The Good Old Days

So here I am, trying to write again. I always have the best intentions when I say I'm going to write on this blog again but then stuff happens and I don't. But the thing is, writing makes me happy. It's a stress reliever. And even my very worst writing is good because it's a creative outlet for me and lately I've realized that some form of creativity is necessary in life for me to be happy.

I won't try to fill in the last couple of years on here because a) that feels overwhelming and I don't need overwhelming right now and b) I doubt anyone who read this blog back in the day still reads now so no point in the update. I'm sure there will be some stories from the past because there are just some that should be shared...

You Can Go Ahead and Have My Picture Removed from the Back of the Milk Carton

So my goal to start writing more sort of...um...failed miserably. I've got a lot to say but just haven't been able to sit down and write. I've been feeling out of sorts lately because the insomnia hit again. Actually, it bitch-slapped me, kicked me in the shins, squirted lemon juice in my eyes and gave me four hojillion paper cuts...under my finger nails. I have to say that I wouldn't wish insomnia on anyone. Not on that girl who in 7th grade said I was the "ugliest girl in the school and a total dork". Not on the annoying guy at my Starbucks who rolls his R's when he serves me my grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrande chai latte. And not even on Diane Kruger who spends her nights snuggled up next to MY Josh Jackson. (Gimme a second to poke that image out of my minds eye.) So I'm working on the problem but in the meantime it sucks. I bought a new bed over the weekend and slept in it last night and slept for 7 hours. SEVEN WHOLE HOURS. In one night. There have been several days when I haven't gotten a total of seven hours of sleep so to get them in one night was a little slice of heaven. I'm hoping it continues tonight. Keep your fingers crossed, won't you?

Then there was also the little matter of trying to do some work on a couple of very important relationships in my life. And while I'm not ready to go into all of that just yet, I will say that it's been exhausting. I mean that in a good way because things are a lot better now but getting to the better place has been a long journey.

So to recap:
Insomnia = sucky.
Personal growth = ass-kicking, pride-swallowing and yet totally necessary experience.

The Foolproof Plan That Wasn't

So as I was saying, 2006 sucked. (Eloquent, I know.)

And then 2007 rolled around. And I was bound and determined to make all of these big changes and to show Life that while it may have bitch-slapped me repeatedly over the course of 2006, I was taking charge in 2007. I had a plan. I decided I was going to make some major changes in my life and instead of doing them one at a time - like a sane person - I did everything at once.

First, I began started Weight Watchers and began working out on a regular basis. My weight has always fluctuated but I'd moved to full-on chubster status. And I didn't like it at all. The weight came off rather easily and I enjoyed the results. I lost almost 30 lbs and felt like a million bucks. And the running was a great way for me to release the stress and anxiety I'd been feeling. At least some of it anyway.

Next, I began planning family get-togethers all the time. Now, my family gets together on a regular basis anyway, but I wanted more. Uncle Brad's house had always been where we would always have events and I was terrified that we wouldn't see each other as often after he died. So I planned event after event in an attempt to keep my family together. And honestly, I think it was one of the smartest things I did that year. I think my family needed that time to be together for fun, happy events like birthdays and bar-b-ques. We needed time together that wasn't spent working on funeral planning or sorting out estate details.

I also began dating again. After the debacle of Mr. Normal...oh hell, let's call a spade a spade. That fool's name was Chris. And he turned out to be anything but normal. Anyway, I decided that wallowing in the ruins of another failed relationship was not the way to go so I took matters into my own hands and signed up for Match. I was so proud of myself for trying. I never thought I'd be the kind of girl who could walk confidently into a coffee shop to meet for a blind date but I did it. It wasn't a huge loss; I met some great guys...just no big spark. And I'm a girl who needs sparks. There was one guy who left me weak in the knees that year. Timing and geography weren't on our side and we both knew our situation was probably impossible. And so it ended. I don't regret a single second with him because good Lord, we had some fun together.

I took golf lessons and worked on big projects at my house. I traveled for work and for fun. I made plans with friends. I killed myself at work and got a promotion. I went running and bike riding. I planned parties for friends and family. I read more books. I took lots of photos and I tried all sorts of new recipes. I kept myself busy and by the end of the year, I realized I'd done almost everything I set out to do. I'd executed my life-improving plan beautifully. Or so I thought.

The one thing I didn't put on my to-do list in 2007 was to deal with the emotional fallout of 2006. I just ignored the pain and when the sadness did creep up, I'd go for a run or stay at work a little later. Or start a new project at the house. Or meet a friend for a drink. But I sure didn't talk about it. Not at all.

So I hid all of those feelings away in 2007. But they didn't stay hidden...and the emotional shit hit the fan in 2008. (Again, so eloquent.)

The Dark and the Gloomy

To fully understand what's been going on with me, we need to take a look back. It's a lot to take in so bear with me as I try to explain it all.

2006 started off pretty well. The career was good, my family was happy and healthy (and getting bigger with the arrival of new babies) my friends were all doing well, and I was in the glowy place of a new relationship – the first one I’d ventured into after the big break-up. I was happy and optimistic about life.

I didn’t feel that way for long.

In mid-January of that year a co-worker killed himself. It was horrific and all over the news. I'd known this man for several years and he was the last person I could ever imagine doing something like that. I had nightmares for weeks but never told anyone. I didn't want to talk about it at all.

My grandfather became quite ill in mid-February of that year. We were told he was “actively dying” which was the doctors way of telling us his body was shutting down, organ by organ. He died on St. Patrick’s Day, surrounded by his family. He had a long and full life and though we were all grateful he wasn’t suffering anymore, it was hard saying goodbye to the patriarch of our family. We hadn't lost anyone in the family since my grandmother died 14 years earlier and each of us dealt with it the best way we knew how. I'm not sure I ever really grieved or just decided I didn't want to be sad anymore so I chose not to think about it. I can't say I recommend this method.

Not long after my grandfather’s passing, it became clear to me that the new relationship was not all I’d hoped it would be. A nasty divorce had left him bitter and in no way ready to date. Ignoring all the signs that screamed "Do NOT stay in this relationship!", I stayed. I stayed because I cared about him, because I wanted to show him that I wouldn't just leave the way his wife had, and because (oh man, I hate admitting this) I wanted to fix him. (I actually cringed while typing that last part.) He was sweet and attentive one minute then moody and dismissive the next. It was exhausting. Then the lies started. He told so many that he couldn't keep them straight. He lied himself into a corner one night while we were on the phone and decided to finally come clean: there had been someone else. He said it was a stupid mistake. And then he said he needed to go because he was meeting a friend for dinner but that he would call me later. I assured him he never needed to call me again. I hung up the phone that night thinking that it wasn’t possible for me to feel worse.

I was wrong.

Less than 12 hours later, I was standing in the hallway of Lutheran Hospital as the emergency room doctor explained that they hadn’t been able to resuscitate my beloved Uncle Brad after his heart attack. I have yet to come up with words that adequately describe the heartbreak of losing him. I'm not sure a word big enough actually exists. The pain seems more acute now than it did then but I think it’s because I’m finally dealing with it. And I'm finally admitting about how hard it is for me. I kept myself so stupidly busy after he died that I didn't really accept what had happened. For a long time I didn’t deal with the grief at all. Then again, I hardly had time to deal with that loss because there was more to come.

Six months after Brad died my Uncle Richard was admitted to the hospital with an infection. Richard was a Vietnam vet who had health issues ever since returning home over 30 years ago. He'd had health scares in the past but he always ended up being ok. We thought he would be home after a few days of antibiotics but he took a turn and died in his sleep on Thanksgiving Day. Losing Richard so soon after both my grandfather and Brad had passed took it's toll on my entire family. It was after Richard's death that I began to notice that I wasn't feeling sadness, just anger. But again, I decide to stifle the feelings. I can only think of two people outside of my family who I called when Richard died. I just couldn't talk about it. I never wrote about it here either.

The very next day, my cousin Bradley (Uncle Brad’s son) had a seizure and slipped into a coma. After extensive testing including a spinal tap, the doctors determined he had encephalitis brought on by bacterial meningitis. Translation: his brain was swollen and pressing against his skull. He wasn’t breathing on his own and the doctors weren’t optimistic about his prognosis. I had been strong during everything that had happened up to that point, rarely breaking down. But when I saw Bradley in the ICU I lost it. I choked on tears and the fear of losing him was crippling - literally, my knees buckled. I tried to prepare myself for what I thought would be another death; every time my phone rang I steadied myself for the news that he too was gone. Thankfully, that call never came. Somehow, my cousin (who is more like a brother to me), made a full recovery.

As 2006 drew to a close, I was hugely grateful that Bradley had survived and was certain that 2007 would only bring good things because damn it, I had been through hell and deserved good things.

Turns out, 2007 didn’t get that memo….

The Good Life

In the big scheme of things, I have a great life.

I’ve always had a roof over my head, food in my belly and lots of people who love me. Despite their not-so-nice divorce, I always knew that my parents loved me more than anything. I have two wonderful sisters who are smart and witty and gorgeous and who show me the kind of unconditional love that only sisters can show. I have aunts, uncles and cousins for days. I was lucky enough to have all four of my grandparents in my life and today, at age 32, I still have two of them. We are the kind of family that gets together not just at the holidays but random Saturdays just to have dinner together, summer bbqs, football watching on Sundays, and birthday get-togethers nearly every month because there are so many of us. And no matter how crazy we make each other, it's nice to have a family that is so loving and supportive.

My childhood was filled with birthdays that were always a big deal; parties, balloons, cake and coveted presents like a Cabbage Patch doll and a purple Huffy bike with the basket and handlebar tassels. My Easter baskets were always overflowing with candy and presents. And while we certainly weren’t wealthy, I can’t remember a year when we didn’t have a ridiculous amount of presents under the Christmas tree. I had swimming lessons every summer, clarinet lessons, family vacations, new clothes every year for back-to-school, and ski trips every winter. I’d been to Germany, France, England, Austria, Switzerland, Italy, the Bahamas and Mexico before I was 15.

For the most part, school came easily to me. With the exception of a few classes, I never had to study as hard as I should have. Even in AP classes, I didn’t put in the work I knew I should have and yet I did well. When it came time for college, I was accepted at my top school, a private university where the tuition was considerably more than some of my in-state choices. My parents always agreed that my education was a top priority so I was able to go the school I wanted to go to.

I’ve always had more friends than one girl deserves. And we’re not talking about people to just hang out with, but true blue friends. I have the kind of friends who drive you to school every day in high school because you don’t have your own car and you would rather make out with a rusty fish hook than set foot on the school bus. I have the kind of friends who give good advice and keep secrets; the kind of friends who tell me when an outfit is awful or a boyfriend is toxic – no matter how much I don’t want to hear it. I have friends who love me when I’m fun, outgoing, kind, charming and witty. And those same people love me when I’m grouchy, sullen, mean, and dull. They are the kind of people who show up to cook dinner, drink wine and spend the night when I find out my ex got married. My friends are the kind of people who make me laugh so hard that I tear up...or if it's really hilarious, snort. And my friends are the type who know, even when I don’t tell them everything, that I’m going through a terrible time and so they book a ticket to fly across the country to spend a week with me.

I’ve never had any major health issues; never had anything more than a fender-bender; lost my purse just once and but found it with all of the money and credit cards still there; won $500 at Blackjack the first time at the casino; have a great career with lots of perks; and have never missed a flight despite the fact that I’m always late getting to the airport. And as if all of that wasn't enough, I have nice hair and long eyelashes.

I write all of this down not to boast, but to remind myself of just how good my life really is. It’s so easy to forget all of the good stuff when life gets dark and gloomy. And believe me, I’ve become painfully familiar with the dark and gloomy...

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

I have been toying with the idea of breaking up with the blog. Lately, whenever I sit down to write I can't seem to form a coherent sentence. I'm not kidding when I say I've started nine different posts and never finished a one of them. I've been traveling for work a bit and somehow managed to get the seal-bark cough that I had right after the Turkey Trot. And I've been trying to get rid of that damn thing for a week because I have to get on another plane Tuesday morning and head to Austin for the week. (Sidebar: I know there are a couple of readers in Austin. I'd love any recommendations of places I should get to while there so feel free to email me your favorites.)

I digress, back to me ditching the blog.

So yes, I've been thinking about it. Lately, writing seems more like a chore than anything else. Life has left me spread a bit thin these days and when I do have time to myself, I don't want to sit in front of a computer. But as each days passes, I think about how I didn't write anything and I feel obligated to do so. And let me tell you, obligation is about as appealing to me a chocolate-covered cockroach. Let me be clear - when I say I feel obligated, it's not because I'm laboring under the delusion that my tens of readers are dying every day I don't post; it's just feels like posting on a regular basis is something I should be doing. So I was discussing this predicament with a very wise friend of mine when VWF posed this question to me;

"In general, don't you pretty much do what you want to do, when you want to do it?"

"Um, well...in general, yes."

"Well why should your blog be any different? Write when you want to write. Don't write when you don't want to. It shouldn't be that damn complicated."

"........"

"Now can we go get a drink?"

I stood there for a moment like my VWF had just solved one of the great mysteries of life. And ever since VWF said it, I haven't felt obligated to write at all. And the funny part is that as soon as that feeling of obligation went away, all I want to do is write. Go figure. So despite the fact that I just got home from a Super Bowl party and I'm exhausted and I have the seal-bark cough, I walked into my office to write...about how I wasn't sure I wanted to write anymore...but then had an epiphany that I didn't have to if I didn't want to...and so now I'm writing again.

And with that synaptic misfire I ask you, aren't you happy I'm back?

Beam Routine

When I was a kid, I loved gymnastics. My summer months were filled with swimming, swimming and more swimming but when winter rolled around I was all about leotards and legwarmers, blue mats and cartwheels. My favorite thing about gymnastics was the balance beam. Not only was it the most fun, but it was also the event I did better than almost anyone else. I was never scared up there; four inches seemed like plenty of room for me to do all sorts of tricks. This certainly isn't to imply that I never fell off because I did a lot of falling off but I never remember being nervous to get up and try again. I even broke my toe once on a particularly nasty spill but as soon as they let me, I was back up there again. The more complicated my routines became, the harder I worked.

I was thinking about this the other day while talking to a few friends about how impossible it seems to keep life in balance some days. All three of us are at different places in our lives but none of us seem to have the answers. And after talking with a few more friends about the very same thing, it appears that this whole balance thing is a challenge for nearly everyone. There's a small measure of comfort in this camaraderie, but mostly it just made me wonder if I will ever again enjoy the challenges of balance the way I did as a kid on that beam.

Whether it's balancing work and personal life or family and friends, it always feels too heavily weighted in one direction or the other. There are days when I come home from work so exhausted that I honestly can't imagine one day coming home to a husband and children. I feel a strange guilt admitting this because I fear what people will think of me for saying something that sounds so selfish. But the days when I come home, change in to yoga pants and a sweatshirt and have popcorn and red wine for dinner, the idea of having to include anyone else sounds exhausting. I wonder how some of my friends who have a career and a family balance it all out and some days I think to myself I could never, ever do it. Not because I don't want to but because I fear the idea of having to balance more. Or maybe I don't fear the trying so much as I do the possibility of failure. If I ever get married, I want to be good at it, give it everything. I want to be a good wife, partner and friend to my husband. And if there are children, I want them to know that they are loved and cared for all the time. And in the midst of doing those things for my family, I want to somehow ensure that I don't lose who I am. Because if I've learned anything in my life it's that the only time I'm really good for other people is when I'm really good to myself. But balancing all of that seems like a lot to ask a girl who doesn't even balance her checkbook.

Sometimes I wish I was still as fearless as that little girl in her leotard standing up on the beam. Who, even after a nasty spill and a broken toe, couldn't wait to get back up there and try again.

What We Take With Us

I miss my uncle.

There are times when my family will all be together and for a split second I'll think, "When is Uncle Brad getting here?" Then I'll remember and for a moment I'll be angry, feeling as though my brain played some cruel joke on me in letting me forget – even for a second - that he was gone. Because I've never forgotten that he died. I think about him every, single day. I miss him every, single day.

It sounds strange but it took me a while to grieve for my uncle. The day he died I stood in the hallway of the hospital looking at my devastated family and I did the only thing I know how to do in those situations – avoid all emotion and take action. I took over a lot of the funeral arrangements and threw all of my energy into planning and preparation. I wanted to make sure that the service was a perfect tribute for this man who I adored so much. All of the planning left very little time for dealing with the reality of the situation. A few weeks later, I was having a conversation with someone at work when I made the comment, "My uncle was the same way." It occurred to me that I had referred to him in past tense and it hit me that he was really gone. I walked into the bathroom and cried so hard I threw up.

It's been a year and a half since he died but there are days when the pain feels as raw as ever. Seeing my cousins have major life events without their dad is heartbreaking. Holding the grandson he never got to meet was crushing because I know he would have been a fantastic grandfather. I feel the void at every family event that doesn't include his sense of humor and laughter.

I hate the fact that I can't run things by him anymore. I hate that he hasn't been able to see all of the positive changes I've made in my life. I miss hearing him tell me how proud he is of me. I miss hugging him. It kills me that he'll never know the man I marry or be around when I have children.

It would be easy to get bitter and angry and feel cheated by the fact that I didn't get more time with him. But that wouldn't do anything but leave me bitter and angry and I don't wear those well. So lately, I've tried hard not to look at it as though I lost him, but think more about what I gained from him. I'm so grateful for the time I had with him and for the impact he had on me. He taught me so much about life - to always put family first; to believe in people when they can't believe in themselves; that street smarts are as important as book smarts; that a quick sense of humor is priceless; that mistakes are ok and that every day is a another chance to do the right thing.

I will always miss my Uncle Brad. But what a lucky girl I am for all the things he left me with.

Solo

Some girls aren't good at it but I am. I don't mean to sound full of myself but I know I can hold my own with the best of them. But even those of us who excel at it can have an off night...

It was almost 11pm last night when I put down the book, turned off the bedside lamp and snuggled into bed. It was raining lightly and I had opened the windows and turned off the A/C. I had just dozed off when my entire bedroom lit up. I opened my eyes and my room was dark again but a split second later the thunder rattled my entire house. Barley jumped out of his bed and paced the floor. A second after that, another enormous bolt of lightning and deafening thunder. And it went on and on. I closed the windows but that didn't help much. Though I usually love thunderstorms, I couldn't seem to find any affection for the one rumbling around my neighborhood last night. I realize how lame I'm about to sound but it actually scared the shit out of me. It got so bad that I broke one of my cardinal rules - I let Barley sleep in bed with me. Well aware that he is not allowed on my bed, it took several minutes to convince him that it was ok to jump up and join me. And even after several, "It's ok buddy" comments he still sat at the edge looking rather uncomfortable like he was expecting to get the boot at any moment. I reached over and scratched behind his ear, thankful that he was close by.

That's the thing about me - I'm usually good at being alone. I know people who can't be alone, who always have to have someone, anyone, in their lives. Those are the people who can't sleep alone either. But that's never been me. Sure, after my big break-up a few years ago, the sleeping alone thing took some getting used to. But after a few months, I no longer had a "side of the bed" and these days I relish taking up as much space as possible, sleeping diagonally across the bed. I guess that's what made last night so hard. I desperately wanted to have someone next to me. I wanted to be able to curl up and bury my head in his chest. And it would be ok if he made fun of me a bit for being such a wimp so long as he was doing it while his arms were wrapped around me. To make matters worse, I wasn't even wanting a specific "he" to be there because there is no specific "he" at this specific time. And just typing all of this makes me want to vomit a little because it seems so weak and pathetic and sad.

And I'm looking out the window right now at more dark clouds closing in and I think to myself, I don't want another night of this. And if you asked me if I meant the storms or being alone, I'd answer yes.

In Vino Veritas

In Vino Veritas

/in veeno verritaas/

• exclamation under the influence of alcohol, a person tells the truth.

— ORIGIN Latin, 'truth in wine'.


Truth in wine, huh? I wonder...

The phone rang in the middle of the night. The voice on the other end was barely audible over the music and voices. As I tried to read the number on the caller i.d., he started to speak.

"Did I wake you?" His accent is as thick as ever and instantly recognizable to my barely coherent brain.

"Um, yeah but that's ok."

"I love when I wake you up…I like hearing you shake the sleep from your voice. And I know you've got some great bed head right now."

I giggled, shook the sleep from my voice and replied, "What do you know about it? It's not like you've ever woken up next to me."

"All in good time, sweetheart, all in good time."

::::::::::

She's a mean drunk. She has said and done awful things when intoxicated. One night in particular stays with me. Her breath reeked and her eyes were glossy as she yelled. I don't have any clue what set her off, but then again I never do. Though clearly drunk, she is well aware of words that will cut me to the core and she doesn't hesitate to use them.

My eyes sting but I refuse to blink because blinking means I'll start crying. And I swore the last time she did this that I wouldn't cry again. So I don't cry but I do walk out. I can't help but wonder if she means everything she says.

Then comes the period of uncomfortable tension. Days, weeks, months? One can never tell. I am given the silent treatment during this time until she decides to act like nothing happened and everything is fine.

She has never apologized for any of it and every time it happens I lose more respect for her. Soon, there will be nothing left.

::::::::::

I am 21 and a month out of the two year relationship with my first real love. He had decided to cheat. I had decided to get even. The guy holding my hand is new and exciting. He is sweet, funny and clearly interested. The fact that he's tall and has green eyes doesn't hurt either. We're sitting at a table in his fraternity house doing shots of Jager.

I know the ex will hear about my new found friend so I play it up a bit. Lots of laughing. Lots of shameless flirting. Lots of kissing.

Later, he asks for my number.

"I want to take you out sometime," he says as he walks me home.

I smile and nod, "Yeah, we should do that sometime..."

I know he meants it. He doesn't know that I don't.

He calls and I dodge. This happens four or five times before he gives up.

::::::::::

It was his 28th birthday and we had been out all night. We stumble into my house and I sit him on the stairs as I take off my coat, hat and gloves. He stands up to help with my coat but the scotch has taken its toll on his equilibrium and he falls backwards, taking me with him. We laugh until we can't breathe and as I stand to put my coat on the hook he grabs my hand.

"I love you."

It's the first time he's ever said it and to be honest, I'm not sure I heard him correctly. He soon eliminates any doubt.

"I know I don't say it but I am in love with you." He kisses my hand then pulls himself up off the stairs and hugs me tightly. He whispers it again into my ear… I love you.

"I love you, too."

A few months later, he'll be gone. And I'll be left wondering if he ever meant it or if it was just the scotch talking.