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.