Why I Took My Boots Back

Wow, I just looked at the date of my last post. I haven't written in this blog for almost a year - since my ex started reading it and found it necessary to share some particularly nasty comments he had to say assuming that what he read pertained to him. He should be so important, yes? But it worked, like it always used to, and it wasn't until today that I felt the overriding urge to rise above and not let his weak attempt at punishing me win. Again.

Why? Because I took my boots back. Willingly. Those high black suede numbers with the sexy heel that I couldn't really afford and didn't really need but had to have because...they were there. Why did I take them back?

Because. My store was busy today, the staff was light because of the flu and the lines at the cashwrap long.

I usually do what I can to avoid ringing at a register, this time by following some guy with a very large open backpack who is talking to himself (hopefully, and not to Richard Nixon like the guy last week) but I have to step up and do the right thing when the natives on the checkout line start getting restless and look at me with anxious disdain.

So, while ringing at an almost cardio-vascular pace, trying to get through the line quickly, a woman approaches my register with four kids in tow, the oldest a boy probably about 11. Each has a book in their hand and smile on their face and they take turns coming up to put their little treasures on the counter in front of me. I say, "Wow, something for everybody!" and the mom smiles at me in that tired kind of way that only a mother of four can, and hands off the youngest girl to the oldest boy to hold. The little one squeales with delight and drops her binky on the floor and all three jump to pick it up for her. This is a tight knit little family and from they way they are dressed it looks like their band of togetherness is out of necessity.

The mom reaches into her tattered wallet while I am ringing up their books and pulls out a B&N gift card. It has $50 written on it black marker, and her total comes to just under that. I run the card through and it shows to have only $6.46 left on it. And I tell her this.

She looks at me, stunned. Her middle daughter stands leaning up against the counter, looking up at her mom with alarm that is about to turn into a knowing, resigned sadness.

"But it says 50 dollars," she says to me with a blank look on her face. I tell her I am sorry, but it must have already been used - does she remember using it before today? "No, we've never come in here before. Sometimes we go to the library..." The kids nod at me and the baby starts to get restless, in reality too big for the 11 year old boy to hold for too long.

Mom just stands there blankly looking at me for what seems like 5 minutes. I ask her if she wants me to just void the transaction and she just stares, wide-eyed. Her middle daughter starts to tear up.

Mom then tells me that they are in transitional housing, that someone had donated the gift card to the house for her to buy Christmas presents for her kids and that she doesn't know why they would do such a thing if it wasn't worth anything...

I can feel the knot start to form in my chest. She opens her bag and takes her wallet out again and doesn't say a word, just starts to count her cash, which is obviously way too little to cover her bill. "Can I give you this much in cash and then..." She stares at a credit card that I am now pretty certain is only for emergencies, and I am feeling an overwhelming empathy for this woman, knowing how much this is really going to cost her.

I say, Yes, of course. I take her 18 dollars in cash and then reluctantly, oh so painfully, take her credit card and swipe it through. I hear myself say, almost in a whisper, "God, I would give it to you myself if only I could..."

But I know that I can't. Because I was feeling low and unloved yesterday and went into DWS before work to buy them damned boots.

She shrugs her shoulders in resignation, mumuring that it's been a hard couple of years. But she clearly, oh so absolutely loves her children and will not disappoint them.

I am bereft. All I can do is say quietly that I know where she's coming from and that I know that if it can pass for me, it can pass for her too. She smiles and says, "It's already starting to." And I lean over the counter, and through the lump in my throat I say to her little girl, "You've got such an awesome mom, right?" To which the little girl smiles at me proudly.

As I watch them walk out the door with their new little books, I know that I have to get off the floor - fast. So I leave the rest of them, the restless natives on line, and walk back into the office and allow myself to weep like a child.

I've been there, standing on line with my DSHS card and my one dollar bills stuck together, bargain shopping for toilet paper and pricing out boxes of macaroni and cheese. I've come to the point where I've had to ask for money from people I know are going to spit obscenities at me first before begrudging relenting.

And yet, I've been there too when friends who barely know me from The Rooms hand me a check and say they don't want to hear about it, take Sasha to a movie and go have some fun. And when friends who do know me, with barely a word, pay my bills.

Sometimes it just takes what it takes for me to wake up and see what I really have around me. Today I have heat in my condo when a only year ago I lived in a house with none. Today I have an incredible group of friends who do, yes, actually do love me - very much. Today I am in a position, regularly, to be of service to others, sometimes even financially, if only in a small way. The list could go on for pages, but this is getting longer than I planned and I'm going to be late for work.

Today I am an incredibly fortunate woman. Who really doesn't even like boots all that much. And today I gratefully returned them.

As for my ex, all I can say is...I'm back...

That, and that Anne LaMotte said it perfectly: "If you wanted to be written about nicely, then you should have behaved better."

Dear Margaret

I try to picture myself in your shoes, opening this letter and wondering who would send such a thing, so many years later. But it's really not for me to guess or wonder. It's mine to simply do.

I worked for you a very long time ago. I don't know whether you remember me or not, but I was ####'s Marketing Assistant for the **** launch. I know I don't have a very clear memory of those days, and not just because they're so long ago, but because I was an active alcoholic and drug addict. I know that now.

I probably wasn't the easiest person to be around in those days, either professionally or socially, and for that I truly apologize. My memory may not always be that accurate, but what I do remember (in technicolor) is the incident that caused the end of our professional relationship: namely the night at The Saint, where I got drunk and spilled proprietary trade information (namely the formulation of ****) to the competition - to the person who, it turned out, was actually your sister. I then proceeded to break into your office later that night to place my resignation letter on your desk and drink all your scotch. After which I actually showed up for work, having been out all night, still drunk, to witness the after-effects of what I thought was utter genius: resigning before you could fire me.

I thoroughly regret this insane drama I created, its extremely unfortunate aftermath and the ill-will I caused. Although today I can say that it was the gyrations of an very active addict who regularly found herself committing major self-destructive acts - ones that often wobbled out and perpetrated havoc and destruction on the lives of others as well - I want you to know that I am not trying to use this as an excuse. Only an explanation.


I am not that person today, as I have been clean and sober since 1985, and have rigorously worked to change who I am and where my actions come from. That work includes admitting the wrongs I have done to others and taking direct responsibility for them. I totally screwed up our relationship and the launch of ****.

Again, I know it was a long time ago, but you are the one person I have not been able to find anywhere - rumors had it you moved to London, but I couldn't find you there either - and after attending a gathering last night where we were talking about finishing up our amends in alternative ways, I thought I would simply sit down and write you this letter.

I often wonder how you are and what you're up to, Margaret. We partied very hard, even ferociously, as I remember it. I do hope all has gone well for you. Honestly, if it has, I would have to suspect that you probably were fortunate enough to have found yourself on the same path as I.

Which would totally warm my heart.

She's Been Here Longer

So here I sit, today, mother of a 15 year old. Who'd a thunk?

Sasha is an extraordinary person, and I say that not just as her mother but as an observant, spiritual being. When she was four years old and standing in the kitchen together, she looked up at me and said, "You know, I've been here a lot longer than you have."

I believed her then and I believe her now.

I don't think I really thought much about whether or not I wanted to have a child or needed the experience of being a mother. I was busy trying to cope with a life I never wanted, although to look at me you'd probably not guess that that was what I was doing. Comedy has always been a great and powerful cover. It's usually borne of great pain.

I also never thought I was a particularly "marriable" person, both from the experiences of a "few" failed "relationships" and just my own familial cynicism. Besides I was busy being a playwright in NYC, and god knows you certainly don't meet a wealth of straight nor available men in the theatre.

But marry I finally did, at the ripe age of 38.

About a year after we were married, my husband said, casually, "What do you say we try and have a kid?" And I said, "Sure, I guess, why not?" And I thought, "My mother did it, how hard could it be?"

And with exactly that much thought and that much discussion, I stopped taking The Pill.

Now this was a time when my friends and I were getting older, at least by viable egg standards, and many of them had been trying absolutely everything to get pregnant; pills, shots, hanging upside down in California - anything and everything. I assumed it would either probably never happen or we'd just forget about it or...something...

Well, counting back it took two whole weeks. Two weeks after I stopped using birth control I got pregnant.

And I knew it, the very second I got pregnant. I even said so (kind of a killjoy in the moment) and he didn't believe me, of course. Withing two weeks I had heartburn and was starting to turn what my ob/gyn called an "unbelievable shade of green". I even peed on the stick and it was negative, but I still knew that Sasha was happening.

No one believed me, particularly my poor friends at work who were going through the paces of trying and trying with no luck. But one morning, about five weeks into this thing, I woke up at 3:00 am, walked to Duane Reade and bought another pregnancy test. And this time it was a plus.

Wow. I woke him up and showed him the stick and he mumbled something like, "So I guess this means we're not going to Europe then," and fell back to sleep. Well, not me, baby, I was psyched and ready to go shopping for maternity clothes at 4:00 am.

Pregnancy was a trip. For the first three months I was sicker than sick. I worked in Midtown at the time, at a search firm. You could find me trudging up the Avenue in my little designer suit, barfing into one of the plastic bags I had stashed in my purse specifically for that purpose, and plopping down on curbs to try and catch my breath. Everyone from doormen to bikers would stop to ask if I was all right.

But the second trimester was absolutely glorious - my hair and nails grew like wildfire, my skin glowed with flowing hormones and I felt so beautiful - loved that big tummy thang, waddle and all.

Then I hit 26 weeks and went into pre-term labor on the beach in Southampton. Sasha was over-anxious to get her show on the road, but viable life and full development doesn't really happen until at least 37-40 weeks, so after bedrest, pills and several tries at the med-pump, I wound up in Lenox Hill Hospital for 10 weeks on anti-labor medication. They held Sasha in until 37 weeks, at which point she practically crippled me on her way out, but out she popped indeed, sunny side up with her eyes wide open, looking right at me.

And eyes wide open, looking right at me is how she still is, 15 years later. She is one of the bravest people I know, having faced not only her own life with unabashed clarity, but mine too. She has had a lot to live through in her short time on this planet - a mother who emotionally abandoned her for a time to horrific post-partum depression; being primarily raised by a bi-polar father who, after years of being there abandoned her, overnight, to a catastrophic illness that left him disabled and bitter; a set of parents who mixed like oil and water, screaming at each other, only to tell her that no, they were not really fighting, they were just a "passionate" family; the uproarious end of her parents' marriage; losing her upper middle class existence to barely making ends meet on welfare; fighting her own battle with depression, fibromyalgia and teenage alienation - to name more than a few.

But there she sits, right now, in front of me, doing her homework, maintaining her straight A's, petting her cat, listening to her headphones, laughing at my paltry jokes, being embarrassed by me in front of her friends, living as a beautiful, bountiful expression of her creator.


She is my number one power of example in resilience. For a long time, she was my only reason to get up in the morning - more than one woman has been saved by being a mother, so I've been told - but because of her fresh outlook and her undeniable life energy, I have been given the gift of being able to recognize my own zest for life, as well. And begin to live for me too.

I truly believe she chose me, I do. And for that, I'm incredibly grateful.

Better A Used Sofa Than A Used Me

I used to live with an Arab. He worked as a pilot for the government, or so he told me. Although he never said WHICH government, I don't think it was ours, as we used to vacation in places like Syria and Libya. And other places where I was told not to leave the hotel.

Didn't I find this suspect? Hey. They were nice hotels.

Oh yeah, and then there was that strange time I was cleaning out the closet and found a loose grenade. That was suspect, even to a less-than-conscious me.

I lived with this man for six years in my twenties. The reason we lasted so long was that he was out of town nine out of twelve months of the year. Even I could maintain a "relationship" for three months a year.

But those three months were hard, because he couldn't drink. And that's pretty much all I did from sun up to...sun up again. I mean, he would have a beer and a half and start to giggle like a little girl. And then we'd have to go home, which was, at that time, nothing short of excruciatingly painful for me.

And yet I would suck it up and try to stay home and wear an apron and learn to cook Lebanese. Oy. Today about all I can cook is a mean piece of toast.

And so this went on for years, three months of bizarre domesticity and nine of what I then thought was cool cosmopolitanism but was really pretty much just drug-induced oblivion. Lots of stories to tell, some of them fun and funny but many of them simply stupid and dangerous.

It didn't end pretty. I became a victim of domestic violence once my life's cat got out 'o the bag and began to live a life filled with dread and horribly low self-esteem, putting up with things I would personally physically drag someone else out of today - or call someone who could.

And then, one day, I got sober. Certainly not that simply, but I've got other posts about that, and this one's about taking back what was and still is mine. Me.

About a week later I got a sponsor, and together we decided that I would tell my guy that he had until my 90th day to pack up his stuff and find another place to live.

Oh yeah, at this point he lived in the living room and I in the bedroom. Except when we fought, when he lived anywhere he freaking wanted to.

And so. He did not believe me. And on my 90th day, my sponsor Judy came over with two other women and a locksmith and we changed the locks. And we waited. And he came home and tried to stick his key in the lock and...

Wow. Luckily I knew his pride was waaaaaaaay too powerful to ever allow him to show up again, particularly when others had witnessed his demise. One of them being the locksmith. Poor guy didn't make it out of there before what's-his-name came home. He looked more frightened than the four of us huddling on the sofa.

Was this then end of the Arab? Nay. About a month later he called me, sweet as could be, wanted to make sure I was okay, getting along well in sobriety - and asked if he could come over and pick up his stuff. All I could think was that I really didn't want to be there while he did this, so I said, sure, I'll leave the door open between 3:00 and 5:00...

Say what?! you shout on my behalf!

And so, that's how I ended up living in an empty apartment. He wiped me out, of course, and I went back to sleeping on a mattress on the floor, collecting discarded furniture off the street at night from the Upper East Side to refurnish my abode.


Yet another chapter in Nancy's Book of Gratitude.

Schmalentine's Day

Such Hallmark-incited pressure, yes? What are they calling it this year, "Single Awareness Day"?

Please. Do you know how many times I've been broken up with either on or right before Valentine's Day? Oy, the drama! How could The One do this?!

Well he couldn't. He wouldn't.

This year I'm not in a relationship and after spending the day listening to several of my friends (including myself for a good half hour) lament their singlehood, I have decided to spend my evening in gratitude. And you know why I'm grateful?

Because I'd rather be alone than in a relationship that's not working. Been there, done that.

There's plenty of time to find someone I want to shave my legs again for. For the time being, I think I'll just practice loving Me.

A Rad Life

The last five years have been about surviving. Surviving the shock, ravaging effects and aftermath of toxic illness, both physical and emotional. Surviving the drain of every penny of life savings, surviving unemployment, surviving foreclosure. Surviving a profound shift in what I see as "doing the right thing" in surviving long lines at the Department of Social and Health Services to collect my welfare and food stamps ("never in the history of our family has anyone stooped to living on the dole!"). Surviving the onset of deep humility in the asking and taking of help from friends and the disappointment of being outright refused by family. Surviving the separation and end of marriage and all the attendant complications that arise in becoming a single mother with a mean and bitter ex. And so on, and so on.

I've always been a pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps kind of woman, having been raised by a backyard-bra-burning feminist, and have taken great pride in this. And while I certainly still respect her, and thank the gods that I could tap into her and all her strength and stamina when I've needed to, I think it's time for Wonderwoman to punch out for a nice long lunch.

It's time to stop surviving and start living.

What do I mean by this? Hell if I know, but you can be sure I'm committed to finding out. My guess is that it means lowering my shoulders and letting down my ever-vigilant guard. Stepping out of the well-protected bunker that is my comfort zone and taking new and different chances, learning new and different things. Seeing my life as it already is through a slightly different bend in the prism, maybe a pretty one this time. I mean, I'm always the one praying to see what's already right in front of my face, right?

I remember when Sasha started Kindergarten and they announced her little group as belonging to the Class of 2015. I thought that was hilarious, like 2015 was some unreachable, George Jetson kind of place in the outer reaches of time and space.

Well, hello 2012, you three-years-before-Sasha-graduates little year. You sure have caught me by surprise, creeping up so fast, but I swear, I'm ready for ya - and anything GOOD you have to dish out!

And There She Is AGAIN

I don't like her.

How childish does that sound? But it's true, I don't. I met her 12 years ago when I moved to Seattle and my first impression has had staying power. She was at a dinner where my then-husband and I were. She caught a glimpse of David and totally wigged out on him. Apparently she is certain that he did something unforgivable when he was six.

Who didn't?

I didn't see her again until a couple of years later, at a meeting of all places, and she was glad to know that I wasn't happy. That's exactly what she said to me.

I don't like her.

I managed to not see her for several more years somehow and then, bam, there she is again. Now she is smack dab in the middle of my circle of relatively new friends. And they like her.

She's one of those people who has to sit yogically on a public sofa, making every place her living room, stretching and writhing as others are talking, needing to be at least the visual focus in a room. And I cringe as I can feel my head physically shaking back and forth - stop it Nancy - wondering what my problem is.

I don't like her.

She came up to me a couple months ago and told me that she was now ready to be my friend, that she felt she had had enough time to watch me and listen and that she decided that she would see if we would work.

What?

I hadn't even realized she was there. And then I began to see her around. And every time I looked up she was looking at me. Then she told me, after calling me once in a month, that she had decided that she was going to give up on us being friends. It just wasn't going to work for her.

What?

And now she's everywhere. Every time I turn around, seemingly every place I go, there she is. And she's still watching me. What's my lesson here? Am I losing it?

No. She's just become painfully obvious. You know, I don't NOT like many people. George Bush for one. Ann Coulter, Glenn Beck. Maybe Mike. I strive for compassion and understanding, trying to cut the next guy (and myself) and break.

But I just don't like her.

Do I need to?

When To Take A Water Pill

Yes, you read your watch right. It really is 3:51 in the morning. And I'm having a panic attack.

I woke at 3:00 feeling happy. I don't usually wake with a specific feeling, other than perhaps abject terror from a nightmare. But happy? And then it happened. It started with bending my fingers, which wasn't working too well, seeing that I had McDonald fries and cheesecake for dinner last night. What am I, 12? But that's for another post.

The swirling vortex of fear coming up was because my rings felt too tight. And because I ate those freaking fries, my fingers are poofy and, right now, yes Nancy, only for now, I can't get them off. No, they won't budge - I CAN'T GET THEM OFF!

I'm claustrophobic, I panic. I tell myself, "They will come off tomorrow, go back to sleep" then I hear the "What's the big deal, woman! Breathe!" Well, she's not very nice. Then the demon on my shoulder comes up and it's all over but the shouting: "What if you can NEVER get them off?!" and "Is the fire department open at this hour to CUT the mothers off? Maybe I could get in the car and drive around until my hands freeze again and then I can just slip them off, yeah, take a water pill, wake your daughter, call your sponsor" yada yada yada. I am pale and sweaty and pacing in circles by now - WTF - now standing in the bathroom running my hand under cold water, trying to reason with myself to no avail, when I finally fall to my knees and pray for relief - puleez dear god, grant me relief from the bondage of whatever the HELL had the nerve to make me wake up happy...

And so I'm writing. Here's the happy story:

Last Friday, for whatever new/old reason, I found myself in the position of withstanding yet another tyrannical tirade of texts from my ex - not an exaggeration, 12 texts consisting of the usual: what a low life I am for doing what I did to him (see? I'm pulling on my rings again!) and how could I be such a loser that I cannot even pay my bills without help - all conveyed shorter and much nicer here than they were there.

Another day in the neighborhood, right? I brush it off with, "He's a sick man, he rants, they're just words" and go to my home group. It's a lovely dinner and a lovely meeting with lovely people that I genuinely care about and a good time is had by all.

Saturday. More texts. He's on a roll. I shall ignore him.

Sunday. I wake after only 2 hours of sleep at 4:30am and have to go to work to the all-store holiday meeting. I cry all the way up I-5, seemingly because I don't have any heat in my house or my car, thinking "What a loser life I'm leading," and wonder where this powerful feeling of sadness is coming from. I get to work and have to get it together to give 50 people a store tour, one of whom ends up vomiting on my shoes, thankfully detracting from my bloodshot, puffy eyes and the lost child look I have on my face. Come on, I'm Manager, buck up!

By Sunday night, when I get to a meditation, gravity's taken over and I'm hang-dog. My self-esteem is down around my ankles and I'm wondering what ever made me think I was all right. What if I contain no real love in my heart at all and have just been faking this good person thing for years? I try to meditate and - finally - feel like I'm going to jump up and scream in the stillness. "I MUST get him out of my life completely! He's a soul-killer!"

After the meditation I attempt to discuss all the reasons why this may not be possible with a friend. Fortunately, this particular friend, who has his black belt in AlAnon, laughs, and reiterates: "So, what you're telling me is that you may be hanging on, not because he gives you the monetary support if you fall, but because he has the POTENTIAL to kinda, sorta, in-a-way, maybe help you out financially?"

Shit. This rings a very ancient bell, yes?

Monday I hike the Loop Trail at Magnolia with one of my very best, most trusted friends. I tell her of my new-found need to clean out the rest of the old Falsbergian closet but that I don't know how or where to start. And she takes the metaphor to its fullest extent - "You're the one who told me, Naaaannnncyyyy, that anything you've ever let go of has claw marks all over it. Well, I think your house has claw marks all over it."

And I finally heard it. I felt immediately like I had lost 20 pounds.

And so. I've decided that the very late mortgage check I just mailed, on the 21st of the month, will be my last. I'm done fighting, done hanging on with every claw-marked penny I have. I believe that it's time to walk away from my house, the last vestige that ties me financially to my former life. It's time to put an end to a very traumatic, excruciating era.

Why have I hung on so long? I ask myself the same thing now. But until Monday I thought I was hanging on for the noblest of reasons: to give my daughter at least ONE thing that she could look back on as stable in her childhood. Today, I'm thinking that may well be bullshit.

No furnace, deferred maintenance, skyrocketing utility bills...I'm so over comparison shopping for toilet paper. It's not that I can't do it, oh I've proven I can withstand just about anything (except tight rings, keep writing, keep writing) but maybe, just maybe it's time to withstand some comfort and relief.

I am, of course, staying until the sheriff shows up, but I shall heretofore attempt to take care of some deferred Nancy and Sasha maintenance, look for a place to live and turn it over. I haven't been brought this far to get dropped on my ass now, and besides, I know way too many people to ever live on the street, right?

And so I woke up happy. What's with the rings? I'll keep you posted.

Professional Deprivationalism

Exes are usually exes for a reason, yes?

Tonight mine shared with me that he fears that I may be potentially dishonest and greedy - that he fears that my "greed may outweigh my morality."

Funny, just today at my just-above-minimum-wage job, during my usual ramen-laden half-hour lunch with my other underemployed colleagues, my mind kind of wandered off into a sort of dream-like state, trying to picture myself in a job that might fit me and my particular talents better. What would that be?

Well, I'm not terribly creative today, because usually when a hint of job dysfunction hits, like during the Tuesday morning manager's meeting, I dream up things like Tsarina of a Small Island Nation or Royal Cuban Cigar Smoker. Or Aging Backward Specialist.

However, all I could come up with today, ironically, was Professional Deprivationalist.

I mean, I'm really getting GOOD at this deprivation thang, and I found myself aghast at the suggestion tonight that perhaps it's all in my head! Let's see here if I fit the qualifications, shall we?

1. I: a) sleep in my jacket and wool socks, b) because I don't have a furnace and c) can't pay my electric bill, which is so high because, d) I use space heaters because, b again) I don't have a furnace.

Deprivation or Greed (circle one)

2. I: a) can't pay my mortgage this month because, b) I make teensy little wages, which were used already used up, c) getting my car out of the tow yard this morning for, d) parking 2 inches too far toward California (south) and, e) I bought more than one bag of Halloween candy because I live in a, d) house that costs too much in a, e) nice neighborhood with, f) a lot of kids.

Deprivation or Greed (circle one)

3. When I open my cupboard to make lunch (or dinner) I find it filled with a) rice and b) ramen and c) pasta and d) cold cereal. I do, however, have milk to go with the cereal and soy sauce and even tomato sauce. Keeping it honest here.

3. I: a) shop for my fashion-forward clothing at b) Goodwill and c) Value Village and every once in awhile d) Target, and if life is smiling down on me e) the outlets at Tulalip.

Deprivation or Greed (you know what to do)

4. I: a) haven't been out of Seattle in b) over six years, except that I travel often to c) Lynnwood to d) work for the aforesaid employer of e) underemployed geniuses.

There's more, of course (isn't there always?) but I think I've painted just a little corner of my overall picture pretty well. The Gods of Exterior Abundance have not visited of recent, but I want you to know that I don't really need them. Because I am a Professional Deprivationalist in waiting. But not for them. Just for the right situation to come along where I can get paid for my talent. Any ideas, please feel free to drop me a line.

HOWEVER, I want to say briefly here that November, Gratitude Month, starts tomorrow, and here's where I think I may actually come off greedy. I believe, after my convo with my ex tonight, I will hereby commit to post one thing per day for the entire month of November that I am thankful for. And of those, I have more than I could ever begin to list.

Gutter Girl

She knows to take a left as she pours herself out onto the sidewalk. She does this almost every night, although she doesn’t know this for another year, when she finally hits rock bottom.

Tonight’s going to be one of them nights, she thinks to herself as she attempts to turn and head north up Second Avenue, overshooting her mark and almost swerving left down 78th. Her bag flies out and hits the building, almost knocking her over, yet she rights herself and stops for a moment to smooth her hair back, as though messy hair is what has caused her to lose her balance.

She’s got a job ahead of her here, and she knows it. The goal is to walk from one of her usual haunts, Mumbles Tavern, on Second Avenue and 78th Street, up the 11 blocks to 89th, where home is. This is proving difficult. She fusses in her head - it must have been that last damn vodka the bartender bought her. She only had four, or maybe five, but nightlife has become rather unpredictable of late as her drinking has, again as yet unknown to her, entered another phase – where one is too many and ten is not enough.

Shit, I wish I could stop at Elaines Pub and score some coke so I could give this buzz some legs, she thinks. But even she knows she’s too far gone for that, having just walked out of the bar in mid “conversation” as she felt a slur coming on – highly unacceptable. Let’s just make it home.

So off she goes in her little Wall Street suit, high heeled shoes and designer bag, swerving up Second Avenue, doing her very best to track and follow the line down the middle of the sidewalk – oops, off to the left, back on line – ugh, left again, what the hell is wrong with me tonight? Maybe I’ll just light a cigarette and take a breather.

Not realizing where she’s stopped to dig into her handbag for cigarettes, she feels her right foot slip forward, and it seems like only a moment in the dark, but apparently it’s not, because when she opens her eyes there she lies, right cheek on the asphalt, palms down. Crap.

Not knowing her up from her down, she can vaguely hear water running and wonders what’s what. She finds a way to prop herself up on one elbow to get her bearings, only to focus in and see that she must have fallen off the curb and is actually lying on her side in the wet gutter, somewhere between Mumbles and home.

Terrific, she thinks. I’m so tired already and now this, what a hassle. Can you imagine what I’m going to feel like tomorrow?! Stupid bartender and his buy-backs.

This thought is quite annoying and, propped up on her Tahari-suited elbow and still lying on her side in the gutter, she decides that now is as good a time as any to get that cigarette up and running. She needs a break, she thinks, and a smoke to help her straighten up and decide how to get home from here, since she spent her last buck at the bar.

She lights up as she ponders off: What is it about me that makes things just not work out? I’m just trying to pull my weight like everyone else, trying to get by, yet you don’t see them all upset all the time, having to fight to figure things out all on their own.

She feels a victim of circumstance, she’s frustrated as hell and wants to be beamed home off of Second Avenue. I wish I could think of something, anything, a new business idea or a different place to move to, she thinks.

Then she spots them, down the block on Second Avenue. It’s a beautiful, clean cut couple in sweats, holding hands, walking their dog toward her corner, with their copy of the Late Edition of the Sunday New York Times under his arm, talking to one another and smiling. He runs ahead with the dog and she throws her head back and laughs, about to try to catch up. To the girl in the gutter, this looks like it’s happening in slow motion, through the golden-lit, vasaline-filtered lens of a shampoo commercial, like it’s set in a field of gently blown daisies instead of on the dirty streets of the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Wow, look how lovely she is, look how normal and successful her life is, she must be really, really nice. I mean, look at her flowing hair and her jogging clothes, she’s got to be really nice.

Then, it’s like the bright light from the commercial has just entered her head and she’s “stumbled” upon an idea, THE idea – see there’s a reason for everything right?

Nice! That’s it! That’s the ticket – maybe I’ll try just being nice. I’ve tried everything else, intelligent, sassy – even French! How about nice? I can do that! Right on!

But no. She remembers she’s already tried that once, when she was going out with Robert the pilot. She tried pulling off nice with him and he didn’t buy it – hell, neither did she. Something about how much she went out at night or how crazy she got. She’s just not nice, is all. Oh, well.

Again, exhaustion washes up over her, and her head drops. And suddenly it feels like the sound has just blown back on in her head, pushing through her thoughts with the volume turned up. There’s a taxi horn blaring, with some guy yelling at her to get off the road. And an arm is trying to pull her up out of the gutter.

Oh, come on, there’s no need to pull on my suit, really, I was just looking for my lighter and went over a little too far. Yes, well, I was down there for awhile, but hey, that’s none of your business, asshole! Let me go! Yeah, you – get your hands off me!

Jeez, some people just don’t know how to mind their own fucking business!

She rights herself and, without brushing the blood off her face or the wet gravel off her clothes, she aims herself back up Second Avenue and continues across the street, searching yet again for that elusive middle line in the sidewalk she is to follow that will bring her home.

And then she fades to blackout. Again.

Never Forget

If I may so bold, a re-post from 9/11/10:

Nine years ago this morning, I was driving to work in the dark with the radio on, thinking that the morning drive shock jocks have gone too far this time with their joking around: planes have flown into the WTCs. Not possible. But - I did feel a panic in my chest and flew the rest of the way to work.

When I got there, I found out it was true. I stood and watched the towers burn on TV, speechless, while those around me ran commentaries of their own - some between each other, others aloud and to themselves. How can this happen?

The minute I knew it was for real, I knew it was no mistake. Having lived in New York City for 25 years and flown in and out of it numerous times, I knew that the airspace above the island of Manhattan was tightly controlled and tuned to a fine art. That this could be no accident.

And then they fell...and were no more. I unknowingly sat down on the floor and prayed like I had never before prayed.

And I knew that any chance that anyone had of getting out was gone. Having previously worked in WTC Two, above the crash site, I wondered how many of my former mates had fatefully had the misfortune of showing up for work early, or even on time, that morning. I was later to find out that it was many. Too many to bear.

At work, we watched with the sound off, thank god, because I was to later go home and stun myself into trauma with the playing and replaying and replaying of the entire catastrophe - like many, I couldn't tear myself away.

Sitting here with my candle burning next to me, I feel the shock and extraordinary sadness of that morning again. I hope that, out of respect for those fallen, they're not replaying it over and over again today.


But most of all, as I get ready to do my daily sit, I pray that the world has not gone mad - what with all the blind belief in the shallowness of FOX soundbites and ignorant religious hatred. Those who downed the Twin Towers represented madness, not Islam, and their insanity should have gone down with them. It only lives on through Qu'ran-burning fanatics and bigoted persons who show they don't really believe in the freedoms we've fought so vehemently for by denying a simple community center within blocks of Ground Zero.

In the soft light of today, remembering 9/11, I have to say that I am so profoundly grateful for the luxury of my sophisticated problems. My gorgeous and talented daughter. My devoted and sometimes pain-in-the-ass dog. And in the simple yet profound idea that I have the ability to hope for a future. Any kind of future.

I'm Ergless for Him

How do you like that? I just realized today that I've been dumped. It didn't occur to me until now because I'm usually the dumper, not the dumpee (maybe because I tend to dump right before being dumped) but I guess if you don't hear from someone for a month, you're done, yes? Here's the sitch:

So I walk 3 miles a day around a lake for various reasons, most of them neuroses induced, but you know, some in the name of health. For several years I see this skater-man who grooves to his own beat. At first I think he's somewhat bizaare because he's around my age and moving like one of the Central Park teen brigade, minus the spot-on rhythm and so I ignore him completely. Then, sometime around Spring of this year I see him have some kind of "spiritual" awakening (Spring, go figure) and his groovin totally turns my head. Somehow it's become extremely attractive.

Now, all of a sudden I must meet this man, in the biggest way, and I'm itching with quasi-obsession - but how? He never slows down! My daughter suggests stalking him to find out where he parks, but as I consider this I find it not only to be too creepy, even for me, but impossible, because I can't flippin' catch up with the guy!

My friend tells me to hand him a business card as he wheels by with my name and phone number on it - I find this horrifying, even for me, and rule it out immediately. However, after a couple of weeks of yearning, I decide that this is exactly what I must do. I write something like, "I like your skating, would you like to have coffee sometime - Nancy 206-555-5555" and after carrying it around stuffed in my back pocket for about a week, finally I see him coming around the corner and, although I feel enough anxiety to incite a stroke, I hand it off to him.

I'd love an instant replay of this moment, just to see what kind of face I had on. Or maybe not.

Anyway, he stops, we talk a bit, both of us quite stunned by my brazen hussiness, I find out he's an engineer (how functional, I think) and, of course, totally different than anything I had imagined, yet I kind of like this. We get a little info, find the little curiosity spark going on, etc.

Okay, flash forward - four months worth of at least twice a day contact, twice a week seeing each other, meeting my kid, seeing my house, fixing my lawn mower, etc., etc. and -

And what?

Nothing. One day, nothing. No call, no see, no household implement maintenance.

Three and a half weeks later I get a text. Something like, "I've been blah, blah, blah. How are you?" I'm well, thank you.

Another week goes by and I text him something about getting together, just because I'm baffled. He texts back. It's chilly, short. He basically just tells me when he'll be skating the lake.

Like what, I'm going to chase him around the lake? Didn't I already do that last Spring?

What happens to men? Where do they go when they disappear? In telling this story to women friends, not one of them was surprised - outraged, maybe, but not surprised. Every one of them had a story - this has happened, numerous times, to all of us. He's there, then he's not.


What I used to do is wonder why: why did he disappear, was it something I did or didn't do, why would someone just disappear without a word? I have found this serves no purpose, because in reality, it doesn't matter why. No one, no man, woman, friend, lover, no one should just be there one day and not the other and think it's okay to disappear. It's simply not nice.

And so, not another erg of my energy is going into this one. I'm spending my ergs elsewhere.

I Can Always Shave My Legs Again

I see couples in cars, couples walking down the street hand-in-hand, couples speaking intimately in low voices in restaurants. Of course I do. I'm single. I pray to the gods, swearing that if I ever get the chance again, I will never take my couple-dom for granted, I will show up, I will nurture, I will cherish.


So now I've been "seeing" someone for awhile and we're "taking it slow." We met in public and since then we've always been in public. Always. In other words, I haven't bothered to shave my legs.

Until yesterday. That's right, in the complicated world in which we both live (I have a teen daughter who lives with me, he a son) I actually discovered a time when we might actually be able to be ALONE. My daughter was going to be at school and we both had the same day off. Empty house, many hours...?

So, pencil it in! Let's get this show on the road - we're adults, right?

Right. We are adults who have lived with and for our kids, shown up for work, put in overtime, paid the bills, grocery shopped, made dinner, gone to school functions, helped with homework, schlepped to the mall and back. And ignored the fact that we have been quite alone as adults, both of us, and have been for a long, long time.

But, hell, opportunity has knocked so...carpe diem. Sure, 9:00's fine.

I get up late, 8:15, and realize that I haven't been off work for over a week - my house is a mess. I run like a mad woman, cleaning what I can and throwing the rest into closets, sweeping the cat fuzz under the furniture. My kid hasn't done her chores, of course, so now I also have to throw the dirty dishes into the oven! It's 8:30!

I hop in the shower and realize that I haven't had the chance to shop for shampoo, crap! But I spot the dog shampoo on a shelf in the bathroom and quickly deduce that it MUST be made out of the same kind of stuff as ours, so how bad could it be?

I soap up and grab for the razor. OMG, it's quite probable that someone other than my kid is going to see my legs for the first time in - ach, don't think about that now, just shave! It's 8:40!

It's my teen's razor. It appears that she's used it somewhere between 150 to 200 times, what with the rust and the dull grey blades. And yet it's all I have, so I shave away. I've only got 20 minutes to get ready - quick, get out of the shower, woman!

Something stings a bit, but I don't have time - I grab what I can to wear, a skirt and a cute little shirt and I blow my hair dry - oy! It feels like hay - oh yeah, the dog shampoo. Shoot. Well, that's okay, I can just pull it back with a headband, even though it's sticking straight out, but only on one side, hell, it's got to be okay because it's 8:50 and I have to put on makeup - oops, the mascara's old and I got me some major clumps...let me just try to wipe that off...oh, no, that's his car! He's five minutes early, oh blast it...I wipe off the clumps as best I can without the mirror and dash out for the front porch. Casual, girl, you're cool, no big deal!

He gets out of the car looking a bit frazzled himself, what with the advent of this quickie set-up, forced intimacy situation we've found ourselves in. He walks to the bottom of the stairs, takes me in at the top and stops. "What happened to you?"

"What do you mean?" I squeak, about ready to stroke-out with nervous insecurity.

"There." He points.

I look down to see that my legs look as though a serial killer has tried and failed. Blood is trickling down my very white, razored legs from about 5 different small slashes. Ugh! I make it into the house only to catch my face in the mirror - my expression is like a deer in the headlights, I have smeared one of my cheeks with mascara blobs and my hair looks like the backside of a jackass on a windy day.

But hey, we've conveniently found some alone time...right?

We hug. He sits. I sit. It's quiet. The conversation touches lightly on politics, religion - and turns very quickly to our mutual hunger for...lunch?

We high-tail it outta there, somewhat relieved to be in public again. After all, we definitely know we both love food.

It appears that prowess, for me, can't be scheduled. And that's okay. I can always shave my legs again.

And so I remain: Uncoupled on North 82nd Street.

I Am A Lady, I Am!

Today I had a discussion I've been avoiding for a couple of years: divorce. The marriage lasted 15 years, the separation four, and the discussion today lasted just over two hours, which felt more like two and a half years, and left me feeling like I had just been worked over by an Eastern European personal trainer who had a secret vendetta to settle. A cardio-vascular nightmare romp through the minefields of wartime Yugoslavia with someone whispering in your ear, "you are responsible for the death of our entire country and you deserve not to die but to live on through all the agony this big palooka can dish out." I was left breathless.

A couple of hours ago I half believed him, with all the attendant tears, shame and self-loathing. What kind of monster am I? But then I remembered I was hungry and that I will believe just about anything when I haven't eaten. A chicken caesar saved my sanity today.

That and a little time with those who love me.

Over the past four years I have been psychically kicked in the stomach more times than I can count - humbled to the ground in what, at the time, seemed like the most bewildering ways - and found that every time, every single time, people came out of the woodwork to help me back up again. Many times, people that I was only peripherally aware of - mainly because most of my time and energy was spent trying to pretend to myself that all was fine, that I could settle for what I had if I only tried hard enough. To not have needs or wants or a life that was worth getting out of bed and stretching for.

Well, today I stretch when I get up. A lot. And I will continue to do so until I get all that's out there for me. And although that little whisperer still exists in the bad moments, at least they've become bad moments and are no longer bad days or weeks. Because I know that had I allowed myself to stay stuck that's what they'd be, and more - bad years.

And today proved something else - it's not the divorce that I've been avoiding, it's the fear of discussion of it with someone who doesn't love me and, from what I know of love today, has never known how.


Which leaves me tonight with a feeling of strength and gratitude. I'm strong enough to do what I need to, to have what I want, and to still be able to wish him well.

It is what it is, I am who I am, and for that I'm grateful.

Less Distraction, Please

Yesterday I had a dream, and I had it while I was wide awake. A vision? Perhaps!

I've never allowed myself to dream, whether it seemed something attainable or not. What I do know now that I've had this extraordinarily vivid "dream" is how deprived I've been of hope. Strange to wake up in mid-life (as if I'm living to 100, right?) and find how much I've avoided wanting.

It's simple, really. You want, then you hope, then you perhaps achieve - or you are disappointed. But simple itself has always either alluded me or appeared very frightening. Pose the existential and I'll ponder and wax on for hours, days. Ask me to wash a dish or balance my bank accounts and I'm out the door.

I remember being in the hospital when I was 20 and they asked me who I wanted to be when I grew up. I said no one, that I never wanted to be here. They asked me what I wished to be, what I wanted to be if I could be anything. I said I never thought about it. They said that's impossible. I said not if you're not committed to being here in the first place.

This was a response to an ongoing thread for me. I would ask my mother when I was very small, "I don't understand - why do I have to be here?" and she would look at me, puzzled and somewhat irritated (this came up often) and say, "Where? In the kitchen?"

She didn't get it. Until much later, when I wound up in the hospital.

Alcohol and drugs filled all the necessary slots in for me for a long time after that - the wanting slot, the hoping slot and the achieving slot. They pretty much took up all my time and energy. The problem with them was that in the achieving of what I wanted, I never got what I hoped for and was alway and ever disappointed. Over and over, day in and day out. But I chased them down indeed, as far as to the very gates of hell.

I did "things" during all this slot-filled time, climbed corporate ladders, fell off them, dated, lived with someone, etc., but these were not the main attraction. My chemical busy signal came first and foremost and I was not to be distracted. If I had to be here, let me be as far out of here as I possibly can be.

Then comes rehab, then comes recovery and recovery and recovery...a day at a time forever. But for many years I stayed busy with other things, some addictions, some just other distractions. Compulsive spending, obsessive relationships, overeating, undereating, rah, rah, rah. My closest friend used to say, "Nancy, stop distracting yourself from yourself." But still, I could not want and I could not dream. I was still frightened. Of what? Of achieving? Of disappointment?

Of committing to being here.


So when this dream came to me yesterday - and not only came to me, but actually appealed to me - I was quite smitten by its arrival. Finally, I have an answer to what I dream about. And while there may be more and different dreams, this is my first one, my virgin voyage into the exposition of what the real heart of my matter is. Both to others - but mostly to myself.

Simple? Yes. Frightening? Not at all.

I Have A Dream

I had a dream this morning.

I have met, gone out with and fallen in love with someone I don't quite know yet.

I have received my portion of the settlement of the lawsuit, somewhere in the neighborhood of one to two million dollars. I pay off my house. I invest.

As I continue to work, now part time, I research and enroll in college. I work, I study, I learn, most particularly that I am in love with learning and am eternally thankful for my chance to finally be a part of it all.

I write and write and write.

I am healthy without being deprived. I let go of my self-consciousness and self-obsession and physically become the person I am meant to be.

Life unfolds and I am acutely and gratefully present and accounted for.

I had a dream this morning and was fully awake for it.


I had never had a dream before this dream. I had never allowed it.

And so. Finally. I have a dream.

Where's My Dessert?!

Sasha, my 14 year old daughter, is all of a sudden having trouble with school. She's been a straight A student since Kindergarten and is now getting Cs and, can we whisper this? Ds. Is this puberty?

No. She's bored. They call me from her school shrink's office for a discussion of this alleged boredom to tell me that "Sasha would benefit greatly from a private school education." Really? Sounds like a capital idea. Do they take food stamps?

As I sit here and ponder this, I start to think about my own situation and find that the parallels are astounding. Over the past [mumble mumble] years I have visited the offices of several career counselors and coaches, taken many assessments, and each time walked away with pretty much the same findings. That I should really be sitting in a CEO situation, me having "big picture" vision, intuitive strategic insight, and individual and group coaching talents.

Well, this is just great! Now I know what to do with my life! I'll just go and apply for CEO somewhere and give lots of references of friends and colleagues who believe the same about me, the number being many. I should be making six figures by the end of the.....

Not so fast, okay? There's that ladder you have to climb. And you have to sit for a while on each rung, right? And what's happened to me, as I see it now, is that, while I'm great at the top, I'm not so good at the quarter-way mark. Them rungs is slippery and sticky and honestly, I'm not too good at them. Which is where I find myself again, for the umpteenth time. Stuck on a rung, wondering why I suck at my job, don't understand what's going on and am bored to death.

Now, I know what my boss should do. The expression of this insight, however, does not make me very popular, not with my boss nor with my peers. I should be doing my own job, right? But my job is not holding my interest and cannot be done to its finest extent unless my boss does what I believe I know he should.

So now what?

It's like my kid, who could really be teaching high school math but is in 8th grade - we both have to buckle down and do what's right in front of us, do it to the best of our abilities and stay present.

Blast it, it's that present moment thing again! The spiritual nature of life being that the "magic's in the moment," that if you do what's right in front of you and be present in that moment, so many opportunities can present themselves in that "now" that you may miss seeing them while dreaming off into the "what ifs."



ARGH!! So much work. Screw dinner. I just want dessert.

Here They Come Again

Every year on the day before Thanksgiving I begin to feel as though I'm coming undone. And every year I wonder why. Most years it's taken until the second week in January for me to put it together, that it's the holidays and that it's practically hardwired into my person to "BELIEVE" and be let down, but this year I actually woke up and knew right away - shit, here it comes again. While this early realization and awareness may mean I could be getting "better" it doesn't make it feel less real.

I awoke every hour on the hour last night to my new cat sitting on my head, mewing for reassurance, and next to my daughter, who sleeps as though she's a practicing Olympic gymnast, her flying elbow jabbing the insecure kitty in the face. We're all sleeping in my bed these past few days because we still don't have a working furnace, thus we live in two and a half rooms of our house while the freak-to-Seattle-snow swirls about outside. And all I could think was, "jeez, no wonder people drink."

And then, "maybe if I just smoked pot..." After that it was, "If I could just dig my car out and make it to the bus station, I'd head for Tennessee or Kentucky, change my name to Pearl and become a waitress at a truck stop." And finally, knowing that I could never get away with any of it, I come to the big one, "My gravestone will read simply, "'She Endured.'"

My question to myself today is, why can't I just let myself be? Why can't I just clean the house and read a book and knit a scarf like the rest of my neighborhood? I just feel like I've got so much work to do before I can even begin to catch up on being normal - so I don't know where to start to get it together at all.

So this is what I've come up with for this morning - ten things to be grateful for:

Sasha, sobriety, warmth, Diva, coffee, income, friends...come on Nanc...health, my computer...books. Antidepressants, when they work.

That's eleven. I'm going back to bed.

Polly Who?

My Last Date - by Nancy Jordet

I met this guy a while ago, at a party of a friend of mine. We connected in a very big way, talked for a couple of hours straight that night, went out a few times, had deep talks and light conversations, had fun. By last night I was anxiously giddy about what was going to happen next, but willing to take it however it presented itself.

Right.

He comes to pick me up at a meeting, where I am secretarying in front of a group of about 80. He walks in and brushes the back of my neck lightly with his fingertips, a slight blush to his face, sits in the back and smiles my way often through the next hour. It's sweet, and publicly so. So much so that a friend of mine sitting close to me leans over and says, "Nancy, I don't know who the guy in the back is, but he looks like he's really into you." Awwwwww....

After the meeting he comes up and hugs me, strong and close, whispering lightly in my ear how happy he is to see me again - let's get out of here.

We leave, sit in the car catching up on what's happened in our lives since last we spoke, taking our time, deciding to see a late movie at the Crest. The American with George Clooney. Of course the movie opens post-coitally, with a nude woman kissing Geo's ear. My guy, let's call him something...how about Bark? Okay, Bark leans his fabulously large and very male shoulder in toward mine and we rest side-by-side against each other through the movie, both laughing at the same inappropriate times, making fun in all the right spots of this supposedly Euro-noir film. A good one to be sure, but really contrived in parts. During the sex scenes, Bark's leg approaches mine and, looking down, I swear you can actually see the heat waves coming off us as off asphalt in the desert sun...

Okay, not really. Nonetheless.

It's....hot. We stay after the movie, through the credits, after the lights come up, after the theatre's empty, after the last employee comes in and stares us down - just whispering and laughing and having a easy, playful time with each other.

Til it's time to go. Oooooo, I'm thinking. I haven't felt this good with a guy in many, many years. So myself, so real, so female. Wow. I SO deserve this.

We get outside and he checks his phone. He's got a text.

He drops his head and shakes it. It's my roommate, he says. She's not coming home again tonight.

Oh? I say absent-mindedly, half-skipping through the parking lot.

Yeah, I asked her to let me know if she's not coming home from now on because last week we were going to stay home and watch a movie together but she didn't show up and apparently she spent the night with her boyfriend. I was so disappointed.

Oh? I say, paying a bit more attention, slowing down to a walk.

Yeah, he says. We haven't even lived together that long and I want all of her attention. It's crazy. I'm so into her, I've got such a mad crush on her I can barely stand it.

First I say nothing. Then I hear myself say, like in a bit of a squeak, Oh?....and stand still.

Does he catch himself and stop talking? Does he possibly think that perhaps he should be sharing this with another guy friend of his and not with his date? No. He continues on using her name and shares a few other tidbits about her that I don't hear because I feel as though I've been belted in the solar plexus and I am trying as best I can not to lose my so far successfully expressionless face.

We get in the car and for the love of god he won't stop. And what do I do? What codependence has trained me to do - I listen. Then I comment. Poor Bark, I say, it's hard to be lonely, isn't it?

!!??!!

Yes, it is. And this is why he thinks that perhaps the solution for him lies in what she has told him about her own lifestyle - polyamory.

Okay, what? Polly who?

She's polyamorous. She believes the solution to living a life possessed of intimate relationships is in plurality - she has more than one boyfriend and they have more than one girlfriend and they all have more than one boyfriend who have more than one girlfriend....

Polly what? I say. Polymorphous, polycystic, polyurethane? I guess I'm not hip, I have not heard this term yet.

We used to refer to it as free love, yes? Why don't you just drop acid and move into a commune, mofo. But do I say this? No. I still don't know what's just hit me. For I was just a minute ago on the verge of getting what I thought I deserved.

But do I deserve this? No. So after a short schpiel I deliver on the merits of true intimacy, from which I am completely detached as though I am walking through jello and wondering why I am talking at all, I just stop and say - hey, look, I could never do that. I can barely deal with one man at a time - good luck with that. Just don't drink.

We are outside my house at this point and all I want to do is run screaming into the night. But he then hangs his head in apparent angst and says, jeez, he really doesn't know what he wants and something about he doesn't really feel very good about where this is going - when his phone rings.

It's his drunken ex-wife and she's upset.

What planet have I landed on? Has it really only been half an hour since I was so over-the-moon happy?

I've got to go, thanks, it was a good movie, best of luck with your complexities. He leans over to hug me big and it actually looks as though there is possibly a kiss headed my way. Duck!! Done, and I slip out of the embrace and say adios.

Why was I so nice? Why am I always so nice when some guy decides to dis me?

Because my knee-jerk reaction to what I perceive as rejection still lies in wondering what is wrong with me. Unfortunate but true. But the key words are "knee-jerk." Because on reflection, and with a lot of input from loving friends, I can clearly see that it's not something I misread or deserved. It's someone else's mess.

So why am I still so sadly disappointed?

Too Quiet

I'd like to just go to sleep for a week. My reset button feels like it needs that much down time.

A couple of years ago, amidst a flurry of bad life-weather, I became convinced that getting a dog was the answer. Fixated, actually. And I began my search, through private agencies, kennels, online pet sites and finally craigslist. Where I found Gus. He was staring up at me in the picture, this little mutt that looked a bit like a newborn calf, all orange and white with a little pink freckled nose and amber eyes. He was just a couple of weeks old, living right outside of Issaquah on a small "farm." His mom was a breeding greyhound that had had an illicit affair with an unknown neighbor dog and created six pups that didn't really look like any breed you could quite put your finger on. We later guessed some kind of retriever/bully mix.

So we drove out, my friend Dave and I, and met Gus. He was so excited to meet me that he peed all over the place. I knew right away he was mine. Terrified but thrilled, he rode home with me and my friend Dave, laying next to me on the front seat whimpering and shaking. But once he got here, that was it - he had found his people and his home and he settled right in like one of the family.

And that's what we were: a family - me, Sasha and Gus. And we hung out like a family and we ate like a family and we snuggled on the couch and watched TV and read like a family and we sometimes slept in a Gus sandwich. We had group hugs every day. When Gus broke his leg and was in a cast we moved our mattresses onto the floor so he could still sleep with us.

He followed me absolutely everywhere - when I paced, which I do when I write or think, he paced right next to me with his nose stuck in my hand. He did the laundry with me and cooked with me and surfed the web with me. He was always here and almost always looking right at me with them sweet amber eyes.

After Gus turned one and we had a little birthday party at the dog park, he almost immediately began having seizures - the first one, freaky as hell, was to become a regular thing - stiffen, fall down, eyes ablaze and frozen, body clenched and paddling, foam spewing from the mouth, bodily fluids let go, all...until he'd get up, blind and frightened, and pace, walking into walls and furniture, wailing for me to comfort him until it all passed. Which I did.

We went to the vet, who told me it was epilepsy, put him on phenobarbitol and they seemed to stop. Until they didn't again. Then he would have two, three, four in one day. Then more phenobarbitol, now twice a day. Then later up to the highest dose without it becoming toxic. Then adding potassium bromide from the compounding pharmacy. Meds, meds, meds. Three times a day, and if you're a couple hours late, you know it's going to mean another seizure. Or two. Or three. But then you get it down, get into the rhythm and it becomes normal and every day you do it right. But finally, in the end, it doesn't matter anymore if you do it right, the seizures break through it all anyway.

The day before the last day I came home from work and found evidence of at least three grand mal seizures, one big enough to have moved chairs across the floor and leaving a large bruise on Gus's leg. He was frantic, jumping all over me and finally calming enough to conk out. Only to wake up while I was writing that night to have another grand mal seizure next to my chair. And this time he couldn't seem to shake it; he'd walk around and stare at things, his water dish, like he'd forgotten why he was there. We slept with the light on because I was afraid he wasn't done yet.

The next day when I brought him to the vet I was beside myself. Without being able to think about it clearly or articulate it to myself, I knew what had to happen. They said they would keep him there and take blood levels to see if they needed to add a third medication. I went home. They called me and said they couldn't keep Gus there, he was too upset and agitated. When I went to get him, I told them to hold off on the tests, they were very expensive and I knew I had some searching to do on my own. I brought Gus home, where he continued to flop down and sigh and tremor with his head. My baby boy was very sick.

The vet called me back and we talked. Gus's future was not going to be bright. He may look like the beautiful puppy he still was, but he was not going to get better. They could possibly find a combination of medication to hold off most of the seizures, the vet didn't really know, but it would be extremely costly and he would be maxed out, drugged up, most of the time. She said she would be willing to do that, but that she also thought that she wanted to give me permission to think about something else: humane euthanasia. O God.

And so it went. I called Sasha in a haze and we talked about it and she wanted to come home and say goodbye to Gusgus, which she did. Then my lovely friend Michelle came over and said she was coming with me and we went. And they shot him full of valium and it didn't slow down his anxiety and they shot him full again and finally it did and he lay down next to me and put his head on my lap. And then they gave him an overdose of anesthesia. And the vet looked at me with the stethescope to his chest and nodded and I knew it was over. He was so soft and so light and so beautiful and he sailed away.

It's been hard to forgive myself for what seemed like my snap decision that day, but you know, I think that's more about trying to feel some kind of personal control rather than actual guilt or maybe the unrelenting pain that goes with losing your best friend. I tried for almost a year after he got sick to find a happy medium - one where he could still be the goofy pup he was and where I could keep up with taking care of him - but in the end I was told that he was too substantially sick to hope for that. He was not wired well, he was beginning to become brain damaged, it wasn't going to get any better and it would only get worse. I know I spared him having to live through worse, but I also spared myself watching it, and that's where the guilt steps in. But guilt is only a feeling, it's not a fact.

I come from a family that thinks it's stupid to have pets and that if you do, to give and receive affection from them is silly and ridiculous. But I don't. I loved Gussie with all my heart and he knew that. He loved me with all his and I knew that too. Many people never get the chance to have that sacred bond with their pet and I feel bad for them. The love we have for our animals is what makes us even more human than before and to receive it from them? Unconditional love is never something to turn your back on. Never.

And so it's two days later and I'm having trouble eating and I sleep with his collar wrapped around my wrist and the clothes that I was wearing as he drifted out of this world and I think I'm going to lose it regularly. I cry and I walk the streets Gus and I walked together and I'm so, incredibly, profoundly lonely. I'm going to feel better some day soon, I'm sure of it, and I'm going to be able to forgive myself too.

But for right now, it's much, much too quiet here.