These Dreams

I’ve had people ask me if the Bunny “comes to me in my dreams” which – from what I understand now – is something that happens frequently when loved ones have died. I’m not a big “dreamer” – and usually when I do dream I can’t remember the details once I wake up. I think I don’t dream much as an adult because my mind is on such a roller coaster when I’m awake, it needs some sleep too! I want to say as a child I used to dream all the time… but then again, I would consider that when I WAS a child, I used to hold a lot of my emotions inside or cut them off completely; so whatever was going on in my mind didn’t have an outlet.

Last night, I dreamed my car was stolen. Not the car I own now, the car I owned BEFORE the car I own now. In my dream, my car was sitting in my driveway, and when I woke up in the morning it was gone. Then in a flash, the car was back; and I was taking it to a friend who runs a auto body repair shop. The funny thing about this dream is that this really happened, in real life! Except that it was my brother Sandy’s car. My brother lives and works in Hawaii (yea, lucky, I know – but at least I have someplace to visit – IN HAWAII!), and a few years ago the Bunny and I were preparing to ship his car over to him, on account of the car he was driving – in Hawaii – was stolen. At least, that’s how I remember this story. So, we have my brother’s car in the driveway, idling (just to make sure the battery was working properly – and we live in a relatively decent neighborhood)… and before you know it, some yahoo jumps in it and takes off. Both the Bunny and I were shocked and appalled… I remember the Bunny NOT wanting to be the one to tell Sandy that his other car was stolen, too – how ironic can things get! Miraculously, the car was recovered by the police a few days later (apparently, this rarely is the case), with a few extra bullet holes, some blood, and one baby sock. God knows WHAT that car had seen or been a party to!... but we took it to my friend’s (the one with the auto body repair shop) and got it fixed back up, good as new… and shipped it off to my brother.

In the past six months since the Bunny’s death, I have had only one dream with him in it. He didn’t have a starring role, either… I recall he was only in there for a few minutes, and we didn’t have any conversation or anything. That was it… until the night before last. I had my second dream – this one was ALL Bunny. For me, it felt like “a confession” – all you Catholics out there know what I’m talking about – it consisted of me explaining to the Bunny all of the things I was doing in my life, all the things that had changed, all the things that I had changed… it was almost like I was looking for him to tell me it was okay. Somewhere, internally, I needed to feel like my husband knew what was going on with me, and that he supported me… even now.

I woke up the next morning, and I remembered that dream. Whether in some way, out in the universe, I really DID have this conversation with the Bunny, or it was all in my head… I FELT a little better. The sun was just a little bit brighter. My outlook was just a little bit more positive.

The Sunday that my husband left – the Sunday of his accident: he was on his way out for a day-long motorcycle ride with his biker buddies. He left early – maybe around 6:30AM? I was still laying in bed, not having to get up for church for a few more hours at least. The Bunny was dressed in his riding gear, and leaned over his side of the bed to give me a kiss. I opened my eyes (barely, but they were open) to look at him, and I smiled – the Bunny smiled back at me, and spoke the last words I would hear him speak alive: “I love you.”

Those are the words I still hear in my head; my reminder that “love never ends.” Once you let someone into your heart, they are pretty much in there forever… at least, that’s how it is for me. Luckily, my heart has an unlimited capacity for love… convenient; like having a friend who runs an auto body repair shop.

To Die For

Maybe about a month ago, I started taking vitamins. It’s one of those little packets that have this and that in it – all supposedly good for me to be taking, of course, and I believe it; I just HATE swallowing vitamins. Especially the big, “horse-sized” ones. Sometimes, they even make me gag… ick. There’s eight vitamins in my little packet, plus I take B12 (supposedly really good for your body in general – and I DID notice it got me feeling better faster when I was catching a cold) plus my other prescriptions (part of my diabetes regimen). As stated previously, I’m not very consistent about taking care of myself, but now my perspective is such that I see myself as the “only one left to take care of things” so I’m forced to make my health more of a priority. Living a little longer and a little better is worth today’s discomfort of swallowing “horse-sized” vitamins (my opinion).

A few days ago, I visited my attorney’s office to update my trust. I am a life insurance agent by trade (yea, ironic – I know), and a year and a half before the Bunny’s death, I dragged him to the attorney’s office to set up a trust for our family – the first time either of us had done any such thing. In the course of my work, I conceptually understood what a trust was and what it was for – but like most things, the reality was much different. I remember the Bunny wanting to know “what are we going to be doing?” and “what’s the attorney going to say?” – he was very agitated, wanting to know what to expect. I told him I didn’t know; I really DIDN’T know, but I knew it was important, I knew we needed to do it, and I trusted the attorney (who was referred to me by a close business colleague at the time). In our little family, there was me and Christopher, and the Bunny and Trevor. The Bunny and I did not have children together – I think when we were first married I said I wanted to, but the Bunny did not want to be raising children through his fifties, and with my parenting issues it was easy to talk me out of it. I guess hindsight being twenty-twenty, it all worked out for the best – I can’t imagine how overwhelmed I would have been with a toddler right about now – even a child that would have been mine and the Bunny’s.

So, we did the trust – a process which included our wills, and durable powers of attorney for medical decisions. When the Bunny was in ICU for three weeks, I got to see firsthand how a durable power of attorney for medical decisions works. It’s essentially a document which speaks for you (when you are incapacitated) to the doctors with regard to your care. It says things like: “If there is no hope of me recognizing my family or living without the aid of machinery to sustain my life, then don’t take any extreme measures to save me,” – this is just one example of the many scenarios in this document. If I remember ours, I think each are at least seven pages long (there are lots of scenarios!). I recall the doctors really being impressed with the level of detail in the Bunny’s document; I made it a point to give that feedback to my attorney. It’s always nice to know that what you are doing is valued and appreciated. It was so well written that even one of the Bunny’s doctors mentioned she was going to go back to her own attorney and have hers redone!

Now, I have a pretty good sense of how a trust works and how someone’s wishes are played out in the real world… again, the conceptual versus the reality. My objectives are much clearer now, and what kind of impact I wish to have on my family and loved ones. Not just them, though; I want to have an impact on people in my life who I feel have had a significant impact in shaping the person I am today… that’s the cool thing about a trust: you can make it do whatever you want. When you hear about rich people “leaving their fortune to their cat” – that really does happen! Not that I am leaving my fortune to my cat, mind you. I have some more radical plans than that. But the most important epiphany I had when I was sitting in the attorney’s office the other day, is that when you sit down and plan a trust, when you plan what happens to all your stuff when you die, the trick is you have to do it from the perspective that you are going to die… tomorrow. Death doesn’t always come to you way down the road, “sometime in the future when I’m old and gray” – for some, it DOES come tomorrow. And you have to be prepared. You have to be ready.

There’s a saying in the life insurance business. It asks, “When’s the best time to buy life insurance?” The answer? “The day before you die.” How many things are left undone because people imagine there is an unlimited amount of time available, so it’s okay to procrastinate? Just like treating others with kindness, or holding the door open for someone, or taking the time to say “thank you.” Remembering that time is limited, remembering that you will die someday makes you appreciate what you have “in the here and now” all the more. At least it does for me. But, my typical disclaimer when I feel like I get too preachy: what do I know?

Every year, I’ll visit my attorney’s office, and look at my trust. Some things will change, some things will stay the same – to reflect changes in my life if I am lucky enough to still be here. I DO hope it’s long enough for me to find out if these vitamins really are doing for me what the marketing says they are doing… that would be a drag to be choking them down for nothing! But I have faith. And for all the rest, I have my trust.

What I Leave Behind

Today was Christopher’s “Senior Pictures” day at school… yesterday when I took him over to the salon to get his haircut, the hairdresser commented that I must “be proud that he made it” – I thought that was ironic, because he “hasn’t made it yet” – Christopher has a very long track record of abysmal grades; not for lack of ability, but rather a lack of motivation and focus.

He looked very handsome, very “adult” in his jacket, shirt & tie we bought a few days ago… when I saw him try the clothes on, I squealed and got all teary-eyed like any proud mom would do – Christopher’s response: Aww, Mom (as if to say C’mon! You are embarrassing me!). That’s the perks of being a mother, the privilege of causing embarrassment to your offspring. Like with anything else, those uncomfortable moments are important in order to build their character (my perception).

Christopher is like me in all the ways that count. I know this because I get feedback from those around me who interact with us on a regular basis. First and foremost, he’s got a big heart. His mother’s heart. Which clues me in? The kid needs a lot of love – my challenge, given my lack of developed ability to reveal the love I carry internally for him. Christopher is also extremely intelligent. He scores very high on testing; his grades suck because he doesn’t like to do homework. My friends tell me lots of people who have that experience in school are “bored, and once they go on to college or wherever, they end up being very successful.” So I have some hope for his future despite his crappy grades. He’s got a great sense of humor, and I am sensing he might also be empathetic – maybe not as severe as I seem to be – but I can tell when he goes out of his way to tell me something funny to pull a smile or laugh out of me. The other day in the car, Christopher tells me (out of the blue), “Mom, I like your smile.” Just like that. What 17-year old boy says something like that to his mother? I don’t really know, but I would be willing to bet it doesn’t happen all that often.

Because I have an “active and imaginative mind” I sometimes ponder what would have happened if it was me that had died instead of the Bunny. Truthfully, I always thought I would be the one to die first – the Bunny was very healthy (until that last year when he rode his motorcycle more than anything else); prior to that he would go on regular 50- or 100-mile bike rides, work out at the gym a few times a week, and try to eat right. He didn’t smoke or drink stuff much stronger than a few beers at a time – he got all of the “party” lifestyle out of his system way before he and I met, which was good for me. Timing really IS everything. I ponder that as well – had I met the Bunny earlier in his life (and mine), I would not have gotten involved with him. Or I would have gotten involved with him and sustained a lot of emotional damage. Funny how things turn out.

Me, on the other hand, have been diabetic for the last going on eighteen or so years – diabetes is a funny disease; if you manage it well (i.e. keep your blood sugars in control) it will force you to exist in a very healthy state. But it takes discipline. It takes… motivation and focus. So, in my case I have been very inconsistent with my diabetes management. I don’t fit the normal “diabetic person” profile (my perception) – I’m not overweight, and I’m on the young side (to be as severe a diabetic as I am - I take about three shots of insulin every day). I often think “this body is wasted on me” – in a physical and even emotional way. But again, that universe – knowing things I just don’t know and the reasons for why things are the way they are. But I digress!

If the Bunny were here right now, typing on HIS blog about how his life had changed because HIS beloved wife had died… what stories would he tell? Would losing his mom force Christopher to “grow up fast” and mature, propelling him into the thoughtful, caring, balanced, responsible adult I hope he becomes? Would the church be packed for my services? Would anybody care, or notice I was gone?

There’s a quote I came across some time ago, from a guy by the name of Abiodun Mabadeje, from Nigeria (I don’t know Mr. Mabadeje’s claim to fame otherwise, but this quote really caught my attention): “The way to live is to make your presence felt while you are present, so that when you are absent your absence will also be felt.” I interpret that to mean “live with intention” – don’t skate through life, just minding your own business and keeping yourself separate from everyone else. It means to “jump into the fray” with both feet, and once your feet touch down on the earth to keep on moving. Moving forward. Nowhere in that quote does it say, “Shirley, you must do everything right” or “Shirley, live your life for the approval of others”… just live, and make it count.

One last thing I’ve noticed in Christopher that’s only recently cropped up: a love for music and singing. He’s MY son – no doubt about it. My legacy. My mark. And when I eventually DO die… I leave ME behind – in him.

The people who affect us, literally “scar” us for life. Hopefully those scars are earned in honorable battles that we win.

Thought For The Week

Hot off the virtual communication network (aka "email")... a message relevant to life as of late - at least, MY life. Maybe yours too... (thanks Cousin Lisa!)

"The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude to me is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than success, than what other people think, say or do. It is more important than appearance, gift, or skill. It will make or break a company… a church... a home.

The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past… The only thing we can do is play on the string we have, and that is our attitude.

I am convinced that life is ten percent what happens to me and ninety percent how I react to it. And so it is with you…

We are in charge of our attitudes."

- Charles Swindoll

Letter To My Father

It’s Father’s Day; a day that has gone unacknowledged by me since I was a teenager. My childhood being what it was, I “ran away” from home when I turned 18 years old, and can count on one hand the times I came into contact with either of my parents. Since then my mother and father divorced, my mother dropped off the face of the planet as far as the rest of her family knows, and my father got remarried.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my major is Communications. I believe it’s in part because I grew up feeling like nobody understood me – least of all my family – kind of like being in a foreign country without a translator. You wander aimlessly around, unable to make the people understand even your most basic needs. VERY frustrating.

In reference to my dad, our relationship has been so estranged that my dad and stepmother never got the chance to meet the Bunny… the first time they saw him was when they visited him in the hospital last year, after he had the accident. I never really made much of an effort to have them be involved in my life, because frankly, I was so stinking happy and I was so used to pain and unhappiness whenever certain family members were involved – I just couldn’t bear to expose myself that way.

The pains I refer to aren’t the typical “My parents never bought me a $200 pair of sneakers” type of thing. I needed a lot of love as a child; trapped in an environment full of tension, verbal abuse, isolation… My dad, he was the “quiet” one. He balanced out my mom perfectly, because when she was going ballistic, he was silent. He remained physically and emotionally uninvolved – at least, that’s what I assumed based on his external actions. We never really know what’s going on in someone else’s head. For all I know, he was afraid too.

I called him today, to wish him “Happy Father’s Day”… my stepmother answered the phone – did I detect surprise in her voice? I’m sure that was me projecting, because unfortunately my stepmother has some (not all, but some) of the same personality characteristics as my mom – and handed the phone to my dad. It was the shortest conversation in history, maybe one minute or two? But for he and I, it seemed to last an eternity. He never says much to me, and I forced myself to sound “light” as if calling him on the phone, wishing him “Happy Father’s Day” or anything else was perfectly normal, something I did every week. I asked him how things were going (“Fine”) and if there was anything new (“No”)… I told him about Christopher learning to play the violin, and maybe when he learned his first actual song I would invite my dad to come listen to it.

Part of the problem (in my perception) is that my dad essentially has no idea of the adult I’ve become. How he relates to me, even now, is through the prism of viewing me as a child. As some confused teenager that doesn’t know shit, needs to be told what to do, and is subject to the influence of those more worldly, more experienced people around her. This is tragic because I am proud of the woman I’ve become, and I want to believe if my father really recognized that – really, really “saw” me as the person I am – that he would be proud too.

I haven’t the heart to judge him, either as a father or as a human being. He’s my dad, and despite the fact that I realize we may never see eye to eye or spend happy times together like other families do… I love him. And I think somewhere deep down, my dad loves me. But I am still in that foreign country without a translator.

Of all the messages I would want my dad to receive if it was within my power to communicate, I would tell him this:

“Dad, I know how hard it must have been for you, raising me and my brother. I’m a mom now too, and half the time I feel like I’m screwing up royally myself. I know what’s it like to do the best that you can with the circumstances you’ve got, and leave the rest to God that your kids turn out okay. Dad, I want you to know: I’m okay. I’m okay, and I’m living the life that I want, a life that makes me happy. Thank you for helping make me the person I am today. Everything in my own life, every positive thing that I do that impacts someone else, you get to take credit for because without you… I would not exist.

I love you always. Your daughter, Shirley.”

Mental Gymnastics

It was a surprisingly good Friday after what turned out to be a highly emotional week; full of dramatic events that – as usual – I find myself directly involved in. In fact, just a small percentage of those events were instigated by me, but the ones that WERE caused these massive ripples, like when you throw a stone into the center of a very calm, very still body of water. Some of those ripples seem to go on forever, getting bigger and bigger, covering a wider and wider area, until pretty soon that very calm, very still body of water is in chaos; alive with the movement, and disruption.

In the course of my work I make a lot of phone calls; this morning’s agenda was fairly light as I realized that I felt so emotionally drained I couldn’t face the challenge of overcoming strangers’ natural objections to speaking with a salesperson when one happens to call. I have a good record on the phone; I have a very soothing phone voice, I’m very quick in establishing rapport, and I know just how many questions I can ask before I push my prospect over the edge into annoyance or irritation. Being empathetic comes with its perks, and in a sales career I find it an absolute requirement in order to do my job, and do that job well.

It’s close to noon and I leave the office to meet a friend for lunch a few cities away. Driving down the main street on my way to the freeway, all of a sudden I see brake lights in front of me. I slow down, and notice that all three lanes of traffic are merging into the farthest right lane. Now, I’m in a hurry, but not so much in a hurry that I’m enraged by the delay (that does happen, but not today). I signal, look in my rearview mirror to make sure the guy behind me is paying attention, I inch over to the right, very, very slowly… the minutes trickle by like beads of sweat rolling down your face on a hot summer day. But I’m thinking, you know, it’s cool.. it’s Friday, I’ll get there when I get there… if it’s a few minutes late, no big deal.

Finally my car brings me close enough to see what’s going on. Two police cars with flashing blue and red lights, an ambulance facing the opposite direction of my flow of traffic, a car off to the side. These vehicles register in my peripheral, it adds to the information my mind is collecting automatically, filling in the blanks: Brake lights. Traffic. (processing: Shirley, you need to slow down) Merging to the right. Signaling. (processing: Shirley, you need to watch these other drivers so you don’t hit anyone and nobody hits you) More merging. Glancing behind. More signaling. More merging….

… And then I’m driving by the accident itself. The only thing that my eyes focus on – and that my mind immediately registers and processes, literally a split-second – is a motorcycle lying on its side: a cruiser. I feel this jolt; a physical reaction throughout my entire body. I remember feeling uneasy, and I looked all around the bike as I crawled by in my car… no body. I did not see a body. I think if I had, I would have vomited right there, in my car.

The mind is a strange and mysterious thing. Everything we see with our eyes sets into motion a corresponding chaos in our brains – just like those ripples that get bigger and bigger – the movement in mine is a movie on fast-forward: the phone call from the hospital that my husband was involved in an accident. I was at home watching “True Blood” at the time (I have not watched an episode of “True Blood” since that night). Seeing him in the hospital, three weeks in intensive care. Looking like he was sleeping. All these machines hooked up, beeping noises, nurses coming in, checking his vitals, hanging up a fresh bag of blood.. Bunny, wake up… wake UP! Quit messing around – you’ve had your fun. This is really a sucky thing to do to me… really, enough is enough. And the disruption… Shirley, he’s gone. He’s dead – he died back in December. He’s gone.

At the time this all actually happened, as I was driving to meet my friend for lunch, I managed to cut off my emotional response to these thoughts whizzing and crashing through my brain. How would it be for me to show up a blubbering mess… I hate for my friends to worry too much about me. But, now, alone in my house, just my laptop, me, and my thoughts – I mourn my loss. I’ve lost plenty of things – valuable things – in my life, you would think I would be desensitized to it by now. But each new loss connects itself to the pain of everything I’ve experienced in the past. That’s how unintentionally cruel a person’s mind can be. Mine, particularly so.

My cat Eezma is sitting on the floor in the corner of my office… she’s been hanging out in this same spot for the last week or so that I’ve noticed; she isn’t acting like she normally does – just sitting there, staring off into the distance or with her eyes closed – a thought jumps into my head: She’s getting old (I do a quick mental calculation: almost 10 years old). The next thought: How long do cats live? She’s going to die someday too… I cut off my emotional response before my mind can connect back to my most recent death experience, that one from December.

I listen to the sounds coming out of my living room – my son’s first violin lesson. His teacher, Rob, is explaining the proper way to hold the violin. I hear Christopher play a few notes… and my mind jumps forward to seeing Christopher play the violin in a concert – somewhere, sometime. And I am reminded again that I am alive, and that each day brings with it something new to learn. Some unexpected adventure. I’m not quite done yet… I’M. STILL. ALIVE. And I gotta keep moving.

The Victoria's Secret Story

So, I think you are going to laugh when you read this story; everyone laughs when I tell it to them in real life! In order to tell you the REAL “Victoria’s Secret Story” I have to tell you another story first (for background). Some years ago when the Bunny and I first got together and I started to get acquainted with his family, I became fast friends with Jessica, his favorite niece – okay, I call Jessica “his favorite niece” because I know the Bunny was “her favorite uncle”… anyway! Jessica and I became friends.

It is a well-known fact – and a childhood pal I recently met for drinks also can attest to this – that I have never been very skilled in dressing myself. No, I can handle matching the same color socks; but I’m just not good at picking out clothes that accentuate my body type. That make me LOOK good. This is carry-over from my self-image problems which were burned into my poor fragile psyche from back in my formative years. So one day Jessica tells me “C’mon – I’m taking you shopping.” We head over to Kohl’s, one of my favorite clothing stores.

So, Jessica rolls up her sleeves, spits in her hands and rubs them together (no, I’m kidding, but I’m trying to give you the right mental picture) and surveys the racks of clothes with a practiced, knowing look in her eye. I make sure to tell her my pants size: 12. She looks at me with this skeptical expression and says, “You do NOT wear size 12!” I insist. “Jessica, really.. I wear size 12.” Now, in her head Jessica is thinking HELL NO you don’t wear size 12 you big DUMMY! But, she doesn’t comment aloud. “Okay,” she says, and she begins to roam around the store, selecting potentially cute outfits for me to try on – pants size 12.

We go to the fitting room. I try on my first pair of pants. I come out to model them for her, and she stands with her weight on one foot, chin in one of her hands, one eyebrow raised, checking me out from top to bottom. I turn around in circles so she can get the full view. Finally, after some minutes of silence, Jessica says, “Hmm. I don’t know… they just don’t LOOK right! Let me try something.”

She leaves and comes back with the same pair of pants, size 10. Her face says “humor me” and she hands the pants to me, saying, “Let’s see how these look on you.” I try on the size 10, come out, model, spin – just like before. That look is still there, the one that says “Hmmm… doesn’t look right.” She goes back and returns with a size 8.

By the time we left Kohl’s, I was wearing SIZE 4 PANTS. W.. T… F!! I couldn’t believe it. My brain could not process that my real pants size was NOT size 12. I had worn between size 10 and size 12 pants sizes all of my life. Needless to say, we got home that day and the Bunny was tickled, the fact that when his wife left that morning she wore size 12 pants, and a few hours later she came home wearing size 4 pants. Doh!

So here’s the Victoria’s Secret Story: Recently I had reason to go out and buy a strapless bra. I don’t own a strapless bra, but I bought a strapless dress to take a special photograph (subject of a future blog post) so I called upon my “official dresser” – Jessica! Time to go shopping! On a mission, I think we started at Macy’s – I forget why we started there, but we go to the bra section and talk to the salesgirl about the bra I am looking for. Again, I tell her my size: “I usually wear between 36 – 38, cup size B or C, depending on the bra.” The salesgirl looks at me, then looks down at the ladies, then looks back at me and says, “No, you are at least a D – maybe double D.” What do I do, I get mad. “I am NOT a double D! I am a C or a B!!” Fuck! These people don’t know SHIT! Anyway, so the salesgirl has me try on a 32 D – the “32” part was too tight. NOT comfortable. So Jessica makes an executive decision: let’s go to Victoria’s Secret, they will measure you properly there (after all, they ARE strictly a lingerie store).

At Victoria’s Secret, the salesgirl comes up and whips out her measuring tape. She reaches behind me, and first measures me underneath my arms and under the ladies, looks at the number, then she glances at the ladies themselves and looks at us both: “Oh, you’re a size 34 D.” Again, I get mad. “That CAN’T be right! I’ve ALWAYS worn a C cup!” Jessica tries to break the news to me.. then you’ve been wearing the wrong size bra all of this time. We go over to the dressing room where another salesgirl is standing in front of this cabinet - the cabinet holds a bunch of bras in different sizes, for 'trying on' purposes. (An aside: for all you women out there, if you have never shopped at Victoria’s Secret before, you MUST go buy a bra there at least once – it is a truly amazing experience. And you might find out you’ve been wearing the wrong size bra all your life.) The first salesgirl (the one that did the measuring) tells the one standing by the cabinet: “This lady needs a size 34 D.” I interrupt, “No, I’m sure it’s a C, not a D. Could you please give me 34 C?” She acquiesces to my request. I go into the changing room, and try on the first size 34 C bra. It looks awful.. the ladies are spilling out all over the sides. Yuck. I open the door and get the salesgirl’s attention. She comes over.

I point to all the spillage. “Why is this happening here?” She answers me in a matter-of-fact voice, “Because you are wearing the wrong cup size.” Dammit! DOUBLE D DAMMIT!!! I give up. I surrender. Okay, bring me the 34 D. Back in the changing room, I put on the bra, size 34 D… W.. T… F!! I cannot describe to all the men out there the wonderful feeling of wearing a bra that actually fits properly - but the women all probably know what I'm talking about. It was FRIGGING awesome. I grudgingly admitted I was, in fact, a size 34 D.

Now you know why people laugh when I tell this story. Nobody understands why having cup size D boobs would be upsetting to me. In my head, big boobs mean I’m a “bimbo.” I don’t WANT to be a bimbo. I certainly don’t want to attract people for the way I look – I want them to be attracted to me for ME.. because I’m smart, and I’m funny, and I have a good heart, and because I love animals, I’m low-maintenance, I’m a great cook, I’m fun to hang out with, etc. A good friend pointed out to me recently, “Shirley, you have to consider that maybe people ARE attracted to you for all those things. You have all of those qualities, AND you’re a size D.” Hmmmm. I guess that’s possible. Maybe. But I still watch pretty carefully when I meet new guys – if the eyes linger a little too long on the ladies, I know it’s not going to work out.

It does put a smile on my face to imagine what the Bunny would have said when I came home that day and he would have found out his wife was now a size D. No breast enlargement required! Just fifty bucks for a new bra; a bra in the right size. Who woulda thunk it.

Playing Misty

I have this friend – her name is Misty. Okay, Misty and I aren’t really friends; more like acquaintances. But our paths cross every few weeks at various business functions, without which she probably wouldn’t even register on my radar. We move in different circles. Not one better than the other, just… different.

Misty is a source of endless fascination for me – she’s a beautiful, intelligent woman. She runs her own business. She is never alone – kind of like Britney Spears is never alone due to the paparazzi following her 24/7, trying to snap a picture of her doing something that’s sure to get people talking. Misty just has to walk into the room, and everyone else naturally gravitates towards her.

The reason Misty and I are not friends is because Misty is what you would call “unhealthily narcissistic.” To quote Daniel Goleman, author of Social Intelligence, Misty’s goal in life is “to be admired more than to be loved.” To achieve this goal, Misty is known for being a lot of fun – there is always a story circulating about ‘that crazy thing Misty did over the weekend’ or some other of her many outrageous antics.

Misty and I had lunch one time way back when. I had some business proposals for her, and it was actually fun to talk one-on-one. When she meant to, Misty could blow you away with some of the observations she made and some of the thoughts she had – I remember identifying with her in some respects. That lunch gave me a ‘peek’ into Misty's mind, a mind – I felt in my gut – which operated very similarly to my own.

But over time, I realized that Misty was unhappy. For what reason I’ll probably never know, because our relationship never developed beyond the ‘acquaintance’ stage. Maintaining the image of having fun became so important for Misty, I couldn’t get her past the superficial… even though the potential existed. But as one of my son’s friends made the comment the other day when he was hanging out at our house: “’Potential’ means that you’re a loser right now.”

I’ve concluded that Misty is on something I call “the path of self-destruction.” Like those tragic celebrity stories, she’ll probably end up in a Vegas hotel room, dead from an alcohol/sleeping pill overdose. What a waste. But what can you do, I mean, everyone decides how to live his or her own life, right? Even if it’s a soulless, meaningless, and unfulfilled life? That doesn’t affect MY life one little bit, right? RIGHT??

Well, here’s the thing: I believe it does. I believe that everyone on the planet’s life affects everyone else’s. That’s how a little girl in some back east state can be raped and murdered, and some completely unrelated other person in Canada will be so moved by the event that he or she starts a non-profit organization to keep three-strikes criminals behind bars, or establishes a national fingerprinting database. Okay, I’m stretching with this scenario, but you get the idea. If I hadn’t had that lunch with Misty, I might have been able to justify moving on with my life… but as I've said many times before, life unfolds in ways we don’t really understand.

So I did something that I would do if Misty and I had been friends: I staged an intervention. I sent a letter to her closest girlfriend Trish. I told Trish I was worried about Misty’s behavior, and how I felt she was headed for an unhappy end. I also said I knew there would be repercussions once Misty got wind of what I had done, but that I felt very strongly about it and I would deal with whatever personal consequences the universe would dole out to me.

Did I break the rules of convention? The social contract? Maybe. And I’m probably going to get a rash of shit; fallout from my “meddling.” But my heart tells me it was the right thing to do, no matter that I will probably be hated for it. No one ever said making sacrifices was going to be easy, or fun. Maybe someday, someone will write a song about this blog post… it’s one of those stories that deserves to be immortalized in a cool song somewhere. Maybe I’ll even get to sing it.

Have A Little Faith In Me

I have three big, green, leafy plants which were given to me at the Bunny’s services back in December; since then I would haul them out to the backyard for a little sun and water, then haul them back in – one sits on the counter separating the kitchen and the living room, and the other two are in opposite corners of the living room. I’ve never been really good at taking care of plants – especially live ones that require regular maintenance – but I exceeded my expectations with these, since it’s been roughly six months now and they are only JUST beginning to look crunchy.

On my way from the living room to the kitchen I passed that one plant on the counter… I noticed one of its leaves on the floor; that made me remember I noticed another leaf on the floor about a week ago. My life has begun to evolve; I’m starting to get busier with work, making progress on my never-ending to-do list, activities are cropping up into the hours… those immediately following my husband’s death that, until recently, were pretty empty. I definitely feel “in transition” – not quite sure what my new life will look like when I’ve completed my metamorphosis (kind of like putting a puzzle together without looking at the picture on the box) – but I will know the process is finished when I get there. I will feel like the transition phase is ended.

I’m not one who gives up her heart easily. More to the point, I’m not often in the position where I find myself “really attracted” to anyone. If I am counting on both hands, thinking back to previous boyfriends (my kid’s father and the Bunny included) I run out of names before I run out of fingers. So you can imagine my surprise when by some strange twist of fate I found myself cross paths with a guy that I really, REALLY like. A lot. More than a lot. Completely terrifying. Mystifying. Incomprehensible. What the HELL is wrong with me!?!!? My husband – who I loved and adored more than life itself, mind you – just frigging DIED six months ago. What kind of awful person must I be?

See, here’s the rub. I’ve told this story many times, and it was part of the eulogy at the Bunny’s services: When the Bunny and I first crossed paths nine or so years ago, I was about as miserable a wretch as you could find. I hated my life, I hated myself, I hated MEN (just coming out of a divorce not too much time prior to that)… the last thing I needed/wanted/was looking for was to let some guy into my life.

But the Bunny, he was a stubborn one. I remember that despite the fact I was attracted to him (a feeling I have since come to identify more clearly when it presents itself), I insisted we weren’t going to be dating. His response to me: “Until you tell me to go away… I’m not going anywhere.” By the grace of God, I never told him to go away. Looking back, that was truly a life-changing moment for me. I had nothing but negative experiences to draw upon, but my gut told me to chill, to see what happened, to play it by ear. To “go with it.”

Back to present day: So, when we last left our heroine, she was in a state of shock over these attraction feelings for this anonymous new guy. WTF??!!! Okay, moving on… but what I came to realize is that while I never would have thought that I would have the feelings I’m having, I’m not the same person I used to be. In the space of a mere five years under the care and feeding of the Bunny, I blossomed into this unique creature; unlike any other person on earth – given enough space, protection, and love to be the best person I was capable of becoming. That was the Bunny’s greatest gift to me… one I didn’t fully comprehend until he was gone.

I believe people come into our lives for very specific reasons: to challenge and inspire us, to affect and influence us, to push us in directions they may not be aware of, we may not be aware of – but your faith in higher powers in the universe tells you, tells your gut, that everything unfolds in your life exactly the way it is meant to. I have no idea what this guy in my path is here to teach me… but I’m willing to chill, see what happens, play it by ear. And maybe, just maybe… I will exceed my own expectations.

Dinner Theatre

So, Christopher and I were at the Bunny’s niece Jessica’s house for dinner earlier, and some of her husband Neil’s family was also there; his parents, and his sister along with her husband. When the Bunny was around, we would frequently spend time with Jessica and Neil – something I wasn’t used to doing with my own family, but gradually became comfortable with the practice – Jessica turned out to be quite the kindred spirit; smart, funny, doesn’t mince words, tells you what she thinks, and has more than her share of common sense. I’m probably at least ten years her senior, but I think of her somewhere between my “home girl” and my sister. She has also become my “official dresser” because I have such a bad body self-image I can’t be left unattended in clothing stores (I have no concept of what clothes look good on me), which is a lead into a very funny story I will get to in one of these future posts, referred to as “The Victoria's Secret Story.” But, I digress! So we are having dinner at Jessica and Neil’s, and Jessica is busy in the kitchen, pulling the meal together while the rest of us are hanging out in the living room, chatting, socializing, and talking about the day’s events.

Things began to get interesting when the food was ready and it was time to eat. Neil’s sister’s husband, wanting his wife to fix him a plate of food, starts calling out her name – over, and over, and over, and over again. So much so, that I started to feel embarrassed for him. Then I started to feel annoyed. He admitted – with not a trace of shame, I might add – that he typically behaved very passive aggressively, and as I watched he would turn to his wife and inform her that if she didn’t do what he wanted, she “was going to be sorry.” At one point I quipped, “Oh, I think she’s way past that point already..” What was appalling was that he appeared to be perfectly okay with this obnoxious and manipulative behavior, in spite of – no, ESPECIALLY – that Christopher and I were there to witness it (i.e. in front of people who were practically strangers). In my head I was thinking, yup, this is one marriage headed for future divorce. What frightened me the most was the example this was setting not only for my 17-year old son, but also Jessica’s son Gabriel, who is somewhere in the neighborhood of 8 years old.

As soon as I could make an escape, I left with Christopher in tow. Out of earshot of the house, I told him, “Don’t EVER act like that, ever… EVER! That was just AWFUL!” He answered like, duh, Mom.. of course not. Of course not!! Because even my kid, as unfocused and infuriating as he can be sometimes, knows better than to behave so selfishly and disrespectfully – ESPECIALLY in front of company. This episode also made me think of the Bunny, and reminded me yet again how very lucky I was in my relationship with him. Looking at my life and looking around, I will always choose my five, brief years of total happiness, love, respect, desire, and adoration of a good, decent man as the Bunny over thirty, forty, or fifty years of mediocre, half-assed, “just a body to share a bed with” mind-numbing bullshit as I saw in living color during dinner tonight. The Bunny was by no means perfect, but the way he treated me and our marriage was… I will never settle for anything less than that, even knowing that it’s very possible I will spend the rest of my life alone.

Possible… but as I’ve come to learn: anything can happen, so it’s best to keep an open mind. Just make sure to close your eyes when someone kisses you…

Given Fair Warning...

I received this in my email this morning, and it made my day (thanks Steff!). Enjoy.

"Whatever you give a woman, she will make greater.

If you give her sperm, she'll give you a baby. If you give her a house, she'll give you a home. If you give her groceries, she'll give you a meal. If you give her a smile, she'll give you her heart. She multiplies and enlarges what is given to her.

So, if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit."

One Positive Thing Every Day

Someone told me recently that “I’m doing good” if I get just one positive thing accomplished every day. Today’s accomplishment: I made the arrangements for my 17-year old son Christopher to take violin lessons. The violin is his choice, but I can’t say I’m upset by the idea of him learning how to play it; it’s a beautiful instrument – I was more excited than I expected I would be just buying the damn thing, and it wasn’t even for me!?!!

I’ve always struggled with being a mother… truth be told, I’ve never believed myself to be very good at it. One reason: I’m extremely impatient. I hold my kid to the same unreasonable standard I hold myself – the irony being, I have significant self-esteem issues which means I can never measure up – so you can imagine how hard I must ride him! It can never be good enough, and it certainly can’t happen fast enough. Another reason: my mother wasn’t very good at the job either, so everything I did learn about parenting is negative – punishments, yelling, anger, commands which must be obeyed immediately – you get the picture. Not a lot of room for warmth and support. “Love is for sissies! Suck it up, you big loser!”

This problem has been with me for my entire life. I consider myself pretty good at working through my problems (lots of opportunity!), but the resolution of this particular one has always eluded me. I am a master communicator with everyone else on the entire planet, but with Christopher… I won’t allow myself to connect on any meaningful level. My little voice (you know, that one inside you that tells you when you are being an idiot – that blatantly honest one) will be screaming and cursing at me to loosen up, crack a smile, laugh, stop working for a minute and LISTEN! and I will stubbornly refuse to acknowledge it. It’s not that I don’t love my son, I do. It’s that I don’t love myself. I have spent countless hours trying to deconstruct my behavior, my feelings, my thoughts on the subject. I finally decided that I have so much rage, fear, and hurt buried deep inside that is so painful to face, so much white-hot hatred at my own mother for not being the “perfect mom” she pretended to be for all of my friends, disbelief that I was such a rotten kid that I didn’t deserve to be loved… I think I’ve gone into survival mode; now as an adult and also a mother who can’t figure out how to get out from underneath the shadows of the past and accept the fact that she deserves this great kid as much as he deserves all the best parts of HIS mom.

As fate would have it, I recently decided to try to be more productive in terms of work (I’m one of those self-employed people, not a regular nine-to-fiver), so I joined a business networking group. One of the members of this group is a hypnotherapist. Her name is Sasha Carrion. For those of you who don’t know a damn thing about hypnotherapy, you can read about it here: http://www.sashacarrion.com/index.html but basically if you think of your brain as this super-computer (a la Matrix), hypnotherapy allows you to take out the “bad” programs you have stored in there and replace them with some other “good” programs. Which means all kinds of people can fix all sorts of things, like smoking or overeating, or helps a person figure stuff out like “Why do I keep dating all the losers?” It can also help someone to eliminate phobias, like the fear of flying.

So a few weeks ago I went to visit Sasha, and I let her try and hypnotize me (remember my philosophy: “Try most things at least once.”). I use the word “try” because I didn’t think it would work – not that I doubted her expertise in the matter, but because I know my brain, and it has a mind of its own (ba dum DAH!). Well, it took a bit of time – my brain put up a good fight – but Sasha was pretty patient, and I was hypnotized. It sounds crazy to talk about it, but really, being hypnotized (from my perspective) is simply becoming really, really focused; but what you are focused on is inside your head – nothing external. You can still hear what’s going on around you, you just aren’t paying any attention to it or giving it any energy. Sasha refers to this as a person’s “state of suggestibility.” We talked about my mother, and the words that came to my mind when I thought about her (all negative of course), and some of my long ago experiences that helped set the stage for the behavior I was acting out in my life… I was in tears for probably half the session. But Sasha planted a few seeds for me that day that I know took root, because I have seen things reflected in my behavior with Christopher since then: I’m more aware of trying to have conversations with him, I laugh when he says something funny – I even told him a funny story of my own and we shared a laugh together… what Sasha told me that day was that I’m NOT my mother; I am a good person, and I get to create new, happy memories with my son that he will be able to look back on when HE is an adult (this is significant, because one of my fears has always been Christopher will get old enough and decide to cut me out of his life, the way that I have cut my own mother out of mine).


I still have issues... life is full of issues, that’s what makes it thrilling and exciting. The difference is that THIS one – my mother issue – is evolving. And evolution is a good thing. But the best thing is, it’s not just TODAY’S accomplishment…

"Pure Reflection" by David Harris: CD Review

“Pure Reflection” produced and arranged by David Harris, manages to exceed his first solo effort, "Selah," by marrying the complementary, musically creative ability of guitarist Chris Pinnick to his own fantastically interpretive expression on keyboards. “Pure Reflection,” like its predecessor before it, is a compilation of standard spiritual pieces, familiar repertoire to David’s fans. Each of the eleven tracks evokes a comfortable recognition of David’s gift for story-telling through sound – the song might be familiar, but it is the delivery that touches to heart and mind of the listener; akin to a whisper, or lover’s caress.

Listening to this music penetrates deep into my subconscious. The use of dynamics reminds me of the ebb and flow of the ocean, and at alternate times when the music crescendos, I notice my breathing quickens and my senses are locked into the next crashing wave – both the keyboard and guitar following distinct melodic paths that intertwine and cross over each other, yet at the same time offer a synchronicity which feeds my hungry ears. The mental image which forms: it’s like watching two people dance – the tango, or the Paso Doble – two individuals completely in tune with what the other is doing, completely in the moment. The musicians themselves are simply the vehicles for the music emanating, swirling and filling the horizon, as the sunrise fills the horizon with light.

My favorite track – and I love them all – is “Open the Eyes of My Heart” – using the words of an appreciative audience member at a recent poetry event: “It feels like I’ve been on a long journey.” The changing scenery brings new and amazing sights, but the listener’s connection is never broken. The track ends with David alone on keyboard, pulling a contended sigh out of me as if awakening from a lovely dream.

As a singer, listening to this music inspires me to sing; not because it requires a human voice, but because the guitar and the keyboard are each voices in their own right. In fact, the two tracks which incorporate background vocals kind of shocked me – the vocals sounded like other instruments – which demonstrates how lyrical and cohesive this music is; a credit to David as a producer as much as he and Chris are musicians and artists.

When I first got a hold of “Selah” I listened to it for at least six months. I can’t even guess how long I will be listening to “Pure Reflection.”

Everybody Needs A Weekend Retreat

I just wrapped up a weekend visiting my friends Ellen and Jeff in Ojai. For those of you who don't know where Ojai is, it's up past Ventura, 20 miles or so east of the 101 freeway. Famous people live there, like Ted Danson and Reese Witherspoon. It's a "small town" kind of place, green and "homey"-looking, where they pave their roads to go around oak trees (they don't cut down oaks in Ojai, so you might be driving along and all of a sudden there's this huge oak tree right in the middle of the street, which you must then drive around to get by). It's a cool place to spend a weekend; about two to three hours by car, which gives me a chance to listen to the CDs I've picked up recently but haven't had the chance to really listen to.

Ojai's kind of growing on me. I've been there a handful of times - a couple times with the Bunny - and with every visit it feels more familiar; I feel more connected, for lack of a better word. Ellen and Jeff have hinted that I should move there - especially at this stage of my life, suddenly single and my kid almost grown enough to be on his own - but the excuse I usually give is "all the things I'm involved in" are near where I currently live. But this seed was planted a while ago, and it's had a chance to sprout. I found my mind wandering on my drive home tonight; thinking of the life I had, the plans I had, and also of that big, scary cliff waiting for me to jump off (remember that one? It was a few posts back). I realized that although I wasn't really aware of it, my subconscious had silently been working to disengage my mental hold on the original game plan - the one that no longer applied now that the players had changed. The revelation was exciting and frightening at the same time.

I can literally do anything I want now. What the hell do I want to do with my life? Sure, with the Bunny around, I had it all figured out. Sure, with the Bunny gone, I was annoyed and frustrated that I spent the whole first part of my life getting things all figured out and setting it up perfectly, and here I am again, back at square one. How frigging unfair is that!???! And then my little voice whispers to me, yea, and who ever said life was fair? SHUT UP!... but you know, as trite as that saying is... it's absolutely true. And my life is not immune.

So now, it's up to me. What I get to do with the rest of my life is completely up to me and nobody else. What a crazy idea! But if that's one thing I'm really good at, it's ideas. "Creative brainstorming" - something I've been practicing and perfecting and am now going to use specifically for my own personal benefit. Will I make mistakes, sure - nobody's perfect. But I won't have regrets. I won't look back and see a girl who had lots of unrealized potential, who couldn't acheive anything because she was emotionally devastated by the loss of her husband. She lost him, yes. But she owes him, too. He made it safe for her to be who she was, and he made her strong enough to keep on that path even going it alone.

I still cry about it; the fact that the Bunny isn't here - I miss him. But tomorrow is another day, and I've got a lot of new ideas...

The Church Stalker

So here's a not-so-funny story: I have my own stalker. Of all places I picked him up - church. Ironic, huh? Anyway, being the friendly, happy girl that I am and not realizing that everyone who attends church does NOT have a good heart or noble intentions, this gentleman crossed my path over a year ago. I am part of my church's music ministry in which I participate as a member of our choir as well as occasional cantor (the cantor is the person who leads the assembly in singing hymns during church services). In the beginning I would invariably greet my stalker - we'll call him Chuck - at the service he regularly attended on Sundays, and he would be effusive about how beautifully I sang, and how he loved to come to church and see me, etc. This exchange would typically be accompanied by a hug - now remember! I am one of those "no touchie" girls, but my thought process at the time was, "We are at church, what's the harm, I can handle it," Weeks went by, and I progressively became less and less comfortable with this pattern. There were also comments Chuck would make in passing that I felt were not very appropriate for him to make as a married man at least 20 to 30 years my senior, particularly when I made it clear I was a happily married woman (the Bunny was not a churchgoer).

I remember talking to the Bunny about the goings on, and his response to me was, "Babe, you just gotta tell this guy to back off.. don't get all flowery with the words," (my tendency to do on occasion, particularly if I find myself needing to communicate something that might be perceived as negative or confrontational). Believe me, I tried! Chuck invited me to go have lunch with him (to which I said "no"), he told me if he were 20 years younger he would give the Bunny "a run for his money", he would comment on the clothes I was wearing on any given Sunday - one day in response to one such comment, I came out and said something to the effect of, "You know, my husband really wouldn't like that." Chuck had the balls to tell me: "Well, I don't see him here (meaning at church)."

I even went so far as to physically bring the Bunny into church after the service had ended and introduced him personally to Chuck - twice. Nothing changed. My Sunday attendance began to slip, and when I was scheduled to cantor I would quickly gather my music and race out at the earliest opportunity, just so I could avoid being approached by the guy. I won't get into the details here, but Chuck also obtained my email address and cell phone number, and I would get emails and voicemails all throughout this period - mostly which I ignored. By now, some of my friends in the music ministry were aware of my situation, and helped me by playing "interference" whenever they could. I had raised the issue with the Pastor at one point, but didn't really get much help or support from that end so I never brought it up to him again.

The day comes that my Bunny is involved in his accident. Three weeks in ICU, and my husband is dead. This asshole, this bastard motherfucker, comes up to me probably a week after and asks me, "Shirley, are you still mourning?" I was shocked into speechlessness. Shortly after this incident, I had (along with one of my music ministry friends in attendance) what I would describe as a "hysterical outburst" at which time I looked Chuck dead in the eyes and forbid him to ever attempt to speak to me again. Ever. He tried to give me some explanation, and I stopped it by holding up my hand. "Never again!" I said, and I turned and left, starting a month-long sabbatical away from the church.

I slowly made my way back to the music ministry, because the truth is, I really love to sing. I felt a little more emotionally "together," and Chuck was smart to steer clear of me lately. Then, out of the blue, approximately two weeks ago, I get an email; Chuck wanting to know what he did to piss me off, at the same time mentioning, "You looked great at church today, you've lost weight?" I don't respond. Which brings us to today, and another email: "I can't live normally with someone angry with me and I don't know why... just smile and I will know you have forgiven me." I still don't intend to respond. But in my mind, the message I would like to be able to communicate is this: "If anything, I see it as a complete waste that you stand here, breathing in front of me when my husband is dead. You are nothing to me. How you live - normal or otherwise - is absolutely none of my concern. Just as my life is absolutely none of your concern. Go away, drop dead, just leave me the fuck alone."

I WISH I could communicate this.

I Have To Do.... WHAT??!!?

So my philosophy of life is this: "Try most things at least once." This way, I'm not locked into anything, but I am constantly exposed to new experiences and situations so I don't miss out on something important that might actually turn out to be a lot of fun. "Massage" turned out to be one of those fun things.

For those of you who have never had the luxury of experiencing a massage from a professional massage therapist, I guarantee you it's not what you imagine it to be. I am one of those poor, unfortunate souls who have issues with people "touching" them (read: I don't like it and avoid it whenever possible) from either negative experiences during my formative years, or mind-programming mostly using my own imagination... in any case, there was "no way, no how" I was going to go and pay some stranger to put their hands all over my body. NOOOOOO way!

However, circumstances conspired to put me in a place where I began to consider trying massage "at least once," per my previously stated rule. I talked to my friends that had received massages before, and they all assured me "Oh, you are going to LOVE it!" all the while I am thinking in my head, yea, sure, of COURSE you would say that - but I am absolutely positive I won't "love" it. I especially didn't think I would love it when, in the course of my research, I found out that to properly be massaged you have to be naked (yes, as in "no clothes on" whatsoever) - the only thing standing in the way of you and this stranger is one thin sheet. Where is that phrase I used earlier? Oh yes: NO WAY, NO HOW!

So here's what REALLY happened: I walked into the office at the appointed time. The massage therapist - a young, soft-spoken black girl in her mid-twenties - walks me back to the massage room. There are pictures of tropical fish on the walls, and on one side a wall mural depicting an under water seascape, complete with dolphins. Smiling dolphins, no less. There are three or four small lamps on the far counter (they look like rocks and glow from within when you turn them on), and there is a small portable radio playing soft music. She instructs me to disrobe - there are hangers so my clothes don't get all wrinkled - and to lay down between the two sheets covering the massage table, face down (for those of you who have never seen a massage table, it is constructed in such a way where your face can see through an opening where your head is supposed to be faced down - Google "massage table" for a picture - worth a thousand words). So I get ready, I hear a gentle knock on the door, she comes back in and gets immediately to work: kneading, rolling, percussion, compression (all big "massage" words) - and I am just chatting non-stop, like I am sitting in the salon getting my hair done. If she needed a limb, she would simply uncover it and work out all the kinks, then stick it back under the sheet and move on to some other body part. I never felt uncomfortable, or self-conscious, or otherwise violated in any way. In fact, I would tell her at various stages "Hey?!!? That feels good? What are you doing?" I could literally feel my muscles and tendons moving around beneath my skin as she worked to loosen them up. It was quite an experience. I remember talking with someone a few weeks earlier about this idea of getting a massage, and to my thought that it was "too intimate" he told me "No, it's theraputic.." And that's exactly the right word to describe it: theraputic.

I was happily suprised to discover I am not "the ball of nerves" I originally thought I was; all my stress is in my neck and shoulders (probably with all the hours I spend hunched over my laptop!). I told the massage therapist she would definately be seeing me again in her lifetime. Am I still a little sketchy about people touching me? Maybe. But the benefits of massage definately outweigh the sketchiness, and I have a real experience to file in my memory banks to destroy all my previous misinformed notions.

The secret to a happy and fulfilled life: "Try most things at least once."

Born Again

No, that isn't a religious affiliation... it's a reference to myself, figuratively balanced on the edge of a very steep, very scary-looking cliff - knowing I must throw myself over at some point, but not quite mustering up the courage just yet. In the lyrics of one of my favorite Semisonic songs: "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end" - if you spend any time at all reading these posts, this tendency to quote song lyrics will become quite familiar to you. Music is very much a part of my life, on par with those other luxuries referred to as "air" and "food."

Flashback to a year ago, I was deliriously happy... happily married to my husband, who I lovingly addressed as "the Bunny" and will continue to do so here. In the same breath I can call him a bastard - bastard for loving to ride motorcycles, the activity that directly contributed to his death - but I loved him in spite of this flaw. All kidding aside, he was passionate about his bike - the same passion he brought to many things in our life together - and to have denied him the pleasure of doing something he loved was not within my spirit to do. Even knowing how it would all turn out in the end. He died on December 7th at the end of last year - the same date as the bombing of Pearl Harbor back in 1941 - as if somehow this makes his death more meaningful or important. It doesn't really; but at least in my mind it anchors to some other, larger devastation as if to give me something relative to make a comparison, as if through that comparison my loss won't be as earth-shattering... but it doesn't help. My natural world has been raped by a nuclear device. All the green is gone - not forever, mind you, but for the moment.

Not a really happy and positive way to start out my first blog... but I promise I'll get progressively better.