The Seven Day Itch...

I have been in a miserable mood. Okay, so the mosquito bites all over my legs and arms aren't helping. I look like a chicken pox victim. And with the calamine lotion all over me? Incredibly fashionable. I know I have always been a favorite of the mosquito. Maybe it's my dark skin? My sweet personality? Whatever it is, the damn mosquitos love me. And they have eaten me up alive. And that's part of what is making me miserable.

The other part? I am frustrated. Frustrated and itchy. I didn't think that NOT getting the job would bother me this much. But something is really getting to me. Who knows. But now I need to figure out what I want to do this fall. See, here's the thing. I don't have any other friends whose husbands' are the presidents of cool ad agencies. Damn. So I am out on my own trying to figure out what I want to do when I grow up. Boo hoo.

Damn.

Oh, and it's raining. Cats and dogs type of rain. Raining. Pouring. The old man is snoring type of rain.

Ick. It's one of those days that you would like to keep the covers over you head and sleep until noon. Stay in your pajamas. Don't answer the phone. Drink a Coke with crushed ice. Flip through a People magazine.

But the reality of it is...I kicked the covers off and was up at 6:30am with Charlotte. I am roasting a chicken. (Apparently, misery loves company AND a roasted chicken) I baked a caramel cake for the school Meet and Greet thing. And we were home from the grocery store by 10:00am. Sigh.

Itchy. Frustrated. Raining.

I know what I need to do (I always do. The curse of having lots of years of therapy), but I don't feel like doing it. I want to sit here, listen to the rain, not think about gainful employment and scratch like crazy.

Damn it feels good.

I will give myself 7 days to feel this lousy. (Usually after 7 days it might develop into a habit and then we all know it takes 21 days to break it...21 days and 12 Steps.) So. Only 7 days to feel this miserable.

And then? Then another day. Another blog.

B-I-N-G-O

I didn't get the job at the ad agency.

Here's the surprising thing (okay, beside the other surprising thing...that I didn't get the job at the ad agency), I am disappointed, but not over the top. I was standing in my kitchen when I got the call on Friday afternoon at 4:30pm...note to hiring managers? Don't call the unlucky loser on a Friday afternoon to deliver the bad news. Personally, I think lowering the BOOM (and that's a clever reference to the ad agency that passed me up, by the way...) can wait until 8:30 on Monday morning, for heaven's sake. But that's just me.

Oh, so back to the Friday afternoon call.

After I received the ('we're going in a different direction') call on Friday afternoon, I admit, my first instinct was to be in a really bad mood OR a really sad mood. Or possibly both. But, since Friday is always Pizza- And-a-Movie-Night at my house...I knew that sad or bad just wasn't going to work.

Damn. Because sad and mad has worked for me in the past.

So, here's what I had to do. I had to think about it. Then I had to briefly run through what happened, just to be sure I had not purposefully screwed it up. Then I had to think about it a little more. And then I had to let it go. And then? I had to hang up the phone and walk out of the kitchen.

Wow. The whole Kubler-Ross grief thing in 90 seconds or less.

And that night, hours later as I climbed into my big bed with my snoring dog, I still didn't feel sad or mad.

Here's the thing. Maybe it wasn't meant to be this time. Maybe it was all simply preparation for something else. Maybe it wasn't the right fit. Okay, maybe I repelled them, but let's not go there. But maybe, just maybe, it wasn't meant to be. Or not to be. I guess that's the question? (Hee hee. Sometimes Shakespeare makes me smile.) But all I know is that I was at square one the other day. All of the gloom and doom of Zen-like heartbreak was closing in again, and it seemed so ready to rear its' ugly and powerful head. And then to not get the job? Wow. All I needed was to have a wicked fight with a best friend, and you have a hat trick, folks. It could have been a bad place.

But for some reason, square one didn't last long. Square one was followed by a wonderful day at the water park with a dying friend. Square one was followed by speaking the truth. Square one was followed by a helping a hottie photographer friend in Greenville, SC. Square one was followed by Natalie and Charlotte running around the backyard with Glo-Sticks and sparklers at a rocking fun End of the Summer Party. Suddenly square one wasn't alone. And since it wasn't alone, it didn't hold the power anymore.

Square one was joined by "B-53, G-28, I-19" and all of the rest of the stuff that keeps me moving forward and at peace with myself. And now? Square one? B-I-N-G-O.

I guess it's all how you look at it.

That's What Friends Are For...

Last November, my friend K., was diagnosed with too many cancers to name. It was stunning news. Both shocking and terrifying. And frighteningly enough before the diagnosis, she never really felt bad. A little bit of a cold. Tired and achy. Tired and achy? How many times have we all felt that way? But sadly, the cancers, like evil, spread fast and furiously and by Thanksgiving, the operations had started.

I remember the day she was diagnosed. November 7, 2005. I was awakened by a phone call at 5:00am. It was K.'s family calling to see if K.'s daughter, KC could come over. K. needed to go to the hospital immediately and the family didn't want KC to see the ambulance take her mother away. It was bad. And they were scared. In my pajamas, I waited for them to come. It was cold and dark outside as I ushered a quiet KC into my house. And as I watched their blue car drive off, I felt something hard shift in my heart.

K.'s sister called me that afternoon. It wasn't good. Cancer. Their parents were coming in from Franklin. K. was to have brain surgery by weeks' end.

I remember the first time I saw her in the hospital. As I struggled and fumbled to say something (anything, anything at all) without breaking down and sobbing, K. seemed calm. Almost serene. She apologized for being sick. She held MY hand. She told me she would be okay. We sat in her hospital room, chatting like two old friends sharing a latte.

But after about an hour, I left K, my head pounding, my heart heavy. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to run. But instead, I stepped into the elevator, pushed the button for the Lobby and sobbed.

I thought about when I first met K. I thought about how she never said an unkind word about anyone. I thought about how she lovingly watched Natalie after school that difficult year I worked at Dan Ryan's For Men. I thought about Natalie and KC, sitting with their heads together, giggling and smiling. I thought about how she loved everything I ever cooked. I thought about her endless devotion to her daughter, KC. I thought about her family, her husband, her sister, her parents. I thought about her bright and fun clothes. I thought about her telephone voice where she would tell me the exact time of her call, 'Rose, this is K.. It's 4:57 on Monday afternoon...'. I thought about the endless times she would take Nat and Charlotte when I needed to go grocery shopping or simply needed 5 minutes to myself. I thought about Girl Scout meetings. I thought about Caesar salads. I thought about my friend, K..

And I sobbed some more.

When I walked out of the hospital the sun was bright, the day was clear, I stepped into my minivan and drove home.

And life moved on.

By the new year, K. was having monthly 6 hour long chemotherapy treatments. And i t didn't look good. But as always, K. remained in good spririts. Smiling. Kind. Patient. Always thinking of others. She amazed everyone with her courage and her thank you notes. She actually wrote thank you notes for every gift, meal and flower she received. And she received many. The community had rallied behind their friend, K. Bringing food to the family, cleaning the house, mowing the lawn. Her Baptist church kicked into high gear, providing the family with neverending support. Even our antiseptic elementary school, so often protected from evil and despair, was rocked into the reality that one of our own was down.

I did my best to do what I could for my friend, K. What I wanted to do was to make all of the cancer go away. But what I could do? I could send her cards or letters at least twice a week. Silly ones. Serious ones. Get well ones. Friendship ones. Anything. I would spend an hour in the card store thinking about how she would feel when she opened each one. Even though we live around the corner from one another, I knew that a card or a letter would be less intrusive than a visit or a phone call. I remembered when my (former or is it 'ex'?) mother-in-law was recovering from colon cancer. Nat and I spent a month in CA helping her. I remembered how one of her favorite things to do was to walk with Nat (at the time, only a year old...) to the mailbox. And then since that walk made her so tired, she would sit on her bed with us and read the mail. She told me that she loved the mail. It made her feel connected to the outside world. So I sent K. cards. Somehow I wanted K. to know that every day I was thinking about her. Every day.

And life moved on.

One cold day in February, a few short weeks after my Zen-Like Heart Break, I sat with K. during one of her chemotherapy treatments. I brought gourmet snacks and lots of water. Another dear friend of hers was there and the three of us ended up talking (laughing and crying) about my heartbreak at 42 years old. Despite being surrounded by cancer patients all getting their regular chemo drips, the three of us were like "ladies of leisure" lunching. At one point our eyes met and K. smiled at me, I held her hand and never loved her more than that moment.

Months passed. We would talk on the phone. I would send cards. Occasionally, I would see her at school, eating lunch with her daughter. She was wearing a sassy wig now and I thought she looked marvelous. She was named Volunteer of the Year at our school. I remember bursting into tears when I saw the marquee in front of the school, with her name on it. Through my tears, I pulled over so I could look at it for a very long time. No one deserved it more. No one. In May I saw her on the Jamestown field trip. But even though she looked tired, she was there. On the 4th grade field trip. Amazing. Everytime I saw K. I felt renewed. Her courage was admirable. She was living her life.

And life moved on.

I never called her when the girls were in Dallas with their father for 44 days. I must have been too busy, cleaning out my house, my heart, my head. I thought about getting together with her, even sent her a card, hoping to get together for lunch. But it never happened.

So when the girls got home this month and all of us finally got together, I was relieved. She forgave me for being a lost friend. And we picked up where we left off. It's easy talking to her. Natural. Honest. We talk about everything. And I think she is glad to talk about other things besides her cancer.

One day she was house and pet sitting for a neighbor who lives right on the water. K. invited me over to enjoy their view. As we walked along the pier, K. walked purposefully; she seemed to appreciate each step. She truly looked at the wooden planks as we walked, and she mentioned things that I would never have even noticed. And then we stood on her friends' pier looking at the Lynnhaven River. The sun was hot, the water was still. And we just stood there in silence. She seemed happy and content. Being with K. that afternoon was easy and peaceful. I never wanted to leave.


Yesterday Natalie, Charlotte, K., KC and I spent the entire day at the water park. It was marvelous. Although in the beginning, it was difficult finding some shade for K., the day was practically perfect. It was wonderful being able to spend some time with K. as we watched the girls frolic in the water, slip down the slides and giggle behind their hands. K. and I ate a million snacks, laughed, people watched and talked...and talked and talked.

And then I asked her if she was scared. I had never asked her before, but at that moment, it seemed like the right time. She looked surprised and said 'Of course.' I told her that she didn't seem scared, she seemed peaceful. She told me that she was terrified, but it was okay. She told me that from now on, she was going to be true to herself. She was going to her beloved Big Sur for a long deserved vacation. She wasn't going to get involved in any pettiness or negativity. She was going to do the things she wanted to do. She was going to appreciate each and every day. She was going to love her daughter and her family. She was going to live. Truly live. At this point in her life? She was going to live. Because life is definitely too short.

As she was talking, I grew thankful for my sunglasses and the din of the park. Because the tears were rolling down my face uncontrollably and I didn't want her to see. I was crying for so many reasons. Sadness, death, love, happiness, acceptance. And I knew as my dear friend, K. sat next to me under a blue umbrella at a noisy water park, she was teaching me about the true meaning of life.

And I know that I am willing to learn.

I love you, K.

Square One

Heartbreak can be a funny thing. Okay, not funny 'haha', but funny, odd. Heartbreak. You think you're okay. You write Blogs about being okay. You tell you're friends you're okay. You tell yourself you're okay. And then out of the blue, you can find yourself back to Square one. And you're not okay. Because Square one? Sucks.

Yesterday I found out (via an email from a family member) that the Zen-like man had surgery. The lymphoma returned. And they had to remove it. They won't know if they got it all for a few days. And last night I couldn't sleep.


Ah, you would think that I could just let this go. It doesn't have anything to do with me. I am not part of his life, nor is he part of mine. But I can't let it go. I tossed and turned all night last night...thinking, thinking, thinking. Wondering. Worrying. Thinking. I didn't sleep. At all. And because the girls are home, I knew there would be the pitter patter of little feet at 6:30am. I was right.

There' s a part of me that wants to be there for him. To bring him all of the right magazines. A beautiful flower arrangement. My smiling face. Or to be there for his father. Sit in the room with him. Pat his hand. Get the coffee. The whole bit. Because if I know one thing? It's that I am a great hospital visitor.

But then there's reality. That he broke my heart. In a punishing, cold way. Twice. And that the white car in his driveway means she's still living there, so she could be there for him. And there's no place for me with him. None.

So what is going on with me?

I don't know, but I do know I feel something. Something I can't put into words yet. Something that is making my heart hurt. Something that is nagging me. Something that I need to face.

But I can't do any of that right now. I can't do any of that. I just need to sit and think. Because this morning, I am still at Square One.

Damn. I am glad my girls are home.

Lives In the Balance

Sure, I stole that title from Jackson Browne, so sue me.

The girls came home (after 44 days in Dallas) LATE Monday night (Happy Birthday to me, eh? What a great gift.) and life is good. They are home. They are home. They are home. Yippee. Yippee. Yipeee.

Isn't it funny how absence, does in fact, make the heart grow fonder?

And since they have been home, I realized here's what I missed.

Voices at 6:30 in the morning

The way C feeds Abbey water with a baby bottle.

The smell of N's hair.

Making chicken noodle soup for C.

Holding hands.

Singing 'We've Only Just Begun' at night. Twice.

That ridiculous show "Fairly Odd Parents" (seriously, what's up with that show?)

Nothin' But Nacho goldfish.

Kid shoes in the hallway (okay, so this one will wear off soon...)

Watching them sleep.

C's glasses.

N's smile.

Painting little fingernails.

Giggling.

Smell markers.

Chicken picata.

Sing song voices.

And a million other things. Ah, even though I LOVED my 44 days alone. (loved, loved, loved it)Life certainly feels more balanced now.

Ain't motherhood grand?

The Art of the Flow

Go with the flow. People say that to me a lot. Go with the flow, Rose. Go with the flow. Look, I know that at times I can be rigid, routined or scheduled. (C'mon, NO ONE thinks that's a little sexy?) However, I pride myself on balancing it out with having a bit of a wild side (I do run with scissors when the time is right...). But often times when people say 'go with the flow', what they really mean is go with THEIR flow. People don't say it when they think you are being agreeable or manageable. ("Hey, you seem pretty happy Rose, go with the flow already...") No, they say it when they think you are being disagreeable or unmanageable.

Go with the flow. Go with the flow. Humpf. I know most people say it when they want you to readily accept change as it is happening. I believe it would be different if their intentions were supportive in nature; if they really are saying "go with your OWN flow". But I certainly don't think that's what they mean. Ironically I think it actually sets up limitations. Because it doesn't leave you much wiggle room, now does it? Either you go with the flow or what? Prison? Honestly? I think it's a subliminal way to control someone.

And to tell you the truth? It's worst when you say it to yourself. When you tell yourself to 'go with the flow', you are probably doing it because someone wants you to do something you don't want to do. So, you beat yourself up thinking that if you were easy going and whatnot, you would simply be going with that damn flow already. But here's the thing. If going with your OWN flow means going against what you (or your mother or your husband) THINK you SHOULD be doing, it might be worth investigating. Sometimes we DO know what's best for ourselves. Without all of the 'shoulds' and flows.

During all of my thinking last week about going with the flow. I read something that truly made me laugh out loud.

"If you go with the flow you'll eventually end up over the waterfall." -

Adam R. Gwizdala

I am proud that MY own flow is a mixture of structure and spontaneity. I like routines, but these days, I will shelf my routined plans for the girls and I when I recognize that we need to be doing something else. (Once we skipped a Daisy meeting and piano lessons because we all of us needed to veg. Wahoo. I do live life in the fast lane, don't I?) Look, my flow may not be wild, 'let's fly to Boston for dinner' flow, but it's my flow. And I don't see myself going over any waterfalls any time soon.

Does That Make Me Crazy?

I love that Gnarls Barkley song.

I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind. There was something so pleasant about that place. Even your emotions had an echo and so much space...does that make me crazy?

I love this song. So much that I bought his St Elsewhere CD this afternoon. I am sure the hip young cashier who rang me up thought this CD was for my son or daughter, certainly not for me. Sure, at times I think I am still a cool chick, who certainly doesn't LOOK 42 years old. But, here's the thing. At first, I thought I heard them say it was Charles Barkley singing this song. Charles Barkley? Interesting. Then after awhile I realized that it was ridiculous to think that Sir Charles of NBA fame would be singing this 'crazy' song. And I found out it was Gnarls. Not Charles. Hmmm. Makes a little more sense.

See? These are the types of things that run through my head at the strangest times.

But I have definitely been crazy today. The girls get home on Monday...and I have been in 'the zone'. Yes, I have been crazy getting all of the stuff done. Because it's down to the wire now. My 44 days are coming to an end. So I have been crazy doing all of the last minute stuff. The last minute cleaning. The last minute organizing. The last minute writing. The last minute thinking. The last minute drinking Cosmos at Connie's. The last minute shopping.

Wow. It really has been crazy over these last few days.

But after all of this craziness, I will glad to have my girls back home. And settle back into our own definition of 'crazy'. Back to our Queendom (Get it? No king). Back to our life. The noise. The pancakes. The laughter. The laundry. It might seem crazy to some, but I love that life.

It balances me out somehow. Because as a single mother with two children, I know it's hard to spend too much time contemplating the meaning of life. With two children, you are living the life, not simply thinking about it.

And although at times it makes me crazy? Deep down inside, I know it's the sanest thing I have ever done.


I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind There was something so pleasant about that place Even your emotions had an echo and so much space...does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? Possibly.

Revisionist History

Driving home I started thinking (yes, I think and drive...) about why there are times I conveniently forget details of certain incidents, situations, and relationships. Sometimes it's called 'repression', but other times, I don't believe it is as harsh as that.

Or maybe I am just rationalizing?

Here's the thing. A month before the Zen-like Heart Break of February, I was working on a piece called 'A Matter of Convenience (a 7-11 Boyfriend), which described how unsatisfying our relationship had become. It was a smart little piece which dared to compare convenience to true love. I wondered if part of the reason I was dating this man was because he had a great lake house and a wonderful dog. Okay, okay, okay...and he lived a block away. Let's be honest. All of those qualities are really appealing when you are a single mother of two young daughters. (Especially when the dog does cool tricks!)


Was it love? Was it convenience? Was it anything at all? In January these were the things I was wondering and writing.


But suddenly in February, all heartbroken and weepy; it became all about what I missed. What I lost. What was gone. What I wanted back. What I didn't want her to have. (yeah, there was a 'her')

So I revised history and gave myself permission to feel miserable.

I wonder why I did this?

Did I do it because I wanted to be miserable? I realized that sometimes misery does indeed love company and I am a damn fine host. Or did I do it because wanted to justify something? Maybe I did it because it made more sense? Who knows why I did it, but I did.

And voila, our history was revised.

But finally now (maybe it's the clean house?) I am beginning to have some clarity about what the relationship was truly about (I admit, it was a little bit of convenience, a little bit of love and a whole lot of Boston Terrier) and it doesn't hurt as much.

I read once that 'time does heal all wounds unless you pick at them...' and that made me laugh. Maybe it's merely time that helps you see things a little more clearly?

So. Here's what I do know. I do know that everything happens for a reason (damn, sometimes I hate that line, because it's used mostly by people hurting...I mean, we don't win the lottery and exclaim "Yippee, everything happens for a reason!") and this might be one of those times that I never know the reason.

But luckily? Life, as always moves forward.

Yeah, we miss the lake house, but we kept the dog. And the rest? History.