My laptop was out of commission for the past two weeks. Which spurred me on to decide something I'd been contemplating for a while, which is to stop blogging for now.
I've had such great support from so many people out there in blogland, and it's been a wonderful experience. Thank you to everyone who's read and commented and allowed me to share my world, and to those of you out there who've shared your worlds with me.
Virtual hugs to all!
It is incredible how fast word spreads on Martha's Vineyard. Of course, like everywhere else, the important thing to remember is that not all those words are true.
The library where I work is just down the road a piece from where the Obamas stay on the Vineyard. When I pulled into the parking lot last Thursday morning, the day the president was arriving, the first thing I noticed was the news trucks.
Plenty of them. Mostly white. At various intervals throughout the day some overdressed reporter would emerge and stand there in the glare of a spotlight while a camera guy filmed his or her every word.
Crowds gathered along the road, reportedly for miles (but that may be yet another exaggeration), lined up hoping to get a glimpse of the first family when they arrived for their own personal taste of island magic.
Looking out our library windows didn't yield much information, but our patrons, thank goodness, were happy to share any tidbits of intelligence they'd gleaned, whether these were actually true or not.
Obama had arrived, came one early report, and apparently the car he was riding in had guns pointing out every window.
??? Okay.
That report was soon demolished by the word that it wasn't the prez who'd arrived, but Michelle and their daughters, and they'd smiled and waved good-naturedly at the crowds along the road.
So much for the smoking guns, I thought. Although that particular report about guns pointing out car windows would surface again and again over the week, till I finally concluded it must contain some grain of truth.
Later on that first day, a patron came in smiling broadly. "I didn't even know he was coming," she confessed. "And then there he is going by in a car as I arrived. How cool is that?"
Pretty cool if you ask me.
Whether you agree with him politically or not, it's hard to shrug off the desire to obtain a genuine presidential sighting. I mean, my goodness, he's right here. Where I live. A real live president.
The reports of his whereabouts fly back and forth throughout the day. Facebook statuses, texts, calls from the kids and their friends. As to what's actually true, your guess is as good as mine.
They closed off the road while we were having dinner out the other night and I got very excited. But alas, within an hour it had reopened with no sign whatsoever of the leader of the free world.
Time is growing short, I know. His Vineyard vacation is almost over. I do promise, however, that if I actually lay eyes upon him, you'll be the first (okay, maybe the second) to know.
I've never been a "Mrs." I don't have anything against it. It's just not for me.
I didn't change my name when I got married. It didn't feel right. So I admit I feel myself bristle the littlest bit when someone calls me Mrs. So-and-so, whether they use my name or The Ex's.
I guess it's always bothered me somewhat that a woman was supposed to change not only her name, but the manner in which she was addressed, simply because she got married.
And a man? No such change. What's that about?
I have this amazing aunt. She's the one who took us to museums and shows, and bought us the best books and music when my sister and I were kids.
Some time in the early 70's, she started addressing all our correspondence to Ms. Hall instead of Miss Hall.
"What does that mean?" I remember asking my mother.
And she went into an explanation that I recall included something about Women's Lib, Gloria Steinem, and this new solution that grouped all the Mrs and Misses into one category, kind of like the Mr's. She remarked that many people were sure it wouldn't last.
I don't remember having much of an opinion about it either way at the time. But I think it sort of grew on me. I liked being Ms Hall. And it appears, for the most part, that the Ms thing seems to have stood the test of time.
When I worked at the Vineyard high school out here, none of the kids had any problem with it. In fact, they pretty much called all of their female teachers "Mizz," or Ms, no matter what their prefix was. None of the Mrs seemed upset by this.
Maybe we're just all more laid back these days when it comes to names and labels.
What do you think?
Mrs?... Ms?
How do you want to be addressed?
A couple weeks ago I took the kids to see Bon Jovi in concert. At Gillette Stadium, home of the New England Patriots.
I have a long history with Jon Bon Jovi. Whether he realizes it or not. Sure, he's my age, and yes, it's partly the New Jersey thing, but it's bigger than that.
I was a young RN, maybe 24, working on pediatrics. We got a kid in, a 13 year old with beautiful dark eyes and a horrific brain tumor. Melaina was an only child, and for weeks after her tumor was surgically removed both parents sat by her bed as she slowly returned to consciousness.
The walls in her hospital room were plastered with posters of some new rock band, Bon Jovi. I had never heard of them and, to be honest, from the posters I couldn't easily tell if the beautiful lead singer was a man or a woman, with his long curly hair and smooth baby face.
With all the wisdom of my years I laughed off Malaina's infatuation with this clearly fly-by-night band, whose music I was sure I didn't know, and whose members sported what, even at the time, could only be called really bad 80's perms.
Then one night I showed up for my shift and the unit was all abuzz. It seemed that only hours earlier, completely out of the blue, Jon Bon Jovi and his band mate Richie Sambora had walked onto the peds floor to visit Melaina.
They sat and talked to her and her parents, brought her gifts, and posed for her parents to snap photos. Apparently someone had informed them that their biggest fan was very ill and they'd decided to make her dreams come true.
They came alone and stayed long enough to enchant not only Melaina and her parents, but all the nurses on pediatrics. There were no publicists, no reporters along for the ride. This was long before the internet, but nothing ever appeared in the news. It was clear their visit was no publicity stunt.
I was impressed. However young or androgynous the guy appeared in his poster, apparently he was a genuinely caring person.
After that I started noticing their music. Everywhere. And I liked it. As the years rolled by I bought one album after another. My kids have been singing his lyrics since they knew how to speak.
They laughed at how excited I got seeing him in concert. But they stood there singing with me the whole time. The band was really on that night; Jon Bon Jovi didn't seem to want to leave the stage. Even First-Born Son had to admit the guy, "puts on a great show."
It's fun to imagine what the celebrities we admire might really be like, but we rarely get an actual glimpse of who they are. Jon Bon Jovi probably doesn't even remember that he visited a sick little girl in a New Jersey hospital almost 25 years ago.
But me? I'll never forget it.
My mother called to tell me my father had died. I was at work. At the library.
I needed to get off the island to reach her. Now. "You should just wait and come with the kids for the funeral," she told me, putting up the bravest front.
But "No," I insisted. "I don't want you to be alone."
"Okay." Her voice cracked. "Thank you."
I needed to leave work. Figure out what boat might take me over to the mainland in time to meet which bus to get me to the airport to catch whatever plane would get me to Florida where I would need a car to reach my parents' house.
Except that now it was only my mother's house.
Then Daughter #2 called me. From the road, one town over in Vineyard Haven. She was hiking towards the nearest bus stop, in tears over her grandfather, and trying to get home. I told her to sit tight till I got there.
When we were finally headed home together I asked why she hadn't kept her original plan and continued on to the beach with her BF.
"It's not like there's anything you can do at home right now," I explained. "I don't want you just sitting there being sad."
"But." She paused and looked over at me, and her blue eyes filled. "I didn't want you to be alone."
"Oh." I managed to keep my voice steady. "Thank you."
At home my mind was a big fat jumble. Then I phoned The Ex. He is the one person I know who knows all there is to know about catching boats to buses to planes to cars. The Ex travels for a living. George Clooney's character in Up In the Air is, essentially, his life. He is the road-warrior extrordinaire.
"Don't worry," he told me. "I've got it." And, for once, he did.
By chance he was off-island on a job in Massachusetts, an hour from the boat. So he was there waiting when I dragged my hastily packed suitcase off the ferry in Woods Hole. He drove me to Logan. Got me on an earlier flight to Florida. Arranged for a car to be waiting in Orlando.
I cringed when he told the woman behind the JetBlue counter in Boston that my father had just died. I've never played well with strangers, let alone shared my personal tragedies.
But this woman, this stranger, changed my ticket, closed down her computer station, and personally escorted me past the long lines through security, where she assisted me in loading up the gray buckets with my shoes and laptop and quart-sized baggie.
I never even got her name.
What is is about kindness that rips through the bullshit and reaches right inside our hearts, leaving us raw and exposed, stripped down to our essential selves?
And however would we get by without it?
Thank you so very very much for your loving supportive comments and emails these last weeks. You out there are an amazing bunch of people and I am privileged to know you.
God, I hate sharing bad news. My dad died Monday morning and I'm down in Florida with my mom. So I won't be posting or around visiting and commenting on all your lovely sites for a bit.
I know many of you have lost a parent and, let's face it, we've all lost someone, so I know you know how I'm feeling. And I thank you in advance for your kind thoughts and well-wishes. You are all wonderful, loyal bloggy buds.
I ran this post last year on my father, and I hope you'll indulge me for repeating it now as a small homage to a man who meant the world to me.
**********************
This is a story about a man and his flashlight.
When I was growing up, my father's flashlight was legendary. Every night he put the house to bed, turning out the lights and locking the doors. Then he would switch on his flashlight to check on me and my sister.
Mostly we were asleep, but I have memories of lying there, with my eyes squinted shut in the darkness, as the beam of his flashlight played across the room. It made us feel secure and loved; nothing could go wrong while my father was on duty.
For a time, my sister and I shared a room with bunk beds. One night I tossed my prized stuffed doll up at her on the top bunk. As she dangled it back down the side at me, we both pulled on it and an arm tore off.
I was devastated. I lay there, forcing my eyes to stay open, waiting for my father to make his rounds and check on us before he went to bed. Finally the door knob turned and the light hit me, awake in my bunk. In tears, I held out the doll and its amputated limb.
My mother had that arm reattached by the time I woke up the next morning.
One of our holiday traditions, and one that I've continued with my own kids, was for my father to read us The Night Before Christmas every Christmas Eve. Except that he did it by flashlight, while we lay in bed in the dark. He did the same thing the night before Easter, with our big book Here Comes Peter Cottontail.
He was the parent in charge of bad dreams. When I awoke, trembling, and called out, my father would appear, his flashlight lighting the way. He never seemed tired or impatient as he sat on the bed, talking to me in the flickering darkness until I felt safe enough to go back to sleep. It was a side of him I seldom saw during daylight hours.
Me, I don't use flashlights very often. I have a couple around for blackouts, yet I'm more of a feel-my-way-around-in-the-dark-kind of girl.
But when Daughter #2 and I were down in Florida staying with my parents last year, and I saw my father still using one every night as he closed up the house, the memories came flooding back. My daughter did not understand how I could be sentimental over a flashlight.
But I knew, without a doubt, that I would sleep safe and sound the whole time I was there.
The past couple of weeks here on Martha's Vineyard have been some of the hottest I can remember.
I'm not complaining; I like a little heat. Growing up in NJ I was used to steamy summers. And when the kids were small our little house was often sealed up for days against the heat, air conditioning running day and night.
This is our 10th summer living on the Vineyard. There's not a lot of air conditioning out here. We just open all the doors and windows and let in that amazing sea breeze. Maybe turn on a fan or two when the temps crawl over 80.
But the thermometer in my back window has hit well over 90 several days recently, and over 100 at least twice. And suddenly my children (and I use the term loosely as they're 16, 19, and 22) morph from rather reasonably articulate beings into whining spoiled toddlers.
"It's sooo HOT. I'm dying," my youngest moans yet again, sprawling across the family room couch with about 10 (okay, four) fans blowing directly upon her. "Can you please put in an air conditioner?"
She is referring to the small window air conditioner we have stored in the garage that once spent its summers in a NJ attic bedroom.
But for some reason I dig in my heels. It's not that uncomfortable with all the fans going. I mean, you don't really need to hear yourself think over the whirring of the fan blades, right? And if I put in the air conditioner I'd have to hang up sheets in doorways to trap the cool air in the family room and keep it from drifting off into the rest of my sauna-like house.
"Why don't you hang out in the basement?" I offer one more time. This is actually a great idea. The basement is finished and has a wonderful cozy room complete with couches and TV and a game system. Most importantly, it's nice and cool.
"I don't want to be in the basement. I want to be up here," she wails. "But it's too hot."
Kids today.
When I was growing up we didn't have any AC. Just a pitiful attic fan that my parents pretended actually made our nights a little less unbearable when all it really did was blow hot air around.
My mother would command my sister and I to strip to our underwear and go play in our unfinished concrete basement to keep cool. Sure it was dark down there, but it was at least 10 degrees cooler than the rest of the house.
If we were really lucky she'd turn the hose on us or set up the sprinkler. Or maybe even send us over to call on the trashy neighbors she didn't approve of, but who had a swimming pool.
Do my children realize how fortunate they are to live on an island off the coast of New England? Are they aware how much hotter it is in-land? And how lucky they are to have a pool, a cool finished basement, and the promise of cooler nights, courtesy of the ocean mist that rolls in like clockwork each evening?
No, of course they don't. Because lord knows, each of them has at least one friend with AC so why can't we have it too? Maybe if they were over 65 and had heart conditions I'd consider it. But I'll choose to be stubborn on this one.
"You'll live," I tell my daughter, channeling my mother.
And perhaps, in the meantime, I'll take her out for some ice cream. Ice cream, I believe, makes everyone happy.
And... the store has air conditioning.
How are you surviving the weather where you live this summer?
So, we took the dog for her yearly checkup and the vet discovered she'd dropped 15 pounds.
Fifteen pounds!
The vet was very excited about it, congratulating us for being such conscientious pet owners.
I hadn't really thought Savannah needed to lose weight last year, but if they were happy, I was happy too. I'm easy that way.
The only thing was, I couldn't figure out how the damn dog had lost all that weight. I've been giving her the same amount of dog food each day, every day, for years. It's not like she's started training for a marathon or anything. At least, not that I know of.
"Well, whatever it is," the vet said enthusiastically, "keep doing it."
Sure, easy for him to say.
But then Daughter #2, brilliant sleuth that she apparently is, experienced an Ah-ha moment.
"It's Daughter #1," she exclaimed. "She went away to college. She's always the one who gave Savannah too much food."
Well, I'll be damned, she was absolutely right. Daughter #1 not only provides Savannah with too much kibble when it's her turn to feed her, but she's the only one of us who regularly slips her forbidden human treats.
It's like how I used to nag all three of my kids about the way they seemed to trash their bathroom. First-Born Son vehemently denied having anything to do with the mess, but as a wise and weathered mom I found that impossible to believe.
Until he went away to college that first year. It then became abundantly clear that his sisters were slobbing up the kids bathroom totally and completely on their own.
First-Born Son was self righteously thrilled to be exonerated, and I really couldn't blame him. It's a good thing I'm so seldom wrong like that.
So. Another mystery solved.
If only moms could drop a little extra weight when their kids went away to college each year. Not only would it soften the blow of missing them, but just think of what a happier place the world might be.
We get to post an original poem for this week's Spin Cycle, and I chose one of mine that I think speaks to this midway point I find myself at, both in mothering and in life.
Without Them
I count on so much:
Wiping away tears when you take your vows,
unable to vanquish your chocolate-stained
two-and-a-half year-old face from my brain.
Watching you hold your newborn,
enlightenment dawning in your exhausted eyes.
You visiting me, old and ancient enough
for you to spoon pudding into my mouth
as we sit and watch movies, arms touching
till I nod off.
My love for you is the standard
by which all emotions are sifted, measured;
it appears I could not live without it.
And while that might be an illusion,
surely without you it would not be life.
It would be something long and treacherous.
A winding mountain road in a blizzard,
to be endured, slogged through,
knowing that windshield wipers are useless
and headlights will never allow more than
a few feet of visibility-
not nearly enough to show clearly that what comes next
may not always be more of the same.
For more Poetry Spins please go visit Sprite's Keeper.
I had an email from an old friend from New Jersey last week. One of my best friends.
Her middle son will be going to college in Boston next fall, a stone's throw away from Martha's Vineyard. And her oldest just graduated from Rutgers.
She sent photos of her three boys at the graduation. The pictures made me cry.
I still remember the day I saw her pull into the driveway of the house across the street, the house she was moving into.
I grabbed First-Born Son, who was four at the time, and ran across the road to say hello. She had one son balanced on her hip, another at her side. It turned out they were were locked out of the house and her five year-old needed to pee. Now.
So they came back across the street with us, and the rest, as they say, is history.
It is always this time of year, right around the time I moved away, that I miss her most. Miss her, miss New Jersey.
Don't get me wrong, I love Martha's Vineyard, and moving here is the best thing I ever did. But I see the photos she sent and I am transported back in time.
A time filled with sweet baby faces and small sticky hands. Backyard barbecues and wading pools. Christmas cookies and birthday parties.
But also, there was my crumbling marriage. And the fifty-odd parenting crises each week. The angst over careers and writing, and what was it we wanted to do with the rest of our lives.
She was there for all of it. Even when she had no idea what I was going through, it helped to know she was just across the street. And all I had to do was look out my windows and see the lights on in hers.
How is it possible that both of our oldest children are young men in their early 20's when it seems like only last month they were conducting scientific experiments with kitchen products in my bathtub?
We have navigated this last almost-decade of our lives without the benefit of daily sightings and weekly check-ins. But some bonds, because of where we're at and who we are at the time they're formed, remain steady for life.
Bullet-proof, like Superman. If he was lucky enough, and strong enough, to be a woman.
First-Born Son recently went with his GF's family on their annual vacation to the Outer Banks. He was gone for almost two weeks and he barely called the whole time.
I know, I know; he's 22, I'm expecting too much. Damn straight!
Apparently cell phone service was difficult to come by. "Have you ever heard of a pay phone?" I asked. "I don't suppose you looked for one of those?"
"A pay phone?" Even through the phone I could hear him shaking his head, albeit with great affection. "You're funny Mom."
Well, I thought, anything to entertain.
He went on to tell me what a great time they were having. How wonderfully he was getting along with the family. Everyone was taking turns cooking dinner and it was his turn that night. He had to get off the phone so he and the GF could go food shopping.
I was happy for him, really I was. Yet at the same time microscopic pinpricks of jealousy jabbed at my heart.
He liked their family better than ours. He wanted to be with them more than us.
I envisioned us, years down the road, me begging him to come visit. So I could see him, see my grandchildren. Him patiently explaining that they had "other plans."
You don't have to tell me I'm a big fat irrational baby; I've got it. But I can't help it.
"It's the potato-chips-on-the-beach-blanket all over again," The Ex said, when I confessed my petty complaint.
He was right.
It's always been like this with First-Born Son. When we brought him to the beach as a baby, we couldn't keep him on our beach blanket. He'd crawl off across the sand to someone else's. Someone with a better blanket, one offering oreos or potato chips.
"Oh, you can leave him here. Please, " people would say when we tried to retrieve him. "We love having him."
That's always been the problem. Everyone loves having him. He's everyone's friend. The life of the party.
So it's not as though I haven't had lots of practice sharing him with the world over the years. Whether I wanted to or not.
But he's so seldom home these days. And even when he's here, he's not really here. His heart is in NYC. With his friends, his work in film school, his beloved GF.
As it should be.
There will always be another beach blanket to crawl off to. One with better chips than we could possibly ever have. I know that.
But it doesn't mean I have to like it.
Anyone who's read this blog for any length of time can figure out I have a pretty amicable relationship with my kids' father, otherwise known as The Ex.
The kids were only 3, 6, and 10 when we split, and I couldn't bear the thought of dividing up the holidays or them having two separate birthday parties every year. So I sucked it up and tried to keep things civil.
Make no mistake, I'd heard all the horror stories regarding divorce. Bills that never got paid, custody nightmares, support payments that never arrived. For years it seemed, part of me stayed on the alert, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop. Yet it never did and somehow, as time went by, The Ex and I managed to become friends.
Things were still on a little shakier ground, however, that first Father's Day after the marriage ended. I was in the middle of trying to adopt a new cat for the kids and it turned out we had to act that weekend or someone else was going to get the very same kitten I thought we wanted.
Overwhelmed at the thought of doing this with all three kids on my own, I asked The Ex if he would mind spending his Father's Day helping out. He was willing, and the afternoon turned into one long kitty odyssey, checking out various potential pets, and ending with all five of us back at the house eating dinner as we watched our two new kittens, Checkers and Lulu, pounce on one another again and again before finally curling up into one endless fur-ball and drifting off to sleep.
So it was fitting this past Father's Day, last Sunday, that we were all together once more when we buried Checkers, out in a shady section of woods in the yard, back beyond the pool. It was like the day we adopted him and his sister, just the five of us. Me, Daughters #1 and 2, First-Born Son, and The Ex.
He dug the hole. Built the wooden box we laid Checkers in, and, on Daughter #1's request, burned Checker's name into the top. Again, maybe not the best way to spend one's Father's Day, but we were glad he was there.
The marriage may not have been built to last, but the family, apparently, was.
For more Father's Day Spins, head on over to Sprite's Keeper.
On my latest visit to Manhattan, we took in an exhibit at The Metropolitan Museum of Art on American women and fashion.
There were photos, video, and actual pieces of clothing, including shoes and accessories, from the last decades of the 19th century through the 1930's. There were bustles and corsets, gowns that pushed breasts up enhancing them, and those that flattened them completely, all in the name of style.
I found it fascinating. Whether we consider ourselves fashionistas or completely hopeless in this department, we are all of us defined in some way by the fashions of our time.
It was particularly interesting to read the historical information included with each decade's pieces, reflecting on how the trends may have affected, or been affected by, the current political climate and society's attitudes toward women.
Is it a coincidence that skirts were raised and hair bobbed after women got the vote? At this same time fashion also dictated that voluptuous women bind their breasts, perhaps eschewing all that was blatantly feminine, yet simultaneously rejecting, in some way, part of what defines us physically as women.
My grandmother, pictured above (on the right) with her sister (in the middle) and a friend in the early 20's, once confided to me that she felt flattening her bosom this way had "ruined" her breasts for life.
Ironically, by the 30's and the golden movie star era, curves were being celebrated like never before and starlets like Rita Hayworth were swinging their hips in incredibly clingy gowns with plunging necklines.
The exhibit ended there, leading me to hope that in the future there'll be another, maybe featuring fashion from the WWII years on through the glamorous 50's, flower-children 60's, and bra-burning 70's.
I admit to occasionally going bra-less in the late 70's, but my mother very vocally disapproved, and I believe my 48 year-old breasts thank me emphatically today for not making this a habit.
At the end of the exhibit we found ourselves in a circular room with a continuous slide show on all sides, flashing shots of famous women and fashion over the years. There were suffragettes marching in their long Gibson Girl dresses and huge hats, Marilyn Monroe in that memorable pink gown, and Michelle Obama striding down the road in her yellow coat on Inauguration Day.
All the while, the song American Woman blasted out as we turned round and round, absorbing the show on every side. Gazing upon each of these exquisitely memorable women and this amazing parade of individual style over the years.
It made me proud to be a woman. No matter what I decide to wear.
For this week's Spin Cycle Jen is assigning topics randomly or upon request. She's a little wild and crazy that way. When you're done here go see what she's thrown at other bloggers. She hit me with Happiness and for a couple of days I was truly stumped.
Happiness is such an arbitrary and often elusive concept. We're all so sure we'll finally be happy if we just reach some magic place in our lives: get married, have 2.3 babies, buy that house, get that promotion, lose 10 pounds.
And then, when it happens, we wonder why our life hasn't suddenly transformed into the last five minutes of a Disney movie.
It seems the older I get the happier I am. I've noticed it tends to be the little things that lead me there as I go about my life each day. Tiny moments of grace.
Right now, one of our five cats, Checkers, is very sick. I'm pretty sure he's not going to make it.
We adopted Checkers, and his sister Lula Bell, 12 years ago this month. In large part they were a consolation prize for my kids, First-Born Son especially, having to give up a dog that, even after months and months, was truly not working out.
My marriage had just ended and my guilt was enormous. First their father, now the dog; what additional torture could I force my children to endure?
We already had two cats so we only wanted one kitten. But of course there were the two littermates, inseparable we were told. Irresistable. We took them both.
And they are inseparable. Checkers and Lulu can be found daily in a heart-shaped heap on my bed, meticulously grooming one another before drifting off together to sleep. I't hard to tell where one little body ends and the next begins.
The kids and I call Checkers "a tool." You can throw a towel over his head and he will not move. Wrap him across your shoulders and wear him around the house. Yet the term is coined with great affection. He may be a tool, but he is our tool.
He's had a good life, Checkers has. Better than most people's. If this is his time to go, I tell my kids, then that's okay. Death is a part of life (cue violins). We've been lucky to have him. Blah, blah blah.
But I mean it. My cats are one of the things that bring me joy. Every day.
Maybe I'm getting simple-minded in my middle age. Maybe it's a pitiful shame that I'm so easily pleased. But I don't think so. Either way, I'll take it.
Tiny moments of grace. The key to happiness, mine, anyway. And whether Checkers makes it through this next week or not, I'll never be able to think of him without a smile on my face.
Thanks to a gentle nudge from Linda, I've recently updated my blog roll. I know, some bloggers could care less, while others are highly insulted if their name doesn't appear where they think it should. I couldn't believe how many wonderful bloggy buds I'd left off, and I'm afraid there may be more. So if you think you might be one of them, please let me know.
My marriage had been over for at least a couple of years when I had an interesting conversation with a married friend. We were discussing a new TV show about two divorced people and their budding romance.
"He's so good looking," I confided, referring to the actor in the lead role.
"Yeah, right," my friend agreed. "Like a guy that looks like that would be divorced and available in real life."
And we laughed.
But I couldn't get her comment out of my head. What was she actually saying? That only average or less than average looking people get divorced? That a good looking person would never be on the market for long?
I know she didn't mean to be insulting. But did it not occur to her she was talking to a divorced person who was herself "on the market?"
And while I'm not expecting to date a Hollywood hunk, I've yet to rule out meeting someone that might actually be physically attractive, at least to me.
Let's face it, society is often at a loss over what to do with divorced people, although why this is, I'm not entirely sure; there are certainly enough of us.
There were several friendships that fizzled out when my marriage ended. Part of me understands this. People that used to deal with us as a family or a couple suddenly had no idea what to do. Still invite both of us to a party? Invite only one person and potentially wound the other?
Or maybe do nothing and just let the whole relationship die a silent, never-to-be-discussed death?
Many people choose that last one. It's easier I guess, but disappointing. Hurtful.
Yet just as hurtful are the newer relationships, the ones where people have only known me as a single person yet, whether consciously or not, neglect to include me in plans that feature mostly couples, plans they wouldn't think twice about including me in if there was a guy in my life.
Are couples really that much more fun?? I've heard people say that they weren't sure a single woman would be comfortable at say, a dinner, with mostly couples.
Well, my reply would be: extend the invitation and find out. Or better yet, ask them straight out how they feel about it. Recently a friend did just that, ask me if I would be okay being the only single person at a dinner party. I was grateful for her honesty.
I've been "single" now for 13 years. At this rate it's entirely possible I may remain so for the rest of my days. If I wasn't comfortable going somewhere by myself, it'd be a really lonely life.
It's tricky to be a single middle-aged woman. I have to be hyper-aware of how I talk to other women's husbands, and I am always conscious of being observed, judged even, on an entirely different playing field.
Which is ironic, because the rule in my mind about married men is ironclad, and I am without question the least of any married woman's problems.
Although I consider myself reasonably attractive, looks aren't really the issue here. It's been my experience that there is no divorced woman hideous enough not to be considered a threat in the eyes of those married women who are insecure in either their marriages or themselves.
I confess, I wish the door could be blown wide open on this, that married women could express their feelings or fears, and divorced women could shout out, "Hello! I'm out here. I'm still a viable social human being. And not just on Girls Only nights out."
I keep saying women because I do believe, at its heart, it really is a woman's issue. We are the social secretaries of our marriages, our families...the world.
What do you think? Am I completely off base?
If you're divorced, are you regularly included in the plans of your married friends? And if you're married, do you see your single friends under different circumstances than you see your couples friends?
The topic for this week's Spin Cycle is Bonds. Which is ironic because Daughter #1 and I have been researching our family tree the past couple of months.
So far we've only gotten as far back as the early 1800's, but already I feel a bond with these ancestors I've never met and, in many cases, never even heard of.
My mother has often told me I remind her of her grandma, my own great grandmother, Catherine, who was reportedly a tall redhead who barely went gray, even as an old woman. But how fun it was then, to actually find a copy of her passport, on line, from the 1920's when she would have been in her mid 40's, and see that she was 5 foot 10 and still listed as a redhead.
I can thank her not only for contributing to my height, but for the fact that, at 48, there are still no gray hairs on my head.
The Belfast, Ireland census of 1911 gave me information about my father's parents who both grew up there. Although each of their mothers, my great grandmothers, was married and had children, neither of their husbands is listed as living in their houses with them. This, I know, is because they had to travel to England to find work and send money back to their families in Ireland.
There is a record of my grandfather having been being baptized in England, and I picture my great grandmother Elizabeth traveling all the way there with her two young daughters and infant son, to baptize this boy in a strange and distant church just so that her husband might be present for this important event.
I think of these two great grandmothers, Elizabeth and yet another Catherine, one taking in sewing and the other boarders, both essentially living day to day as single parents, and I can't help but feel a bond with them.
Like my sister and me, my maternal grandma had Rh negative blood. Very rare, but also genetically recessive. I know that in order to inherit this type of blood, the gene has to be passed down from both parents. My father, however, is unaware of any such family history on his side.
Yet it's worth noting that our family tree boasts no prolific families bursting with children on either side, although those were common enough for Irish Catholics back in the day. Which leads me to wonder if this Rh negative factor in our genes may have been an insidious contributing factor in limiting family size.
My grandma once confided to me that she and her mother both lost "blue babies," as they were called, because of their negative blood type. As a nurse I learned about this condition, where any mixing of Rh positive and negative blood between mother and baby, either during pregnancy and/or at delivery, not infrequently resulted in the baby's death from hemolytic anemia shortly after birth.
I received Rhogam, or Rh immunoglobulin, during each of my pregnancies to prevent this, and then again after the births of First-Born Son and Daughter #1, who both have Rh positive blood.
But The Ex, like my father, obviously has a hidden family gene, because Daughter #2 is Rh negative. Like me, and her great grandmother, and great great grandmother, and on and on. All the way back to the beginning of our family.
Pretty cool.
Some bonds in life we create. Others, it seems, create us.
For more Spins on Bonds, visit Sprite's Keeper.
I've decided to post only twice a week for the time being, a compromise which allows me to spend more time on some other writing projects, yet maintain my connection with all of you in Blog Land who have become such a part of my life. I know you understand. I promise that, although I may not be around quite as often, I will still be visiting each of you on a regular basis.
Recently I had to get most of my rather large backyard dug up to accommodate a new septic system, and with the ensuing mess and chaos, I couldn't help but think of my mother.
I have written before on my mother's fastidious neatness . It can only be described as over the top, if not slightly cuckoo.
My every instinct was to respond to the septic mess much like she would, angsting over the heavy machinery left in our yard for days, every breath terse with anxiety for the two months, from the time the yard was first dug up till finally the landscapers seeded the new lawn and replanted my beloved red maple tree.
But I refused to go there, to that place of eternal control where we are doomed to failure. Every time. Instead of lamenting my lack of a picture-perfect yard on Easter Sunday, we posed for photos on the heavy equipment and newly installed, but still exposed, septic tank itself.
When the sidewalk from the deck to the pool was accidentally broken to pieces I shrugged. Oh well, it can be fixed.
I recalled how determined my mother had been, some 35 years ago, that there were not to be any marks spoiling the freshly cemented sidewalk in front of our house when we were kids. We were off visiting my grandma the day the concrete was poured, so my mother made my father surround it with saw horses and caution tape. Then she paid two neighborhood boys five dollars each to guard it with their lives until we returned home late that night.
I know, nobody wants their sidewalk spoiled. Yet there's something awfully tempting about that smooth ivory surface, just begging for someone to leave a permanent engraving for the ages. Or at least until the next time a new sidewalk is laid.
With this in mind, I gulped and bit my tongue when Daughter #2 begged to make her mark on our freshly repaired back walkway.
Come on," she pleaded. "It'll be there even when we don't live here anymore. I can show my kids."
I took a deep breath and exhaled. My mother would so not approve. But I am not my mother.
"Okay," I told her. "But be neat. How about just your initials, and maybe the date?"
We walked outside together and surveyed the pristine, freshly laid cement rectangle. And then, feeling rather proud of myself, I handed her the stick.
When, recently, we were at a show in NYC, an usher came barreling down the aisle, leaned in, and announced loudly that we were in the wrong chairs and needed to move over. Not knowing if the number was on the right or left arm of the chair, it turned out that we were off by one, and we readily made the shift.
But the usher was still short one for the group she was attempting to seat. "You need to move," she barked, making a big show of counting the chairs between us. "You're still in the wrong seats."
At this point Daughter #1 probably would have gotten up and left the theater if it would've made this woman leave us alone. But I reached for our tickets. "No," I said firmly, "we're in the right seats."
She sighed heavily, rolled her eyes, and counted the number of seats out loud once more. "Do you even understand what I'm saying?" she growled.
After more counting and commanding it turned out that we were in the right place, but a woman next to us was not.
As I settled back into my chair, watching this poor soul fumbling to find her ticket, I couldn't help myself. I turned toward the usher, remarking, "You could be nicer about it."
She did not reply. But she did shut up.
Moments later, when the seating debacle had been all but forgotten, Daughter #1 turned to me and whispered, "You need to say four Our Fathers."
Penance? This from my daughter who doesn't even go to Mass, let alone Confession.
"For what?" I asked.
"For yelling at that usher," she said. Like I was about six years old.
Excuse me??
I hadn't yelled. I had stood up to an obnoxious, rude person who was certainly not behaving in a manner befitting her job description to patrons who had clearly purchased tickets or they would not have been admitted into the theater to begin with.
If anything, I was proud of what I'd said. I hope I've raised my kids not only to defend themselves, but to have the courage to defend others as well.
And here all Daughter #1 could see was an embarrassing mother. Normal, I know. But disappointing all the same.
"She was rude to us and mean to that woman," I told her. "And I didn't yell."
"Everyone was watching," she insisted.
"If that's true, then I'll bet they agree with me." I looked around. Started to get out of my seat. "Come on, let's ask them."
"No way." She grabbed my arm and pulled me down, alarm written all over her face.
I wouldn't have really done it. I was just getting back at her, trying to freak her out a little.
But I'll bet if we had asked them, you know whom they would have agreed with?
Our backyard pool was open for business this weekend and I was able to get in some swimming time.
I have this swim harness rigged up. Bungee cords attach to the fence on both sides of the pool, and then to a belt I clip around my hips. This way I can swim and swim without reaching the wall.
The water and the air are still chilly this time of year, and also in the fall, so I have a full-length wet suit. I'd post a picture but it's way too embarrassing. My kids can't look at me without shaking their heads.
But I don't care.
Swimming is my therapy. Both physical and psychological. And it's way cheaper than a shrink, as well as being great for the thighs and butt. A real win-win.
With my ears submerged in this soundproof cocoon, my mind wanders aimlessly. Problems concerning the kids or work that may have been nagging at me seem to ease as I kick and pull. I'm able to solve plot points for my writing and come up with new ideas for blog posts.
In the colder weather I have a stationary reclining bike. But it's just not the same. I used to swim at a health club but I grew too lazy and pressed for time. And besides, the goggle marks that could still be seen around my eyes even hours later were much scarier than the wet suit could ever be.
But next month the new Y opens out here, a first for the Vineyard. They have a huge pool that claims not to have eye-irritating chemicals. So maybe I'll be able to swim next winter without deep goggle-etchings on my tender, over-forty-something skin?
That would be awesome.
Because when I emerge after a half hour or 45 minutes in the pool, I'm calmer, wiser, better able to handle whatever crap will shortly, inevitably, be thrown my way.
I guess, when I look at it that way, it's not just therapy for me. It's therapy for the whole family.
What's your go-to stress reliever? Or are you still attempting to find one?
For Daughter #2's Sweet 16 we were going to go to Manhattan and see a show, Next to Normal. We bought the tickets months ago. Three tickets, because of course she wanted to bring a friend.
Then.
She discovered she was one of five kids picked to go on a leadership weekend. An honor right up her alley, and perfect for listing on a future college application.
Which is why she's planning a party with a tent and dance floor in our yard next month. And why, last weekend, I went with a friend from work and Daughter #1 to see Next to Normal without her.
If the choice had been mine, it is so not the show I would have picked. It's about the struggles of a woman suffering from bipolar disorder and the havoc it wreaks on her mega-understanding husband and perfectionist, spiraling-out-of-control daughter.
Oh, and it's a musical.
How, I thought, does one spin mental illness, psychosis, and familial dysfunction into song and dance? Trust me, they found a way.
I laughed. I cried. I was forever changed. Seriously.
And it wasn't just me. My friend felt the tears coming on before the first act ended. By the final moments of the play the sounds of muffled sobs along with noses snuffling and being blown echoed throughout the entire theater.
It's true, not everyone has a crazy mother or a mental disorder. But we probably know someone who does. And if not that, maybe we know someone who's battled a major illness, or the loss of a child or marriage.
Let's face it, we've all battled something. We do not get into our third or fourth or fifth decade of life without some killer scars to show for ourselves exactly how much we've lived.
And that's what I love about theater, love about art. How it can take the life inside us and reflect it back in a way that touches our innermost core. Our soul, if you will. And allow us to experience both sorrow and joy, love and loss.
Just like this play. Just like life.
I'm going to take advantage of this wonderful long weekend by hauling my butt out to the garden and taking a short bloggy break. See you all the middle of next week. Enjoy!
