwasher.  Some dreams will never die.

I also want to travel.  I had imagined it, but never thought of it as practical or worth it for my kids. My boys don't like long trips and usually prefer to stay in a hotel room. We used to spend long summers in a tent along the river.  We loved Camp James in Kernville because they offered electricity. My husband has all of our camping things, and as long as it took me to pick out all of the things I wanted, I don't see myself wanting to start over any time soon.  At the end of the day, vacationing as a travelling mom required a vacation from my vacation.  Now I have days long stretches of being alone and I would love to travel.  I'm even applying for jobs and saying I'd be willing to travel because travelling alone sounds amazing.

I have more practical goals as well.  I want to buy pre-need memorial policies for my children.  My Mom did it for all of us.  When my husband's uncle passed away 2 years ago, I was looking into making arrangements for him.  He didn't have anyone else willing to make the calls and finalize his existence.  There were plenty of friends to go through his things. Once I had brought his things out of his home, there were family members that were indifferent yet curious. His remains were left to his family, and he ended up in the care of his nephew's wife who had interacted with him a handful of times in the first few months of our marriage around the year 2000.

In going over my Mom's pre-need policies, I could see that she originally covered every single possibility when she bought it all through Rose Hills.  She had four plots for her four daughters. She transferred everything except the plots to Forest Lawn as our family grew.  She is from Thailand and through legal channels, brought most of my relatives here, starting in 1984 with my grandmother.  She took years to petition and prove that she could financially support new immigrants.  Then she adopted six of my siblings. I get it from my Momma and she is one woman to be proud of. When I was going over her contracts, I could see that a lot of goods and services didn't transfer.  It was over a year of visits, letters, and calls, but in the end I was able to get her policies transferred back to Rose Hills without penalties from Forest Lawn and they're willing to honor the original contracts.  Forest Lawn didn't penalize her because I pointed out the areas their insurance agent willfully ignored his fiduciary duties to his client. This was after meeting with a couple of insurance agents, their records clerk, and even the President at Forest Lawn.  I admired her.  With the amount of policies my Mom had and the services she would have had to purchase again, I saved her over $10,000.  The insane part is how much you save when you purchase your policies early.  The longer you wait, the more funeral costs climb. I believe they share the same trajectory as college tuition. Doing this for my children is important to me.

Once I build my savings into a comfortable place where I have a 6 month emergency fund, I want to invest.  I hear good things about stock mutual funds.  I want to focus on index funds, but experiment in international funds.  It's all still terrifying, but I like the idea of a challenge and doing something new.

Then there's the house.  I love my little house, which is really my Mom's house, but I want to move one day.  I love the little winding roads and city views, but I don't love living on a tiny one way street with only street parking.  I want a place to grow things because I love to grow things.  I want space for a pond, because the little koi that could is coming with me, and I want space for my kids to slam a door that is just their door.  And a dishwasher, which means I will also have a garbage disposal.  I miss that.

Once I buy my house, I want to set up a power of attorney and living trust.  Without major assets, it doesn't seem important, but I'll also have to set up a will for my smaller trinkets and emotional belongings.  Then there's figuring out what happens with the kids should something also happen to the husband.  It seems far less likely we'll die together if we consistently choose to not be around each other.

My last goal is more about me.  I want to be okay. I can recognize that a divorce that hasn't started and unstable employment are a lot to handle.  I understand that sometimes a surprise can shift my day because I had spent it on a tightrope anyway.  I want to not be thrown by it.  I can see that light at the end of the tunnel. I'm getting better. Last night my son called me to ask a question, and my response to hearing my husband's girlfriend playing house with my kids and hers was to answer his question and excuse myself from the call.  I didn't lose it.  I'm not bashing her.  I didn't stay up all night, but for about an hour, I let that situation bother me.

The day I had wasn't an excuse for that lost hour.  Every day presents challenges.  Every moment is a chosen reaction. I was blessed with a late birthday breakfast, pedicure, and shopping date with a woman who has always had my back, even when I stabbed hers.  We talked about life and she helped point out some of the ways my husband was controlling me.  She saw more than I could, but she's right. He manipulated me into avoiding her friendship because he didn't like her.  He wanted me to go to bed at the same time as him, even if I couldn't sleep.  That was about control and even if he wasn't violent, walking on eggshells because I was afraid of my actions affecting his mood wasn't okay. We joked about how blessed we were to live as we did in our 20's without a pregnancy scare or STI.  We're also grateful we grew out of that.  She helped me see that I got bored of dating when I felt men were easy because of the men I was making myself available to.  She also pointed out that I could raise my standards and it would change things.  Then she told me that online dating was a waste for her as well.  She married a man with patience, fire, and a large brain.  He is everything perfect for her as she gives what she gets and they respond in love. We talked pre-nuptials.  I've never been asked to sign one.  I think it puts doubt into a relationship, but at the end of the day, I'm not necessarily against shacking up either. I'm not against it, but I'm also not thinking that far ahead. I'm trying to take care of my heart and healing, and I haven't considered finding someone to take care of me. My values as a wife are so solid in my mind. What I did as a single person was so different and I'm not sure how I want to address that now that I have a second chance to be single, and not a trollop.  That may change. I'm still figuring it all out. I did a lot I never dreamed I would as a wife. I accepted more than I thought I could in the name of being a good wife.  Who knows what will happen next time, or when next time will happen.  I still haven't started looking for my next husband or even a first date. I love visiting with her, because her perspective leaves me joyful and optimistic.  The past with her is lighter than it is in my memories.

I returned my Dad's call and had family emergencies that required about an hour of my time and frustration enough that my silence was to try to remember the happy place I had just been in.  I got home feeling chills and was hit with a fever.  I was thankful that I could be sick without being Mom too. This morning I told him I'm staying in bed and being sick, so he invited himself over.  I told him I wasn't up to it, and now I think I have to put clothes on just in case he pops over anyway. Boundaries!

I slept for a few hours before hearing from the husband then kid3.  He's contacted me twice in three days, and I preferred the radio silence. I miss my kids but for now I'm okay not hearing their voices if I have to hear their pseudo mom too.  I'm not calling her a stepmom yet. She still has her husband and she gets what she needs from hers and mine. One day my husband will be my ex.  I'm not sure if that'll happen once I file, or once it's final.  A couple of loved ones want me to let him file, and remain single for the rest of my life.  That doesn't appeal to me. I want to hire an attorney and it's not to get all he's worth, but I want someone else to do the heavy lifting so I can do the emotional healing. When he becomes my ex husband, I'll have his name covered on my arm, and I already have a best friend planning to be with me when I do.

Beach Days and Bombed Job Interviews

It's a bad sign when you go to a job interview with more excitement about the beach day you plan afterward. I knew it was too far.  I knew it wouldn't allow the home/work balance that is so important to me.  I didn't know that parking would come at the student rate, without a discount.  I didn't know the main part of the job is to be a gatekeeper for the more antisocial folks.  That was probably the worst part. I have antisocial moments sometimes.  Sometimes I can be snarky and a little mean.  But to make it clear that it was an office that doesn't like people . . . I couldn't see it as a good fit.  I interviewed badly.  I don't think it was on purpose.  I think I was being myself, and for some people that's the last thing they want to be around. So I drove to Manhattan Beach.  It wasn't a mental breakdown moment.  It was a mental health day. It was a moment of being in the moment and spontaneous. If I had prepared, I would have brought warm clothes and stayed much longer. I think the idea of walking along the shops was my original plan.  I checked the weather. I wasn't planning on walking in the sand or touching icy water. I wanted to check out the cute shops and restaurants I used to love.

The clouds kept filtering above.  I felt warmth and freezing cold, with the constant coastal breeze.  I keep a waterproof blanket in the car, but I didn't really plan anything, so my beach trip was in my suit jacket and skirt.  I didn't mind.  I did notice an esoteric coincidence.

The left one was at Manhattan Beach.  The one on the right was at Will Rogers state beach.  I noticed in both shots I was leading with my left.  It wasn't on purpose, but again, I tend to look for meanings where there might not be any.  I came across something I had read before saying that Egyptians and Greeks often created art with a leading left foot because it is believed the left side is the side ruled by the heart. It's about leading with the heart and emotions.  It's about life and new beginnings.  Whether or not it's an unrealistic stretch, it seemed significant, and relevant.

I took the streets north, and drove along Dockweiler State Beach.  I continued as the road I was on headed inland through Marina Del Rey.  I remembered a date taking me to the jetty where he held my hand as we walked on jagged rocks, and he laughed when I flinched at the scurrying rodents.  I remember wanting him to kiss me so badly and I remembered that he never did. I wasn't following a map.  I was just driving, so I saw Venice and turned left.  A few blocks from the ocean I decided I wasn't in the mood for crazy.  I ended up in traffic on Pacific Coast Highway and turned left on Temescal Canyon Road.  It's the first time I've ever been to the beach during daylight hours.  I loved the many rocks I was able to pick through.  Every time I go to a body of water, I look for rocks.  I love igneous rocks, and will pick through interesting colors and shapes.  One day my youngest niece handed me a rock.  I was so deeply moved.  I don't think she understood how much her rock meant to me.  But it was huge.

I walked along the shoreline, stepping through waves and picking up rocks.  I sat on boulders and felt the sun warm my skin where the breeze chilled it.  It was so clear at Will Rogers with the sun warming my skin and not even a little cloud cover. Manhattan Beach was freezing in comparison. I watched the sunset and with the descending sun the chilled ocean air blew right through my jacket. With frozen hands and feet that were pretty numb, I walked to my car and drove home.

I took the streets home.  I drove up Temescal Canyon Road to Sunset. I love the curves on the winding roads of Sunset Blvd. near UCLA. I took Sunset until it changed to Cesar Chavez and turned left on Broadway.  I drove through Chinatown and then home to Lincoln Heights. I love that it's literally 3 street names to my favorite beach.  The name change doesn't count.  Not really.

All job hunting misadventures should end up like today.

The Connection Between Dreaming and Creative Writing

 

In my early 20's I had vivid dreams every night.  I would wake up and scribble every detail in a spiral one subject notebook. Sometimes they made no sense whatsoever.  Other times, I'd wake with clarity and my problems became puzzle pieces that fell into place. When they really had me guessing, I'd usually turn to the internet for a search and answers. These searches would tease out deeper meaning hidden in my psyche.

When I was pregnant my vivid dreams usually involved lesbian sex.  I learned to just laugh at those and enjoy them for what they were.  While I'm not a fan of girl kisses, my sleeping mind wasn't against them at all. I carried so many boys in my Momma belly, it might have been their hormones.  The girls I carried shared enough of their hormones to give me pimples and horrible morning sickness.

I will carry the DNA of every child I carried in my womb for the rest of my life, circulating in my bloodstream.  For this reason, if you've ever carried a boy, don't bother taking a gender identity test that isolates male DNA.  It'll give you a false positive. Wait for a torpedo in the ultrasound when you go for the organ survey around 20 weeks.

For the last several years, I couldn't remember dreaming at all.  There's a definite correlation between my ability to write and my ability to be aware of any dreams.  I couldn't write for a long time.  At one point, I couldn't line up a paragraph and in frustration I would scrap it in tears.

There were many times that I'd start a journal and my husband would find it and read it and be hurt and depressed by it.  I hid them in the bottom of drawers and under mattresses. I taped them along the wall in our closet. Writing was a way to dump my anger, doubts and frustrations without lashing out at others.  He would later read my vitriol and internalize it.  Sometimes we'd talk.  Sometimes what I wrote would come back as a weapon against me in an argument at a later date.  Other times, it came out as anger or frustration that I would focus so intently on reading or writing that I wasn't able to give him or the kids my full attention.

In one of my many bids to win him back, I destroyed journals I had poured myself into that spanned more than two decades. I'm not upset about that.  There was a lot of anger in them, and destroying them changed how I write.  Changing how I write was able to shift my perspective, and I'm happier for it. Although, in my early journaling days, I was full of male bashing jokes.  Bad male bashing jokes.  I miss the laugh. I would write the word, "platypus," and giggle for a few minutes.  My favorite insults were "hamster penis," "vulture vomit," "penis dribble," and "chicken weenie." And no, chickens don't have weenies. I love it that most days I can slip back into that teenaged me, and be silly and make people think I'm a decade younger than I am.  I can dance through a song while focusing on work because I can find that joy and silliness.  It's never far from me.  My anger is.  I have most of the poems I've written throughout my life. The darkness that filled every moment is far from me.  I like who I am now, and I love that I'm not far from the silliness I used to live in, but it's been a long while since I've told someone they were being a hamster penis.

Part of loving being a student majoring in English was that I had an excuse to have to read and write.  A grade depended on that and my performance would later be monetized. In theory.  Still waiting on that one.  I am not a fan of most literature taught in college courses.  It was typically dry and boring.  It took 4 valiant attempts to get through Moby Dick and I was proud of getting through it, but didn't feel like I would ever want to read it again.  Children's literature with the undercurrent of moral teaching and sexual perversion was more interesting than I anticipated.  You should read Little Red Riding Hood with me.  It will scar you in your childhood dreams.

The other side of being a student and using school as an excuse for my bookish fix is that there wasn't room for creativity.  I would read countless dull literary masterpieces during the quarter, and on breaks go through several young adult paranormal romances because my brain needed the downtime, but I couldn't plot and plan a story.  I'm more of a pantser anyway, and there are major plot holes when I don't outline.  I tend to see them around the 40,000 word mark and scrap my manuscript and start over.  When I do plan, the writing bores me to the point that I hate revision, and if I don't want reread what I've written, it's ballsy to expect anyone to want to read it the first time through. This has happened at least six times. For some reason every time I read Twilight, I feel like I can be a writer.  I can do what she did there.  Then I read Harry Potter and know I'm not ready to create worlds, and "kill my darlings," as Stephen King has said or written.

So now I'm writing.  Most of what I'm writing is getting published in these blog posts.  Some of it stays private.  I haven't started on a book yet, because I can accept I'm just not there yet.  My prose isn't achingly beautiful.  My thoughts are still chaotic.  But I'm writing, and with the words, dreams are teasing my resting mind, and lingering each morning.  It's as if by writing, I've given myself permission to access the forbidden ideas held in check by fear of hurting my husband's feelings.  It's as if I have permission to work through issues and grow emotionally.  And I have.  You might not see it, but I do.

The best part is the way my mind can trail in opposite directions.  I woke up one morning on the tail end of a sexual dream.  It was tender and beautiful and not about my husband.  As the ephemeral tail of a lingering touch lost its substance, words filtered through my mind, with venom and angst about the wife I was and the many ways he took my giving heart for granted.  I was angry that I did it at my expense in the names of love and obedience, and his exit was about finding the happiness he deserved. They were such opposite thoughts, and they overlapped and still made sense.  As overwhelming as all of those emotions were, I didn't feel overwhelmed in the least.  I could evaluate both what my mind saw, and the words filtering through my mind with my eyes still closed.  It was epic.

I've started lucid dreaming where in the middle of a vivid dream, I know I'm dreaming.  I'm aware that what is occurring is happening in my sleep.  Or sometimes I'm on the verge of drifting off and I'll feel a dream trying to pull me in and I haven't fallen asleep yet. Most recently, I was drifting off and a gentle hand on my shoulder was pulling me back for a kiss, and it was so real and not real that it woke me up.  It was awesome.

Your name, A Poem About a Daydream

 

Sweet nostalgia cascades in gentle beauty

Like raindrops through my clouded mind craving your clarity

You are washed anew in the glow of fading memories

Lips frame your name in tender restraint

My thoughts embrace you before release

Not eager to depart

I speak softly, surrendered to the bliss of holding you again

of breathing your name

Bittersweet release with a tender kiss from my lips

Job Hunting and Optimism

 

I'm job hunting and some days are more stressful than others.  I'm not worried about finding a job.  That will happen.  I'm constantly reaching out to three recruiters from different agencies. This morning I called, then emailed a fourth. When I say I'm reaching out, you can read that I'm harassing.  I am harassing them with ritualistic consistency every few days.  I'm also trolling craigslist, Monster and LinkedIn, applying to at least 10 positions a day, but usually more.  It's what I was doing before, and falling back into it is fairly easy.  I'm even sharing and liking things on LinkedIn.  This is a new step. I'm still a little iffy about it.  It's still a lot of unreliable fluff, and irrelevant puffery.  But it'll happen.

My main goal is to look for the right position.  I spent my entire career (when I wasn't birthing, butt wiping, or going to school) taking whatever job I could get, and selling myself at a discount for way too long.  I'm capable of teaching.  I was often requested as a substitute.  It's not what I was passionate about.  I don't want another job where I'm watching the clock so I can make an exit.  There was a day in January when I was lying in bed with my son.  I woke up and I didn't know if I was more excited to go to work, or be in bed with my child.  This was before I even laid eyes on my crush. I loved that feeling.  I had days where the work I was doing was interesting enough that I forgot to feed myself. One day my hangry moment was handled with pho, and someone walked in on me saying, "pho fo life," because my food joy was being gangster.  I love that feeling.  That is what I'm searching for.  That is why I'm passing up driving, and call centers, and sales.  I can handle front desk responsibilities but I'm happier when I'm not being paid to wait to fix customer problems and people drama.  I've done collection calls, but I didn't love it.  I've advocated for my kids.  I can do it for others.  But I don't love it. It's like doing laundry.  We don't love it, but it has to get done. I received many scholarships as a student, but I don't see myself being in a development office.  There is too much bowing and scraping involved for me to be passionate.  I can close a sale, but only if I really believe in what I'm selling, and lately I'm over the commodification of human existence.

The stresses come from well meaning loved ones that ask if I'm doing enough.  They tell me what I could do, what I should do.  I'd be a great teacher.  I should do sales or marketing.  I should . . . I could . . . "insert company here" is a great company and you could grow.  They mean well, but the weight of their anxiety makes it hard to breathe. I find myself really debating answering certain calls, but I haven't started avoiding people yet.  I don't want to be that person.  I'd rather be brave and fearless.  One day my voice will be louder out of my mouth than the sound of thoughts hitting stony walls inside my head.

I'm looking for growth, but more than that I'm looking for a company I want to grow with.  I want culture and values that I can believe in. I want to work for people that make the right choice, even if it's not the easiest choice.  The well meaning people in my life don't seem to understand that you tend to get hired to do what you've already been hired to do, and I didn't like what I've done enough to want to go back to it.  As much as I like writing, I don't think I want to get paid to listen to Alanis Morrisette and just write all day.  I need diversity. I need quantifiable results.  Writing for my college newspaper and being an English major taught me the quickest way to diminish your word joy is to add an editor without your passion or vision and make their word the final say in your final product. Reading and writing what you don't care for is equally destructive. I don't really want to give someone that authority over my craft. Not now, and maybe never.  I don't mind deadlines. They keep me focused. As far as work/family balance, I want to be able to get my kids off to school in the morning and have dinner with them.  When they're with their Dad, I'm okay with long hours.

Once this is posted, I'll be back to job hunting with coffee in hand, on my sunny front porch with pond sounds trickling to my left and two dogs on my right. My cat sits in a cardboard box right next to me, batting at my elbow for attention. Clawzilla loves my reactions. Her name is actually Socks, and it was cute when she would do that with socks while I folded laundry.  She's not cute right now.  I'm letting go of the weight on my shoulders that doesn't belong to me. All of my music is cycling on shuffle, so there's Depeche Mode and Morrissey followed by TLC and Fiona Apple.  Sip with me a while.  Feel the sun and soak in the vitamin D.  It does good things for us.  Watch the bees enjoy little yellow flowers and listen to birdsong from flat recesses and hidden behind points of the yucca trees, while squirrels play tag in the canary palm.  It'll be okay. I promise.

How My Support System Holds Me Up

I live in Lincoln Heights.  The hills dip and climb with views of downtown L.A. and the hills above Hollywood.  After getting kids off to school I drove around streets on hills with crumbling asphalt.  There's a hefty dose of fear that the incline is so steep my car will flip backward if I'm not careful.  At one point, I couldn't see beyond the hood of my car because of how sharply the road turned up the hill. The neighborhood is all narrow streets with room for one car at a time, and never in both directions. Street names include Tourmaline St., Turquoise St., Amethyst St., Mercury Ave., Beryl St., Pyrites St., Onyx Dr., Moonstone Dr., Radium Dr., Topaz St., Galena St. and Amber Pl., and in those names, I know there was a rock doctor that found home in those hills and pleasure in the views from them. This is my home.

Throughout my neighborhood there are a few modern homes that appear out of nowhere and clearly don't belong here.  My home is a 1920's bungalow. The old bones were made to be where they have stood for nearly a century. Scattered throughout the neighborhood are lots filled with tall grass in untamed flurries and platforms of crumbling concrete.  I have only one neighbor with a perfectly manicured lawn.  She understands there is no controlling your children but you can control what your yard does. You can see the rise and run of stone or worn wood that once led somewhere.  Steps are missing, and handrails are less than memory . . .  just gone.  The supports are still there because they were so much stronger than the broken home they established.  Ivy and weeds meander and overtake lifted areas in a bid for the love of the sun and wildflowers attract bees that lazily dance through their work day.  I headed home with a clear head and plans to play in the dirt because there is something so rewarding about dirt under my nails and making things grow.

My neighbors are good people.  I never interacted with them much when my husband lived here. One summer day in the first few years we lived here, we were all outside and my husband hosed me down from head to toe.  I was soaking wet and sliding through caked on mud. He was the only one laughing.  My neighbor across the street would hear him yell from her house and always assumed there was violence in our home.  There was emotional abuse.  There was financial abuse.  There still is financial abuse. He took his aggression out on cupboard doors and bedroom doors.  He never hit me, and I only feared he would once.  That fear was enough to get a restraining order that I later had lifted.  A judge was worried about my safety to the point that he was willing to take away my husband's rights to me and our children. In all the ways my Dad stresses me out, I love him enough to never want to sever that bond between my kids and their Dad.  I would protect them from him, but I don't feel they need it. He's become the Dad I hoped he would be, without me around because he's probably a much better person without me. I wonder if I was too much of everything in the way that he was content in doing nothing once he got home. The day he moved out, my neighbors came over to see how I was doing.  They didn't know I was home and fighting to pull out the bathroom sink and vanity as he was taking out bunkbeds and the barbecue grill.  My next door neighbor told me how petty he looked in taking a grill he never used. I was usually the grill master unless I asked for his help and did all the prep for him. My neighbor offered to help with anything around the house if  I needed it. I'm a big girl.  I can vote and buy my own booze.  I keep my distance and try to be a good neighbor to him and his wife. The neighbor across the street shot me a text to make sure I was home and tell me she was taking pictures if I needed to file a police report. She opened up about her concerns of abuse and then told me of all the ways her husband hurt her.  In all of the distance I kept, they still gathered around me in support.  When we had a custody hearing, both of them offered to write character reference letters on my behalf. They did.  (The judge only looks at notarized affidavits.  Lesson learned. I wasn't trying for sole custody.  Not really.  I just know a good bargaining chip when he had no idea what I wanted. He told me what he wanted and wasn't concerned with what I cared about.)

My neighbor could see something in me that she saw in herself and when she explained it, so much clicked for me. I won't disclose how many, but I've had several people tell me about their rapist or the abuse they suffered at the hands of a loved one.  I encouraged one woman to press charges against her abuser after her experience with date rape.  In helping her, I was able to work through my own experience without ever telling her about what I felt. I printed and saved the newspaper clipping about his arrest for a long time. There's a resilience in us.  It's a light that attracts abusers, but a glow that encourages other survivors.  I get it now.  It's not always a fear of violence, but an inability to step out in confidence.  It's a part of us that I'm working on rewiring in me. It's the part of me that feels respecting others comes before my needs. It's the part of me that is comfortable living on eggshells because it's been so long since I didn't have to. It's a part of me that is only confident in the ways that mean the least to me. I used to tell my husband that I have amazing legs and a decent rack, but I couldn't show him what I wrote to the point that I stopped writing.

As I was turning off the garden hose this morning, my phone rang switching off the 311 song I was in the middle of singing.  The peace and joy I felt was in my voice as I answered my phone.  My Dad has a gift for asking what I'm doing before telling me what he needs.  One day I will call him on this manipulation.  He put me in a place where my gut twisted in stress and for a few minutes I craved the taste of courvoisier and cigarettes and the escape that was once my favorite preparation ritual before family gatherings. I'm not that person anymore.  I don't remember how she woke up without a hangover and I can't handle cold Tommy's burgers for breakfast anymore so I called my sister instead.  She gets it.  She reminded me of how amazing caller ID is.  I hung up with a plan to write and do what I was planning to do, and decide if I will be the daughter I want to be, or the person who needs to be taken care of first. I ended up choosing me with plans to fall in line as a daughter tomorrow when I can at least prepare for it.

I have a huge family that supports me in any way they can and in ways I've never even anticipated.  They are so team me that sometimes I need space to breathe in air not tinted by the anger they express in my protection.  Their love in that way can turn toxic. They also see me as resilient and can't always tell that the space I sometimes need is from them and their needs.  Their needs aren't huge, but my plate is pretty solidly full.

When I was in high school I made a boyfriend my world.  He had brown hair that flopped in a mushroom cut and loved basketball, but the game didn't love him. I used to pack his lunch and mine because giving is part of who I am. In hindsight it wasn't one of my more brilliant moves. I tend to give more than I should. He had a hard time punching a straw through a Capri Sun pouch, and I felt obligated to take care of him. I felt needed and like he wanted my brand of love.  I even skipped drill team tryouts the next year to spend more time with him. He took a cowardly exit in telling me he had to let go of me because his parents found out we were still dating long after they told us to break up. Later random girls with larger curves than mine and lipstick bolder than mine would tell me he hooked up with them when we were together.  We spent ditch days exploring the swings at Griffith Park or touring Olvera Street, but he wanted something else.   It took a while for his pregnancy scare that broke us up to get around to me.

I realized confession isn't for the person you unload on.  It's a way to unburden your own guilt without regard for the destruction you unleash on another person. Confession is selfish. I think that's why I tend to wait until confronted, or until I can see the repercussions of my actions. When I'm undeniably wrong I apologize.  My kids know I will own up to being wrong and inconsiderate.  There's no such thing as "because I said so."  They know to call me on it when I'm screwing up.  As their mom I get one shot at being what they deserve.  When I screw up, I own up to it as genuinely as I can.

It was my first time ever being dumped and I returned to the group of friends I had before him.  They were older than me, and at that time mainly on the football team.  I remember standing behind them as he would walk by with new girls on his arm, and I felt protected. I had these amazing guy friends who only saw me as a younger sister, and they were standing around me and it was a ring of protection.  He would walk by but he wouldn't look at me.  Even if he did, his look was met by the guys that at least gave the impression they would hurt him for me if I wanted them to. They were part of a hill top kick back I was never invited to.  I can appreciate that they never saw me as one of those girls. They probably have no idea how much support they were giving me. I remember being told by a few boyfriends that I was too nice and innocent and those weren't bad qualities, but that was part of my rebellion after being dumped by my New Yorker.

I have a lot of male friends that have stood by me in protective friendship throughout my life.  I was once having a party when I was in the garage at my mom's house.  At one point, I was being pulled toward my bed by a group of guys I didn't know. I had hands all over my body, grabbing and pinching me. I tried reaching out to the one guy that I was actually seeing and he left me to grab another friend of ours.  (Seeing him as a bit of a coward didn't make me want him less.) The friend he grabbed then pulled me out of my room, making that group of guys back down.  He was short and stocky, but not many people would pick a fight with him. Years later my friend's girlfriend would tell me about the many times he beat and raped her.  I left that friendship because my heart couldn't condone who he became, but the irony of being saved by a rapist from a gang rape has never settled into insignificance.

Last night there were Facebook Messenger pings back and forth between me and one of those football player friends from high school.  I told him how I finally cursed out my husband. Again, not to his face - to another friend of mine.  But I did it.  He told me I should curse out my husband to his face, and called him names for me and again, I felt supported and cared about. I told him about some of the stunts pulled this year, and he called him a coward.  I noticed a theme. Again, I'm into all the wrong people.  I then told him how much his support meant in high school too, and I'd have to go back and read our emails again to see if I ever thanked him for that.  I've been so selfish lately, I may have missed that kindness. He also told me he was in a similar situation where he needed to choose to love himself. I could hear what my friend said and see past me into having compassion for my husband.  It was another one of those moments when the path we are on has trail markers and mile marks and there is peace in that.

I'm in a strange place.  There are times when I am angry and I want to call out all of the vulgarities that cross my mind, but the part of me that wants to be a wife in obedience to my vows has me biting my tongue in aggravated silence.  It's not about my husband but about the wife I want to be. I expect to see him in the years ahead because we have children together and I can expect that we'll both try to put them first. There are times when I am at peace because there is joy when I look at the freedom I feel away from him.  I have gratitude for my release.  Life is full of ups and downs, but I'm habitually optimistic so I look for joy and find it and that's usually when something unexpected knocks the wind out of me.

I have friends who like to tell me how amazing I am.  Faithful readers will see that there's a lot my life has seen.  I'm a remarkable survivor of the craziness I've chosen.  I'm resilient in all that falls into my life. There's a lot of emotional resilience I can stand on because as complicated as life likes to be, I'm still here and I'm not quitting.  I have too many that rely on me to let a setback set me back.

A friend of mine is a praying person.  She's prayed for my marriage in times when I couldn't.  She prays for us now, as I'm just praying that forgiveness be placed in my heart so there's no room for bitterness.  She tells me I'm not playing the game right.  I'm supposed to be sad in my corner and falling apart and my husband doesn't know how to work with that.  This might be some of the reasons why he's become especially vindictive, but it doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't hurt as much when you stop wondering how you can get past it and decide you don't have to. Honestly, I think he's always had a hard time understanding me, and I tried to become more of what he wanted to make it easier on him, not seeing how much this cage has been hurting me. I was pretty broken at first.  We were at different places when he told me our marriage was over.  He was miserable, and I thought we were happy.  I saw my Dad's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder my entire life, and somehow it looks like Posttraumatic Resilience in me.  I can celebrate my milestones and know that it only gets better from here.

I love my church Pastors.  They're husband and wife and could be my very attractive teenaged parents.  There's always wisdom and encouragement in their conversations and they help me see the divine when I'm too self focused to see outside of my thoughts. She encourages me in showing me that I'm not created to be below anyone.  He has a soft caring side, but will put on that police officer's hat when necessary and give fatherly  advice when appropriate. In my life, I've seen three therapists.  They are great for getting past the major hurdles that keep you from moving forward, but the best gift they offer are tools to help you see yourself out of your valleys. I know when to ask for help and I've proven it to myself when I've sought a therapist.

I'm supported and knowing that keeps me encouraged.

Massive Ass Expansion or Exercise?

It's occurred to me that I can't keep making 3 egg omelets with soft cheeses and mushrooms for breakfast and not start seriously exercising.  It's a little crazy. I may have to look for that yoga mat and make peace with sweat.  I might even teach the kids that my jump rope is more than a weapon to subdue a younger brother.

I used to exercise.   I had an old dance teacher who taught out of her home.  I learned ballet, tap dance, jazz, and even a few Hawaiian dances from her. I loved her wrinkled and gnarled arthritic hands that would hold graceful poses as she waltzed around the studio with us.  She had a cat that loved to mark my jean jacket every single class session.

I ran around the neighborhood with the boys where we'd throw a football around in a game of Pickle, or we played kickball in the church parking lot where more than once I had to climb onto the church roof to retrieve a ball.  I tried being a skater and stopped shortly after mastering an ollie, because I realized I didn't love the fear of my horrible balance.  I rode bikes around the block and we found the steepest hills to challenge death.  An elderly neighbor gave me an old bike out of his garage with U-Shaped handlebars and a banana boat seat.  His wife used to make us rhubarb pies. My Dad replaced that bike with a 10 speed when I wanted a stunt bike.

I was in gymnastics with a coach that told me I was too tall and my girl hips were too large. I tried so hard to continue working with bloodied and torn blisters on my hands that looked like eyes when I matched the lines on my palms into a smile. I loved the uneven bars, but they didn't like me.

My 8th grade year I was in regular P.E.classes and frequently had (uninvited) teen boy hands slap my butt.   I had an inept electricity teacher who showed me how to use a drill press, but couldn't keep his male students from touching my body. Assault in the early 1990's looked a lot like boys being boys according to faculty and administration. I would eventually write "Jane Doe's Butt" (using my actual, but currently redacted name) on my P.E. t-shirt over my rear in an attempt to own the daily assault. Shortly after that it stopped, and now I can see it was just an act of aggression.

I was on a swim team at the beginning of puberty.  It was a mixed team and I was bear crawling around the pool in a bathing suit with pubescent teen boys right behind me.  It pushed me out of the pool in a way that makes me still avoid chlorinated waters.

I was in drill team and running a mile daily. My knees suffer from practicing knee drops from a standing position, whether or not I remembered to bring my knee pads to school. Being able to drop into the splits and jumping into Russian splits in the air was one of my many selling points, I'm sure.

After my one year of drill team I fell back into general physical education where I did the stretches everyone else did, which did nothing for me.  I ended up pulling a muscle running laps without stretching enough.

In karate, I did 300 crunches a day.  I would spar with a tall blonde god who is now covered in ink with a bald head and working to protect celebrities all over the world.  Trust me, he's great at guarding a body. I didn't mind when he would take me down, but it's okay that we were only ever friends. Memories of crushes without heartbreaks are my favorite memories.

There is something about the evolving body of motherhood that is miraculous and disgusting.  My firstborn was slightly underdone.  His first days as a preemie in the NICU meant I spent his first 4 months trying to get him to latch on.  I was determined to breastfeed, and my badassery wouldn't accept his wailing rejection as my final answer. Nursing meant sweat, and leaking milk, and smells that I hope to one day forget because my body shouldn't smell like that. Childbirth, in all its wonder is a leaky endeavor and it's those memories that make me hate sweating, though I love fresh sweat on a healthy man. Clean sweat is such an aphrodisiac.  Try it.  You'll like it.  Everybody's doing it.

My current exercise isn't exercise to sweat and be healthy.  I like to pull weeds after rainfall.  Tap roots pull out with satisfaction.  I will build and destroy and rebuild in projects around the house.  I enjoy long walks that push past a stitch in my side and give my feet blisters.  Some might call that hiking. I was planning a beach trip this weekend so I can duke it out with ocean waves, but it might be a bit cool for that. I need the point of exercise to be doing something or going somewhere, and it has to be gentle on my knees that are short on cartilage.  I was 5'6" in my teens. I may have already started shrinking. I just can't see myself working a machine while watching television. It feels pointless and depressing.

It's amazing how much I love my cooking when I spent years making breakfast for my family, skipping most meals myself. My husband hated boxed meals and his mother's cupboard surprise, so I was always challenging myself in the kitchen.  Tonight we're having shepherd's pie and this is a meal where I sneak in rutabaga and turnips, parsnips and carrots and they all look like potato cubes, except the carrots and I feel like it's a mom win. They might be catching on because those bits don't taste like potatoes. I would stay up late and nosh on junky processed foods while reading a book or watching something on television.  In laziness, I would doctor a can of some sort of chunky Campbell's soup with shredded sharp cheddar and french fried onions. It was the hours when my family slept that my respite began and I couldn't indulge in that respite if I was asleep, so I stayed up and consumed foods that disguised the feelings I chose to chew down. Right now I'm often not hungry, so when I am, I make it special. It's like being a teenager again, except I'm excited about fending for myself.

My current eating habits are different. I don't think I'm eating in depression as much as having an epicurean indulgence.  I'm very much into whatever feels good right now. At the same time, I love it that I'm about the size I was around the year 2000. The idea of exercise keeps playing with me and I'm not sure if or when it will happen, but I keep having thoughts of visiting a friend at the Crossfit in Eagle Rock because he makes it look so inviting. But realistically, as was just pointed out to me, a crossfitter will always love their body more than me. I'm okay with that too.

After a While by Veronica A. Shoffstall

This poem by Veronica A. Shoffstall has always been a special encouragement to me. It's not mine, but at one point I had the whole thing memorized. After some time you learn the difference, The subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul. And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning, And company doesn’t always mean security. And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts, And presents aren’t promises. And you begin to accept your defeats, With your head up and your eyes ahead, With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child. And you learn to build all your roads on today, Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans, And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight. After a while you learn, That even the sun burns if you get too much, And learn that it doesn’t matter how much you do care about, Some people simply don’t care at all. And you accept that it doesn’t matter how good a person is, She will hurt you once in a while, And you need to forgive her for that. You learn that talking can relieve emotional pain. You discover that it takes several years to build a relationship based on confidence, And just a few seconds to destroy it. And that you can do something just in an instant, And which you will regret for the rest of your life. You learn that the true friendships, Continue to grow even from miles away. And that what matters isn’t what you have in your life, But who you have in your life. And that good friends are the family, Which allows us to choose. You learn that we don’t have to switch our friends, If we understand that friends can also change. You realize that you are your best friend, And that you can do anything, or nothing, And have good moments together. You discover that the people who you most care about in your life, Are taken from you so quickly, So we must always leave the people who we care about with lovely words, It may be the last time we see them. You learn that the circumstances and the environment have influence upon us, But we are responsible for ourselves. You start to learn that you should not compare yourself with others, But with the best you can be. You discover that it takes a long time to become the person you wish to be, And that the time is short. You learn that it doesn’t matter where you have reached, But where you are going to. But if you don’t know where you are going to, Anywhere will do. You learn that either you control your acts, Or they shall control you. And that to be flexible doesn’t mean to be weak or not to have personality, Because it doesn’t matter how delicate and fragile the situation is, There are always two sides. You learn that heroes are those who did what was necessary to be done, Facing the consequences. You learn that patience demands a lot of practice. You discover that sometimes, The person who you most expect to be kicked by when you fall, Is one of the few who will help you to stand up. You learn that maturity has more to do with the kinds of experiences you had And what you have learned from them, Than how many birthdays you have celebrated. You learn that there are more from you parents inside you than you thought. You learn that we shall never tell a child that dreams are silly, Very few things are so humiliating, And it would be a tragedy if she believed in it. You learn that when you are angry, You have the right to be angry, But this doesn’t give you the right to be cruel. You discover that only because someone doesn’t love you the way you would like her to, It doesn’t mean that this person doesn’t love you the most she can, Because there are people who love us, But just don’t know how to show or live that. You learn that sometimes it isn’t enough being forgiven by someone, Sometimes you have to learn how to forgive yourself. You learn that with the same harshness you judge, Some day you will be condemned. You learn that it doesn’t matter in how many pieces your heart has been broken, The world doesn’t stop for you to fix it. You learn that time isn’t something you can turn back, Therefore you must plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure. You really are strong. And you can go so farther than you thought you could go. And that life really has a value. And you have value within the life. And that our gifts are betrayers, And make us lose The good we could conquer, If it wasn’t for the fear of trying.

I Won't Be Ashamed

You won't find shame in my home.  We deter modesty as well because we know we're all superstars here. My kids like the feel of skin unencumbered by clothing . When I'm alone I do too, but have consideration enough to want to lower therapy costs and diminish growing mommy issues. I'm not against grandbabies. We sing off key and not well, but with as much fire as we can conjure in the echoes of laminate  and tile flooring and walls that have seen us and forgiven us for all we are. I wear a bikini at beaches and in rivers and lakes because I love the tender kisses of the sun on my bare flesh and nothing anyone thinks can steal that from me. I don't care how comfortable my skin makes other people feel as I don't have to live in their heads with them. The ink of my flesh paints memories many are not entitled to know and I'm not bothered by curiosity because curiosity didn't kill the cat, brazen independence did. I know when to ask for help. My body has given life and carried me through so much good and so much bad.  Each year of my life has been marked by great joys and tremendous sorrows but those years are mine and I hold them and examine them with longing and the softened eyes of time and there is no name calling.  There is no shame in what we look like or the choices we've made. I don't worry about my c-section scar because I can't see it from where I stand and the scar is in the place where I was marked to save two lives on the verge of loss.  Walking through abandonment has given me a voice that I'm no longer running from and words that unfold in my mind before my eyes open each morning.  These words tumble out of me, leaving a Cheshire Cat smile in their wake.  Wordgasms explode and at the end of my posts there is satisfaction in the fullness of sensation pulling me to the precipice as I gaze into the abyss of all I can't deny and I launch into the dark with bravery because the light being sought after is within me, and in that there is no shame. There is healing in the reality of existence beneath my flesh and outside of the shadow of someone else's insecurities and there's no shame in the bite and swallow that has devoured my yesterdays.  You won't find shame here.

Advocating through IEP's

I believe everything happens for a reason.  I'm one of those people.  The optimism in me is tempered with a strong leaning toward disbelief, but I push past that and see the glass not half of anything because I took a sip and it's refillable.  I think the trick is in finding what that reason is that forced something to happen, and acknowledging the season you are in has a purpose.  Not having anything to rush to after my son's triennial IEP meant I spent time reading the reports. Reading the reports showed me something was done to get done and not to make sure my kid would be taken care of. I should explain a few things for those that have never had an IEP.  An "Individualized Educational Plan" is the phrase used to describe the legal document created between the school and parents to first determine educational needs for a student, then to set goals, placing supports where needed to attain these goals.  I can take an IEP to any school and the school would have to do what it says, although they have the right to hold a new IEP within 30 days to see if they can make changes.  Since my sons are at a nonpublic school, the team is usually the parents, kids are invited if they're over 14, a special ed. teacher, a general ed. teacher, a psychologist, the district representative, the school representative, and any support people that would have to present the findings of their report.  It can include an occupational therapist, speech therapist, an adaptive P.E. teacher, or any other support person that would have to give their opinion about what services and therapies would help your child function in class.  Let the diction sink in.  If your child's behaviors are a problem at home, but not at school, it isn't something they are concerned with and the job of an advocating parent is to track down therapies on our own.  If your child is a client of Regional Center, they will often but not always cover what the district doesn't, assuming you remember to bring it up in your annual IPP.  (I'll save that for another post).

Since the first IEP in 2004, we've had them scheduled regularly, without having to do much of anything, but there are times when you have to write a letter to make a request. Anytime your child doesn't seem to be thriving is a good time to ask for an assessment.  Public schools will do this at no cost because that is the point of a public education.  There are lots of assessments to request.  There are plenty of ways to see if your child is performing at their best.  There are also plenty of ways to test them emotionally, psychologically, physically with gross and fine motor skills, cognitive ability to process information, hearing, vision . . . the list goes on and they have handbooks for that sort of thing.

Once you've asked for the assessment in writing, you sign a form saying you give permission to test your child.  The school will send you a notification for an IEP date (they have a certain amount of days from the time you make the request to the IEP and I believe it's 60 days). You sign, giving instructions on how to proceed if you can't make it to the IEP and then you go to the IEP.

During most of their elementary school years, their Assistant Principal would bake cookies from scratch.  He was great with the kids, being a Dad himself, and had a white soul patch and an old soul.  I could picture him as a beatnik, in as far as my understanding was from the first Hairspray movie. I'm really not that old, but my knees try to convince me otherwise.

Depending on the team you work with, sometimes they'll want to contact you to go over things ahead of time.  I love these situations because it's easier to follow along.  In LAUSD, there is the Welligent program for the meetings, and more often than not, it will freeze, or not save or not print.  It is a finicky software program/website and a pain for most people that access it, but it's what they use. It's problems can be a little distracting.  Reading reports quickly to get through them and getting to the point means if you aren't as prepared as they are, you can find yourself a little lost.  At the end of the day, the parent needs to sign, but signing comes with a choice. Do you agree or don't you? If you don't agree, you still sign, but make it known that you are not going along with what they say.

Most IEP meetings will start with an introduction, and the same sentences are read and re-read each time.  By the 5th grade, you can probably wallpaper a room in parent handbooks, and you leave with a survey that I've never filled out or mailed in.  During the meeting, one at a time, a person who did an assessment will read through it, or skim through it, handing parents a copy to read along.  After that, we go over goals and figure out what they decide is best.  For the most part, I can agree with what they come to. I can see the logic in their reasoning.

There are some situations where you have to be aware of what is being said and decided and think ahead to the possibility of change.  Reducing Occupational Therapy hours to nothing isn't a big deal when OT is incorporated in the classroom because it's a special needs classroom.  This needs to be spelled out incase they ever decide to stick him in a general ed. classroom. Transitioning out of special ed will always be their goal even if it isn't yours. In that case, the natural support of a special needs classroom would set him up for failure in general ed.

The triennial is a larger IEP meeting held once every 3 years. This is the time for new assessments to be done and to look at all aspects of the needs as they may have changed. More often than not, the district will try to go off of the last assessment, even if it's 3 years old. It is my job to say I don't agree to their shortcut.  I read the report that was clearly copied and pasted from another child, with copied and pasted sections from old reports.  What she tried to present couldn't possibly represent my child.

In the days following the suspended IEP meeting, I was called by the psychologist with profuse apologies that I wasn't interested in hearing. I had a stress headache like a ball of pressure above my left eye in the shape of the finances I was just going over.  She wanted to go over what she had written down, and that part of me that was in pain had to remember being a student with dinner started in a crockpot, a term paper before me and a child on my back who wanted to brush my hair while I hammered out nuance in Diderot's prose. I went through her assessment, word for word, even pointing out misspelled words and filling out information that should have been in her files. She thanked me profusely and asked if I could meet her on campus later.  It's another one of those things a job would have prevented me from hopping over to do.  Of course I could meet her. So much of her job relies on not what is written or said over the phone, but a careful examination of body language, facial expressions and micro expressions, affect, and many other things I didn't bother to study because I couldn't get into philosophers.  It took a while to realize philosophers would make an appearance in all of the liberal arts classes I loved and the ones I hated too.

I met her and she talked about how glad she was to be able to meet with my son because he exceeded all of her expectations.  Of course he did.  My kids are amazing.  Also, she was going off of a report completed when he was suicidal and he wasn't that kid anymore.  He's in a more emotionally stable place and his autism has become a part of him that he understands.  He still has to make an effort to navigate life in ways I could never imagine, and at times that stress becomes clear in a melt down or assault on his brothers, but he's exceptional.

I realized that as an overworked school psychologist, going off of old reports is standard practice, and as a parent, when I insist a new assessment be completed, it gives her time to do what she wanted when she felt her calling was to study the mind and behavior.  She was forced to do what she loves.  We talked about her kids and her husband's GI bill.  I encouraged her to look into Chapter 35 benefits for her kids and the California Department of Veteran's Affairs fee waiver because they are independent of each other but go off of the same DD-214.  An advocate never stops seeing where they can lend a hand and how they can help a situation.

She should have finished her report by now but we'll reconvene that IEP after spring break.  In the meantime, I submit resumes, make phone calls, research various programs that would benefit my family and stay connected to groups on Facebook that are on the same journey because we all help each other out.  It's what we do.

First Steps in Releasing My Marriage

I deleted music files from my iTunes library that included a love song to me from my husband.  He raps.  He never understood how time has made me hate rap music.  I can listen to older songs that I loved when I was younger, but there's something in the sound that hurts my ears.  There's something in the culture that makes me hate being female.  It's the idea I'm only good for sex and life is only about making money and hate. It ties me to the memories of the boys I wanted to love, that worshipped the music that idolized misogyny and abuse. The lyrics are no longer about political change and empowerment. I started shuffling music on my laptop and old songs that got me through previous breakups would hit me and it was heavy with nostalgia.  I then got in my car and when my phone started shuffling through music I deleted off of my laptop, I realized I need to go through every library on every device to remove him.  That was a bit much, so I listened to Lorde for most of the day instead.  I may have thrown in a little Blu Cantrell to make me laugh, and DJ Quick because he reminds me of a certain boy that wanted to treat me like the song and I wanted to remind myself why I'm not that person anymore.  I will never again be "Down, Down, Down," no matter how much I loved the beat. Nothing creates distance and disgust faster than the music that boy loved. I started my day by visiting my father in law.  When we first married, my mother in law gave me a bracelet that belonged to her first mother in law and was intended for me, before my husband was born.  When my husband left he asked for it back. I'm sure it was his mother's suggestion because he never thinks that far ahead.  At first I was certain that we would reconcile and I said no. It was my right. I had earned it.  When I decided I was done, it felt right to give it to my father in law when it was his mother's. He and his wife greeted me with hugs and love.  He wanted to see it, and remembered he had given it to his mother.  I told him I wore it to family gatherings and weddings to feel as though she was with us in spirit. He insisted that I keep it.  His thoughts were he loved me and I'm his daughter.  He understood my value of family which is why he asked me to stand in as a family representative for his late brother.  He loves me in a way that his own kids could never feel and I'm so blessed in having that honor. My husband asked him to remove our family photos from his walls, and that request was denied.  I've only known him 16 years, and I know that once he claims you as his family, nothing can change that.  He kept apologizing for his son, and I told him it wasn't necessary.  Then he tried to give me his impressions of my husband's girlfriend, and the fact that she's still with her husband.  I needed to excuse myself then, because it's too easy to jump on that train and it never leaves me in a good place.

I got home and when the kids arrived after school I told them what I had told their grandfathers. They don't do well with surprises and I try to give them as much warning and preparation as possible. They're kids, and in their hopes and dreams their family will one day be restored.  I pointed out that their Dad is already acting like we're divorced. They took that news better than they did when I told them I wasn't working again.  It was crazy the way my oldest railed that he couldn't believe I lost my job.  In that moment I could see his father in him.  I could see the eggshells before me and calmly pointed out I worked for a temp agency and I'm between assignments.  I didn't get fired.  Then I pointed out I had a crush on my boss and it was probably for the best.  He then said, "it's okay mom.  It'll work out," and I could see he has his mother's eyes. I did laugh at his miraculous turn around though. I woke up to sounds of my kids gaming and singing. This is that adjustment I keep hoping will settle around us with seamless regularity and hopeful optimism.

Dating Apps or Why I Would Rather Meet You In Person than Online

 

Dating apps have been suggested.  I finally downloaded one and I even set up a profile which is a new thing for me.  I've never gone that far. I linked it to my Facebook, but I'm not committed to the idea of meeting someone online or through an app.  I still have ideas of going to a bar and having someone brave enough to introduce himself do so. I may need to go to more bars since I've gone to two this year and both times were with co-workers.  And I don't drink often, so maybe another venue . . . Either way, the apps with horrible pictures and occupations don't tell me anything I need to know.  I don't know how expressive they are when a thought is fighting to get past teeth and tongue.  I don't know if my pulse would race.  All the app tells me are the two very last things I would ever base a relationship on:  looks and occupation. My dress, wedding, honeymoon and rings were all under $500, combined. I'm that hopeless romantic that finds my home is wherever I've placed my heart and the practical aspects of survival can always be worked out.

I'm likely to fall in love with a body after I've spent at least a conversation with the person it belongs to.  I need my mind stroked with what makes him who he is.  I like to people watch and so much is found in body language and the sensory aspects of human interactions. I love to watch a man with kids.  You can see his patience, and how engaged he is.  If he doesn't have time for the leadership kids require, I'm not likely to want to follow him.  I love watching babies learn new things.  You can see the wonder light up their whole face.  That same open expression is what makes me love watching a man, deep in thought or debating the next phrase out of his mouth.  I love wondering what was on his mind and what he really needed to stop himself from saying.  It can keep me up at night, without complaint. I'm not a fan of a good poker face.  I love to watch a man interact with other people.  How does he treat the server filling his cup? How does he treat the people that can't offer him anything other than a smile?  That matters and can look a lot like sexy feels.  One of my favorites on Instagram is HOTDUDESREADING.  I love a good book and to see a guy reading is such a thrill.  Especially if he looks like they do on that Instagram account. These are the things that give me that lovely spark that starts in my lower belly and consumes every possible thought thereafter.  I love the reactions on a guy that I'm flirting with.  I like it when he's a little shy and doesn't know how to react when I've just given him a mental undressing. I prefer that to the guys that do it right back with aggression.  (I can't justify my double standards, so don't bother asking.)  You don't feel all of that in browsing through an app.

My taste in looks varies.  Most of the time it doesn't matter.  It's always a bonus to have a firm hip girdle or defined abs.  I like a man who can pick me up and make me feel weightless, but I can find a feature or two I adore, and love goggles blind me to the rest. (I know some of you have seen the men I've dated.  It's okay to laugh right now.) I have overlooked personal hygiene, but again, I can see a bonus and add apple points accordingly.  If my mind is on fire then the rest falls into place.  I've loved men with salt and pepper hair and striking blue eyes (during my teens when I had a thing for older men, but it's still hotness).  I've dated heavy men, and men so skinny I wanted to feed them, and felt I could tackle them in a gridiron scrimmage. We won't detail my adventures in sacking that quarterback. I've dated boys whose parents were Mexican, Armenian,  Guatemalan, Bolivian, Filipino, German, El Salvadorean, and then there were the ones I never even bothered to ask.  I won't say I'm equal opportunity, but I don't discriminate either. Michael Jackson said it best when he sang, "it don't matter if you're Black or White." Been there too.

You can't find what I like to look for in an app, and I'm not feeling so lonely that I need to find something immediately.  I think sexual attraction can be decided in the first two minutes of seeing a person, but where I'm at emotionally means I expect more. I'm a patient person and I'm an optimistic person.  I can wait until it's right and browsing through an app in bed doesn't feel right.  I think my old might be showing, but I'm not about to tuck it back in.

My Transparency, part 1

This blog was meant to be anonymous.  I was sharing more with this audience than I do with people I actually know.  I had another blog that had a link on my Facebook and Instagram.  It was even linked to my Google+.  I have a Google+ account, I just don't get it.  I didn't expect this blog to become so easily found and letting go of the other one was about privacy.  Those that know who is writing this blog were meant to know and I will accept that things happen as they're supposed to. This blog is not linked to me, and I write it as Jane Doe.  It's not that I have a thing for unidentified bodies.  My very first crush-turned-obsession used to write me letters and sign them as John Doe.  I was Jane Doe in my letters to him and I was paying homage to him and hiding at the same time.  The blog names are similar.  I didn't expect anyone to be so sleuthy, but I also didn't intend to send a bad link to my other blog to people I really wanted to share my redacted self with.  Actually, I'm thankful for all of the shares.  Last night I headed to the job I just left to join a few people for after work shenanigans, with a dash of debauchery.  But the good kind. There's always a good version and a clean version but the clean and good version are rarely the same.  There are many names for the shades of gray.  This was a night of drinks, laughter and enough self deprecation to make us all human.

I was early because being late gives me anxiety, and I was excited to get out.  I stopped at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf first to sip a Mexican Hot Chocolate and enjoy the brisk night air. I was people watching.  I was wearing jeans, a zip up hoodie and a pair of Uggs, so I was comfortable.  There were a couple of girls that walked into the coffee shop wearing what I might have worn a couple of decades ago when I tried my best to be weather-proof and needed to be seen in the flesh by anyone willing to look.  I waited there, and strolling out of the front lobby is a leggy blonde with a heart of gold.

This super sweet friend sat with me a moment when I greeted her, and she let me know she shared my blog.  This blog.  The blog that details my pulse racing crush with her Facebook friends which includes a few people we worked with together who really didn't need detective skills to see me through my words or my obsessive object.  First, I'm not angry.  Just really embarrassed, but I can own that. I put it out there.  It's my truth and I won't run from it.  It's part of this post on transparency.

As the night wore on and more familiar faces joined me at the Well, I was complimented about my writing and as great as that felt, I was still in shock that my world would collide so majestically in the coming days or weeks.  It's not entirely the crush.  It's more than that.  This situation has pushed me past my comfort zone and I've since shared this blog with my Facebook friends. I've exposed parts of my life once kept hidden when there are pieces I've withheld from people I know because I don't always have the energy to make others feel better about what my life goes through or how I feel about it.

In my embarrassment and shock, I was continually trying to reaffirm a determination to enjoy myself and I had a shot of Patron. There was something so familiar about it.  Four of us did a shot together and it was like old times, except I didn't have this feeling like I was being watched and people were waiting for my crazy to escape.  I didn't feel it right away, but I eventually got too loud and not one person pointed that out to me.  It was a night full of awesome sauce.

When we left I felt sober.  I had a few random burps that reminded me of what I had just put inside of me, but I was fine to drive. I drove down Sunset to Temescal Canyon Road.  My mood demanded a playlist of Everclear and Third Eye Blind. I drove through the Sunset strip and lost in my own thoughts, I didn't see much more than bright lights and traffic. In my late teens and early 20's, there weren't street signs restricting parking after 10 on Temescal and the last couple of times I went to my life guard tower, I forgot this detail. I keep forgetting this detail. I drove north a bit, then turned around.  I stood atop a granite boulder and watched the waves crash. I tasted the salt air and felt the damp cold numbing my hands and stinging my cheeks. I decided to start heading home, but I realized my head wasn't clear enough to process the night. I pulled into the parking lot at Santa Monica Beach.  I walked up to the ocean with one of the waterproof blankets I keep in the car.  I laughed because I'm single but I don't keep spare clothes in there and that is different.  Couples dotted the sand, and there were people in the water.  Young families were still playing in the surf at 10. The smells in the air told me there was at least one 4:20 club member lighting up along the beach somewhere. Small birds raced along the water, digging for nibbles in the sand as soon as the waves raced back to the ocean.  And I sat alone.  The low lying clouds blotted out the stars, but the light pollution from the pier did as well.  The last time I sat there was in June after my husband and I met with our pastors and it was clear there was nothing he wanted to save in our marriage. There were a million stars that night. The sound of the crashing waves was insistent and calming.  In that moment, I was reminded of how small I am.  In all of the drama of life and the things I can't predict or control, I'm small and much of this doesn't matter.  Rain began to fall around 11 and I was grateful that I only slapped conditioner in my hair and didn't actually style it, and I headed home  while Katy Perry, Meghan Trainor and Taylor Swift sang to me.  If I had known that the rain would've dissipated further inland, I might have just grabbed my umbrella out of the car, or even sat in the car for a while in my cocoon of contemplation.

I'm breaking out of who I was. I've exchanged numbers with people I worked with and invited them to read my words.  That's not really my thing. I'm accepting that they're getting a stronger visual than I planned.  I usually don't disclose all of my issues to everyone so vividly, but I did and it was accepted.  Part of my freak out was about Mr. Hot (and out of reach) and the fact that they know who he is.  It's the idea that he may one day be given a link and his curiosity would slap reality on this little fantasy world I've enjoyed.  Right now I hope that if anything, I've given him an ego boost and everyone can use one of those. I'm okay with that, but it would suck if I embarrass him as much as I've embarrassed myself.

I reconnected with a prom date not too long ago.  I told him that sometimes people can't handle not being part of, or the reason for the success we reach in spite of them. He told me that there's a cost to the life we get to live.  (And that is one of the many ways Facebook has once again delivered.) I get to be who I am with the highs and lows that are uniquely mine.  My joys are exponential and I'm blessed in positivity.  I won't edit out what I value.  That would go back to being ashamed of who I am and I'm not that person anymore.  I take ownership for what I think and how I feel.  I get angry at times.  I'm not proud of that, but it's the cost to the passion in me. I will adopt full disclosure or silence depending on what I'm ready to share because I refuse to lie anymore to hide who I am.  And the really special parts are held and play back in my mind and are only released as carefully cloistered rays of hope, brightening my darker days until I can feel the warmth of the horizon. It's an island, but there's always room on my hammock. Bring your sunglasses.  You're going to need them if you keep a steady watch with me.

Haunted by Memories Invading My Dreams

I wake up thinking about his smile and the look on his face when he said goodbye. I think of all I should have done and know that what is meant to be will happen in a measure of time I can't control. But tonight I'm haunted by the memories of possibilities and the last words framed in a gray text box on my phone and it's enough to make me smile and send me to sleep wrapping sweet memories around me like a blanket. I'm haunted by the looks I loved to see and the feeling they are all he'll ever give me.

Old Poetry To Remind Me I Was Unhappy Too

I don't do pictures that would put a face to my words, but I thought I'd share old poetry.  Two old poems.  The more recent one is at least four years old because I'm 38 now.  The older one was while I was still breastfeeding, so at least 8 years ago. My Release

Stress came in waves Like sheets of plastic suffocating Like flames of sickness licking my flesh from the insides Like sex without love messy fluids and sweat and no real pleasure or release pain in waves, waiting for joy which never comes Like reek of sweat sickly musk masked by refuse of small comforts Comfort sought after in foods chocolate and icecream, rice pudding and doughnuts chips and dip or salsa iced tea and soda and sugar and waste Eating beyond sustenance, and into blankets of numbness Comfort in the nothing the nothing of sleep the nothing of television Hiding from the bright spring air and in the dark dampness of the hollow of my blankets windows shut and unforgiving musky in my stench of unbathed loathing damp in the overflow of morning feedings Awake and wired late at night while twitching in unforgiving darkness, while the angels of my flesh and desire slumber next to me snoring in sweet nothingness while early morning taunts me And in the dire bleakness of my power outtage, wishing for momentary release in window surfing or a mind to reach out to A moment of vulnerability and my stress is relieved.

And again, I want to go outside. Again, there is a garden to sow Again, there is much to be done, and at last, I'm ready to do it.

Poem for my 34^th Birthday

Can I still remember my last name?

The girl that I once was

I know her now

Though she barely knew herself

I think of her and wonder

How did she survive the life

She forced us to live

Then I remember she didn’t

I’m here and she’s a memory

A fond one that has evolved from

Faded recollections

The woman in her wake loves attention as much as she did

But will live without it.

She craves solitude and hardly gets it

But complaining is for the girl that died away

My Death Day Planning and Why It's Really Not Morbid

When my Grandmother had a massive stroke we drove to Houston to say our goodbyes.  In the days we were there, my Dad asked me to look through the house for a will or any important documents.  It was so difficult for me.  This was the grandmother that baked challah and chocolate cake from scratch with me. I still bake when I miss her and want to feel close to her.  I remember the many times I wanted to sleep in and Dad would wake us and she would remind him it was her house and her rules.  She had a piano that I never heard.  She didn't play and we weren't allowed to play on it. Going through my Grandmother's home uncovered a person I never knew.  I saw the awards she got for her yard and understood the love put into her garden.  Later I found out it was the flower bed near her bedside window she had my younger cousin cultivate with roses and flowers.  I was home in Los Angeles, pulling weeds and getting dirt under my nails as I planted herbs and vegetables, and that was a passion close to her heart as well.  I didn't know that my love of all things growing came from her.  I love books and I was shocked that there was only one book in her home that wasn't a bible and it was The Young Housekeeper's Friend by Mrs. Cornelius dated in 1859.  She didn't have much jewelry or bottles of perfume.  I finally got to check out the piano, and in the bench were songs written by her. A lot of them were worship songs and I wish I could've heard her.  I love to sing, but I can't remember ever hearing her sing.  She had a certificate from a bible college but I'm not certain if she finished high school.  I saw a work ID from a utility company and my Dad had no idea she did anything other than clean houses.  She was surrounded by pictures of me and all of her children and grandchildren.  She had kept every single card and envelope I had sent to her throughout my life.  She kept everything all of us sent to her.  Her bed was in front of the television and I could tell she spent a lot of time on the shopping network by all of the cooking gadgets throughout the kitchen that overflowed to her den.  She would watch an infomercial and look for easy ways to make healthy meals as she was bedridden toward the end and in her helplessness, she was still able to shop.

When my husband's uncle passed, my father in law asked me to help his brother's friends clean out his home.  My husband and his sister weren't interested.  Even in death, some wounds continue to fester. He was a collector of all things Hollywood and television memorabilia.  He was also a hoarder.  Getting through his home meant meandering through a maze of the many things he bartered, found on the street or bought.  There was a stack of picture frames from Ikea that stacked flat and touched the ceiling.  He had several toys still in original packaging.  There were toy cars, movie stills, and puppets. Most of what he had  was donated, and there's an online archive somewhere that his friends painstakingly put together with small children and full time jobs.  My specific task was to go through and find any family heirlooms.  It was so hard to figure that out, not ever seeing any of the stuff before hand or ever meeting my husband's grandmother that it came from.  What was touching was after her death, he had his mother's thesis and all of her work documents. He had her letter of appreciation signed by the late Mayor Bradley. The toys they played with as children were in a display case and the last thing he saw before falling asleep.

I have a file folder on my desktop titled, "If I Die." It seems morbid but it was my gift.  More than once I had the honor of going through the belongings of a family member after they had passed.  I call it an honor, because it is.  It's also painful and humbling and impossible to not hurt other people.  The hardest thing was digging through things to find an identity. It's a file where I've compiled my bio and accomplishments. It's a place where you can see my favorite flowers are California Poppies, but anything in shades of green would be appropriate.  I have my favorite songs listed with specific instructions for jewelry.  I also made it clear that my funeral is not to be an altar call.  If I didn't sway you to my faith in life, I won't do it with guilt in death. There are letters I've written to loved ones as well. I used to update this file each Christmas, but I didn't this year, and it's time I did. The first year I started the folder was hard.  Not too hard.  I was emo before the word was a trend, but it was difficult to get through all I wanted to say.  I ended up making a few calls to say what was in my letters and had to start over. Why wait to tell someone how important they are to you?

Today I talked to both my Dad and my husband's Dad.  I told both of them that I am filing for divorce as soon as I get a hold of my attorney and get her fee sorted out.  I told my Dad I got married on my own, it makes sense I'd divorce on my own and do the big girl thing.  My Dad is my Dad and he said all of the things my Dad is supposed to.  My father in law proved to me that he is also my Dad and he gave me love and support and I will be visiting with him tomorrow.  He called the new girlfriend a "troll" and that really made the blow of him meeting her that much easier.  Tomorrow will be a year since my husband told me our marriage is over, and I thought about a long and extensive post to go over what this year has been, but he's not worth the carpal tunnel.

This Water Baby Is Raising Her Standards

I've always been drawn to water.  I spent one summer going to Manhattan Beach every single day.  The water was so clear, I was able to stand and see a piece of chert that was practically glowing at my feet.  I still have it.  I loved Bolsa Chica for the fire-pits, but it can only be fun if you bring really good water shoes. Those seashells and pebbles have carved into my tender feet for years.  Huntington Beach has fire pits and you can avoid the rocks and watch the surfers. I loved to watch the surfers. There should be surfer watching soon. There's a dog beach between the two where frolicking dogs will chase balls in the water and you can almost taste the love between them and their humans. It's like cherry pie before I had to cut wheat from my diet and I took flaky pie crust for granted. There are beautiful cliffs in Malibu and huge pockets that haven't had sand added to them, making the shoreline natural and beautiful. Dockweiler Beach has fire-pits and you can watch the airplanes fly overhead as they launch then bank over the ocean later at night. I love the ocean for how small it makes me feel.  I love being pushed and pulled by the waves, only to escape by diving into them and becoming part of the churning that would force its will otherwise. I love beaches with tide pools.  There's one in San Pedro but I don't think I can go there without remembering the boy that helped me pick out sea urchins and starfish with lots of laughter and splashing. He was so tender with my scraped hands and knees. We held hands and he walked with me around the Friendship Bell and packed a lunch so we could picnic on the grass. We hugged and laughed as we looked at the ocean.  I want to leave that memory untarnished. It was a good one. I've been meaning to check out Crystal Cove instead.  For years I said I wanted to go to Black's Beach just because it is a nude beach.  I haven't made it and I haven't made plans either. In the last 16 years, I've spent less time at the beach and more time in rivers, pools, Jacuzzi tubs and lakes.  Part of that was my husband likes rivers and lakes.  We spent so much time fishing in them.  I'm not a fan of the gear and I don't like much outside of reeling in a fish, so I don't see myself going fishing anytime soon.  A lot of the rocks around my pond were from trips to Upper Big Tujunga where he and the boys fished, and I carried bags of rocks back to the car. Pier fishing is what I did with my Dad and the few times I tried to go deep sea fishing, I got sick as soon as the boat stopped going forward.  I like boats, but staying still and rocking on the waves instead of being part of the waves always made me sick.  It took a summer to get used to the smaller waves on Big Bear Lake. My other reason for not liking big scary bodies of water is my kids.  My now 9 year old who was 8 months at the time suffered a near drowning.  Pulling him out of the tub when he was blue was traumatic for me.  I had nightmares for a while. To this day, I still panic whenever they want to go into water and I feel like I can't keep a hand on all three at the same time. I prefer to not go and let my Mom take them because she loves water as much as I do.

There's a pond in my front yard that I enjoy from my front porch. I dug into hard ground with the help of my father in law.  It has a waterfall and it's all pre-formed pond liners, but I love the sound, if not the look. I love the reflected light dancing on walls and ceilings from the moving water outside my window. There's a koi fish in it.  This koi has survived for years with rain water and water hose refills when the water gets low and not a drop of treatment to balance the pH or de-chlorinate, and a pump that goes out from time to time and not a drop of food in years.  He's outlived the tadpoles that spent about a year becoming bullfrogs and then disappeared over a winter to emerge and disappear again. My cat is a murderer and she's granted him clemency. She prefers lizards, birds, and rodents. He's as stubborn about giving up as I am.

Last night I was home around 7:00.  I had an interview with a temp agency and puttered around Hollywood long enough to be happy to head home. I had taken off my slacks, and blouse and I was already in bed calling it a night with Hulu and Facebook.  I finally listened to the lyrics to kid3's favorite song.  There was a petite brunette singing a cover rendition and I thought I'd finally hear the whole thing.  I don't listen to much radio and I saw that the original is his Dad's favorite artist.  He's a Belieber. It occurred to me that my little one has been singing the song in his Daddy's heart and it made me angry. For the record, I had many moments of choosing to like his Momma too, and it wasn't easy. I knew she didn't like me no matter how many times they tried to say otherwise.  I chose to accept her as part of him. To know me is to know I give people more chances than they deserve.  Something about that song got under my skin like an itch and I got dressed and went for a drive.  I took Broadway through Chinatown and onto Sunset to Pacific Coast Highway and turned left. I called a really great friend on the way.

I've known this friend since we were in diapers and my firstborn's middle name was chosen based on the name I called on for much of my life.  When we were young, he was called Peanut Butter and I was Jelly according to the older neighborhood kids and our siblings.  It was as much about our complexions as it was about our conjoined hips. We were always hanging out around the neighborhood in East Hollywood where I broke my leg and a week later he broke his arm.  He ended up in a hospital bed at Kaiser on Sunset and a while later I ended up in the same bed in pediatrics.  He was there through every single romance I've had, and the distance only came with my husband.  I was starting life with a husband and kids.  He still goes to bars and clubs and lives the life I used to live. He's one of those friends that I can pick up with at any time and it's like there was no time or distance between us.  In our friendship there is freedom and I was able to rage and curse out a man I had been trying to be respectful toward. I discuss my anger at times.  I'm still protecting him in not disclosing some of his actions to most people. My anger is part of me and I'm not afraid of it. You just won't usually hear me emasculating him.  It's a choice, and I try to choose it more often than not.  That doesn't mean I'm incapable. That means my impulse control is strong on most days.  Not last night.  It was the first time I've ever cursed him out (even if not to his face),  the entire time I've known him.

It was early enough that when I made a left on Temescal Canyon Road, I could still legally park there, but it was dark, so you won't get pictures.  There are street lights but the beach itself is cloaked in darkness. In the distance, the Ferris wheel that spins above the waters off Santa Monica Beach is visible and tells me where the freeway is. The light of the moon and the many stars I could see were enough to see and step confidently.  I felt comforted in the blanketed darkness clothing the sand and sea. It colored the horizon in shades of indigo night. The gate leading to the parking lot at Will Rogers State Beach had already been closed with yellow metal that clearly denies access and the parking lot only held one car, as it's companion left when I was stepping onto the sand. Lifeguard tower 8 was where I spent many nights through high school and until I met my husband.  I've sat there with guys that played guitar, and with a strong drink to fight the biting air and sea mist. I've been there in groups and alone.  I've raged at the heartbreaks that were raging through me because the ocean could absorb the sounds of my anguish. I celebrated moments of solitude where my introverted side could recharge.  I shared my spot with the boys that were like my brothers. I was still on the phone with the Peanut Butter to my Jelly while he was at work but otherwise, I was completely alone. He told me about the many girls he had taken there, and I was shocked that I never thought to do the things he did because my comfort was more important.  There's only one way up or down on that ramp and it's pretty exposed.  This was probably the first time I was there without a pocket knife or a stun gun, not that I ever needed to confront anyone. Besides, beach sex is overrated and it's always cold at night.

This was a frequent filming location for Bay Watch.  When I arrived, I could see signs for a crew that will be there or already was there. Location scouts love this place. On the left are volleyball courts with nets swaying in the wind.  To the right there's a jetty that marks the sand, stepping into the ocean and breaking the harshest waves with immovable fortitude. This tower is unique in that it's built on a concrete platform that holds a large drainpipe and carries you over the water.  I've only ever been there at night and farther from low-tide, but recognized my favorite place on an episode once. The waves break against the platform and flow all around the tower.  There's a fence around it, but only to keep people from jumping off of the platform because people aren't always smarter than they look.  The tower isn't restricted except the closed windows padlocked to keep people outside.

We talked as the crashing waves calmed me.  We talked as they energized me.  By the time I was driving home, my mood had significantly picked up and my anger was gone.  As we talked, we discussed each man child I claimed in my heart.  He pointed out what he saw and through that I could see my perspective shifting and sharpening.  He felt I could have done better than every single one of them.  In looks, in intelligence, in personality, in self esteem, I was the dominant one.  He said every relationship has an imbalance, and I was always on the upper hand but never saw or acknowledged it.  I fixated on their one good quality.  For one boy it was his hair.  For another it was his voice.  For another it was his face.  For another it was how much he wanted me. I could go on but the point was he could see I had a type.  I always thought it was fair skin and great hair, but not all of them fit that bill.  Most of them didn't. He said I like the ones that are a little geeky and not too smart.  He could see something about each one of them that was lacking in some way. I told him about my crush and he pointed out that I was sabotaging myself even though I claim to want to date smarter people. I could see myself having a conversation with him without having to explain what I've said.  He reminded me that they all kind of grew on me because they weren't immediate total packages.  I walked past the obvious winners and plucked my way through the second string, subconsciously identifying their insecurities and then letting them  shape their fears into who I was, effectively shifting the power dynamic.  The exception was the guy I was with through the end of high school.  He was an ex-gang member, but I pursued him with his New York accent, and six pack abs, and his hooked nose.  He wasn't eye candy, but he was sweet and generous. He was always bringing me flowers. He wasn't the total package and I have no interest in looking him up, but I do like who I was when I was with him for the most part.  He didn't have that innate ability to lead though.  I value that now when I couldn't understand it then.

With each breakup, I became more of the person my great friend grew up with. He sees me as someone that tells it like it is.  I see it as jaded cynicism. I'm someone that is positive and optimistic for the most part.  I believe in faking it until I feel it.  My perseverance and tenacity are hot in others and an asset to myself. He likes this person as she is. I like this person as I am.  I like the boys that are shy and a little insecure.  I like the ones that need my attention that are willing to make it a point to make the first move. I find it sweet and he pointed out that it's the mother in me that needs to bring that shyness out. It always backfires and  I build them up into pricks. Or I'll date someone with such strong attachment issues that they need to prove they can make a conquest of anyone without being able to move into a relationship because they lack emotional maturity. We talked about the fact that I haven't kissed anyone besides my husband since April of 2000.  He tells me it will be epic when I do.

I started thinking about some of the things my husband has said the past year and the song that our little one was singing made more sense.  I realized he had been speaking to me the lyrics of this song, and it made me think of the many conversations we had when I was teased about my vocabulary.  To this day, I will find myself changing the vernacular in my writing so it is easily digested, but I shouldn't have to do that when I talk.  And this song that made me want to emasculate and infantilize him also made me feel pity because I could hear his insecurities in the song. I could sing the same song to him, but I have a better grasp of my feelings than that and would rather focus on what will lift me up.

I went to bed and the rage in me had died and it was replaced with hope.  There was hope that I would find enough value in myself to intentionally try to approach that man that could be out of my league.  There's hope that I could find someone to have meaningful conversations with. I want a salt of the earth, man's man. I kissed a couple of girls in my youth and it did nothing for me but make me miss the bite of stubble. I love a clean shaved face and solid jaw line. I like to be the soft one next to lean muscle. I want someone with the self esteem and drive that pushed him away from drugs or gang life, and made him try harder so his success was in his accomplishments. I've only ever had two ex lovers that weren't into drugs or gang life. They were always looking for attention and couldn't understand the value of silent companionship. They couldn't commit to one person, even if it wasn't me. It's not about money or looks.  It never was.  I remember being in my twenties and flirting with the guy in the car next to me. It was a red convertible. We exchanged numbers and when he called I told him I couldn't date him because all I remembered was his car and I couldn't be that person.  He respected my honesty, and the part of me that couldn't do that is still alive and kicking. She calls me a whore when I can't see past the frosting on the cake and that makes me keep walking. My husband thought I only wanted him for his money, but I wanted him for the way he saw me. I just didn't notice when he stopped looking at me that way.   The one amazing thing my really great friend pointed out was that I gave my husband 16 years of faithfulness and he messed up by leaving a good wife. He left me and I waited beyond what was reasonable and I have done enough.  Telling a wife and mother she's done enough is one thing, but getting her to finally believe it is another.  We talked about an hour and a half and at the end of that time, I believed it.

We also talked about the times we were young and being silly.  We laughed about the many times I said I'd be an old lady with a cane, and chasing boys. We talked about walking into the Palace in Hollywood at the end of the night.  We were pretty drunk and one of the guys we were with walked right into the glass doors, opened them and went right in as if he didn't just greet the door with his nose.  The security guards didn't bother to stop us. It also closed within the 15 minutes we were there.  There was another night we had gone to a hotel in the valley to go dancing with my Dad.  They played Israeli music and songs in Arabic. Some of the older women taught me to move like a belly dancer.  It's where I heard my first Alabina song and this was before Shakira in the late 1990's. I used to go dancing with Dad on Saturday nights and this was the one time I brought friends.  We got a bit sauced and when my Dad went home, we decided to go to Rosarito because we had never been to Papas and Beer.  I took the backseat of my car and he drove us into Tijuana and further south into Rosarito.  We pointed at each "alto" sign and laughed because they looked a lot like stop signs.  It's never taken much to make me laugh. We got there at 4 in the morning and it was closed. Everything was closed at 4 in the morning.  We drove around a bit and watched the sunrise.  Instead of hanging out all day, we headed home and had a tire blow out on the freeway (my  first of more than I can remember). It was an epic adventure. I've still never been inside of Papas and Beer. We talked about the time we went hiking to the waterfall from Chantry Flats in the mountains above the Santa Anita racetrack with a bottle of Tequila Rose and the guys going for a swim in the freezing water.  There's something funny that happens when cold water gets past boxers and I can still hear the squeals in that memory. He reminded me of the fun I had as an adolescent when I wasn't handing my heart off. I needed that.

How I Spread Autism and Cancer Awareness

 

The sun is barely peeking over the hilltop before me and my inbox ping tells me someone was thinking of me - loves me - thinks of me when they rise.  In my excitement for words and encouragement, I see it's a meme.  It's a meme for cancer awareness.  It's a cute meme for cancer awareness that looks nothing like the cancers I've seen.

The awareness is what gets to me.  I have an autism awareness magnet on my car.  It was important to my kids, but it wasn't my thing.  Yes, I have kids with autism, and it's important for others to learn about, but I've been spending years making people autism aware at restaurants with tantrums and meltdowns over textures and sitting in boredom.

We've had grocery trips where the casual shopper suggests a spanking might help, and I informed her you can't spank away a disability and frankly I was bothered by her violent streak. Her compassionate suggestion to help get my kids in line turned into blatant curiosity which turned into verbal diarrhea because people rarely know where their thoughts become weapons, and the science she saw on television just insulted the gene pools of two families without the excuse of a nameless face because she was looking at mine. I remembered a good friend telling me, "we can't be angry at someone's ignorance.  We have to give them our pity." I was so enraged I wanted to deliver that pity with a right hook. Instead I plastered on what I hoped was a smile and tried my best to inform her that it doesn't matter how autism ended up in my home, it's my job to see my kids through life in a way that will release whole adults, unbroken by the world.  I've made family aware of autism when the meltdowns and self inflicted head punching meant we had to leave early for holidays to find respite at home where the holidays are in submission to first Thomas the Tank Engine and now Minecraft.  I loved watching traffic from my last job because the little cars reminded me of Hot Wheels lined up but not played with.

I'm still becoming autism aware when in my hope to be "the world's best mom" as proclaimed by a stranger in Target, I walked in with a Playstation 4 and was greeted with a meltdown instead.  I should have known that Playstation 4 doesn't support Mario and Dad has a Wii U, why can't we?  Dad promised him two houses mean two of everything and my literal kid took that literally.  Kid1 and Kid3 love it as it collects dust because they don't actually want to play it or sell it, and being job free means telling kid2 the new 3DS he wants will have to wait even longer.

Cancer ripped through my grandfather and he didn't win.  His pride and protection would belie the pain in his body when I would call and he'd in turn call out for his Mrs. to talk to me.  Later I would lose my husband's grandfather.  There was a powerful moment where we sat side by side toward the end of his life.  He was on oxygen and struggled to speak.  He told me how amazed he was that his generation would do what they did, and his granddaughter with dark skin would sit next to his fair skin and blue eyes and we'd openly share love and respect.  This granddaughter healed a life born to regulated bigotry and gave him great grandsons whose bloodlines held his Heinz 57 and my blood line that is both Thai and Black and if you ask my dad, Choctaw, Sephardic, French, and Mexican too. I have a heritage which includes the many slave owners and illicit affairs that would mix my features until I look Samoan or Indian. I type this and still mourn the loss of the only grandfather I was able to visit when I wanted because we weren't separated by states and his love for me resonates like his loss was just last week.

The face of cancer has also been worn by my sister and grandmother, but they fought and won.  I've had friends lose hair and fight sickness and they not only survived, but they are thriving.  They are healthy now, but they've faced death and emerged with an appreciation for life that is a wonder to witness.  My oldest has a friend with a Dad who is sick right now. When he asked about cancer, these are the faces I tell him about.  This is the awareness I share.

We live out awareness in the ways we share who we are and in the reflections of our lives and how we let our struggles color our smiles. We face each day in bravery and see grace where we look for it and the peace that we allow in our hearts gives us patience.

Marital Separation through File Deletion

He moved out months ago and I've finally decided to accept his decision for our lives. I'm starting to see it as my deliverance. I'm letting go.  It's easy to say it's over in anger, but it's moments of peace and reflection that I listen to. I sent an email to my attorney tonight asking about the next steps that I would like her to walk me through. There were no tears but I felt peace and an acceptance that is new.

A friend emailed me and we had a back and forth, picking up like we were just getting drunk together last week. He told me that I seem happier now.  He's right.  I'm doing better than I was before I found out we were over. He offered his support and love in the way good friends with lasting memories do. He was there when we first started dating.  With gentleness that could only come from a friendship built on love and mutual respect, he told me I was so much better than who I was settling for, without making me feel bad about it. In the years I put between us for the sake of my husband, he never held a minute against me. He couldn't imagine what I'm going through, nor would I want him to.  He's a newlywed and I adore his bride.

I started clicking through Facebook albums to delete him, but decided some albums can just be hidden  until I'm ready to erase those images that are etched in my mind. I want to ensure a decent history is catalogued for our kids because we are who they came from, and I can't erase who they are and hope that will make it better. They come before I do, and family pictures still sit on walls.

I haven't spied on his page for a while and I haven't checked to see if I'm still blocked, because it no longer matters what he does. I thought giving up Facebook for Lent would be too hard, and so I gave up Lent, but find I've also given up Facebook because so much of "us" belonged to those walls. I'm going through emails and wiping away what is no longer relevant to me and some of it was relevant to us.  I do it as a farewell and there are no tears or anguish.  There's no sorrow or anxiety.  I've heard "it is what it is," and the phrase feels like giving up in failure.  Instead I feel it is what we've made it and I accept the choice to not change it.

This momentary pause is my moment before I clear out music files.  It's music that he liked.  It's his music.  I don't want to shuffle my songs to hear his voice tell me he's winning in the wife department.  It doesn't make me cry. It doesn't hurt or make me angry.  It's just no longer what I want to hear and I can control that.

A Day in the Life: Single Mom Duties

I rushed to my son's school to pick him up on a shortened day. His parent conference was an arbitrary day where his teacher could fit me in.  I asked if she had an earlier appointment and she fit me in immediately.  She tries so hard for order, but teachers rarely get parents that show up on time, or show up at all when work and other kids come before a report we see on a card.  But I wanted to meet with her so she could tell me he's missed too much school and been tardy far too often because the numbers in black and white with a legend in the corner couldn't be clear enough.  I remind her of the day in dress and heels I carried him over my shoulder from the car onto campus and left him with the principal, later calling in tears on my way to work to see how much he hated me. My knees hated me for days after that. He's doing well in spite of his absences and still has time to improve.  We're starting separate homework packets because separate homes weren't enough.  The line between responsibility tears him in two, but he accepts it with a smile because this insanity is his insanity and it's somehow acceptable. We head home and the fight for his homework begins.  He wants my phone. "Can't find a pencil." Now in need of a sharpener.  "This is too hard.  We haven't done the work that she told you we did." But it says review and I know he's capable when I tell him I'm struggling and I need him to show me. "What are you doing?" As I'm writing thank you's to lovers in my past. "I'm writing a zombie story," because he knows it's entirely a possibility and more exciting than therapy writing. He needs my full focus to get me to give him answers he works really hard to not figure out. I continue writing and he slowly figures it out.

But his brothers will be home in 10 minutes and the three of them will start fighting over the two computers. Miraculously, he gets it done and has minutes to spare before the brothers get home.  Once home, they fight, as predicted because they each want time on the computer immediately.  It's the preferred routine and there's a system to their chaos when they can predict what will happen. Kid1 tries to pry kid2 from the chair, then sees the food and starts with bribery.  The computer battle is won and their after school hungers are sated.  Mom's cherry macarons decided the battle. Kid2 takes his clothes off because there are tags that scratch, and really, he's had clothes on all day and it should be enough.  He sits and strokes his boy parts through his clothes and I remind him we can see him and his restless hands stop but he takes the tablet into the bedroom where I won't hear his videos as easily.

"Hey kids, it's a soup day.  Chicken vegetable okay?" Yeses and sures and "I would like that, Mom." I start boiling a chicken with loose skin and too much blood. My stomach is roiling from the stresses I ignore.  I run a bath and heat eases pain in my old lady knees.  I yell to kid3, "want a bath tonight? Now's the time if you do."  Followed by, "no mom, I'm busy mom .  . . I'll shower later."

Chicken is cooked and cooled and I'm burning fingertips, tearing the bird apart.  "Are you sure you want soup? I still have time to make something different." Kid1 wants soup.  Kid2 thinks he can get past celery and cooked carrots. He'll eat it raw, but cooked carrots and celery have a texture my sensory sensitive autistic children can't always handle.  Kid3 loves mommy's soup. He can't wait for mommy's soup.

Soup is served and only Mom and Kid1 will eat it.  Kid2 wants bread and only bread.  Kid3 isn't hungry.

It's time for showers and bed, and I start with kid2 who wants to avoid his shower just a little longer because he's watching a video.  I check the video and it's on pornhub and I have to explain that it's inappropriate and gives a wrong idea of real sex. Good sex.  Sex that isn't violence based and I have to pry my eyes away from the sex scenes that held my sex starved mind because it's a video where it looks like orgasms are being given which is different entirely from solo play. I'm so tired of solo play.

Kid2 in the shower, then kid3.  He wants that bath - once offered and rejected and he will cry until I give in but I don't give in to his bath. Instead I soap him up in the shower.  And it's a battle I've lost that his Dad always wins.  I tell myself he just needed the cry that he cries every time he comes home. He doesn't need to control me too, that's just a side effect - a latent benefit and then I can't see the manifest benefit.  I can't see the antecedent to the behavior that I just rewarded and I'm the one with the consequence.  He's out of the shower and dripping wet and insists on climbing into bed, dripping wet because that's what Dad does. It's okay with Dad.  He's okay with Dad. And he's hungry now and refuses the soup that burned my fingers and I'm headed out to the deep freezer in the laundry room to get him a Hot Pocket that he eats halfway through before falling asleep.

Kid1 in the shower with a smirk and a grunt.  I ask too much of him but I ask and he does what I want, if slower than I want and the night has wound down and we're done.  The pressure builds in my head and I go over it again because I can't see where we went from smiles and hugs and mutual claims to have missed each other to the mess this night dissolved into.  I can't see where it shifted and my mind races through it again and again.

I don't drink.  I won't cry.  I will see the crap for what it was and hug them in their sleep because they are so well behaved then.  I will say prayers for their peace and obedience as I tuck them in. And I will have Butter Pecan gelato because I don't drink even if I really want to right now.