While standing on the train station platform this morning in my jeans and sneakers because it was “causal Friday,” I spied a cute young woman further down, wearing her stylish off-white, belted trench coat, and a pair of black ankle boots complete to with pointy toes and high spiked heels. Although probably “trendy” as my daughter would say, all I could think was “Jeez, how does that chick walk in those boots?” I also noted that she was standing smack-dab in the middle of the platform, and those traversing in one direction or another had to either move to walk behind her, or walk along the outside edge of the platform in front of her in order to make their way past. That was kind of rude and very poor commuter etiquette. But then again, maybe she wanted to make sure we all saw her spike-heeled ankle boots.
I’d like to say that were I twenty-five years younger I would have been wearing those boots, however, I know myself pretty well and would in all likelihood be wearing a black tulle skirt with matching combat boots. I’m not the spike-heeled type, although I do own a pair of really cute black, summer sandals with a spike heel, which I can walk all of two feet in before they start to kill me. I wore them on a date last summer, although I did not actually put them on until I was almost where I needed to go, stashing my flip-flops in the bag I was carrying, with my date, none the wiser.
While thinking about that experience I simultaneously wondered how this girl manages to walk in NYC wearing that type of footwear. I used to think “What’s the big deal? When you use the train or subway to move from place to place, why worry about comfortable shoes….you’re sitting down a lot.” Of course that is so not the case as I’ve come to learn, more than once the hard way and I still have the blisters to prove it. I’ve walked miles recently while using public transportation and decided I need to keep a pair of sneakers at work, just in case I have to go somewhere that requires walking I didn’t plan to do while wearing a cute pair of shoes. Frequently when I “Hop Stop” my subway directions I fail to notice just how far I have to walk from then I get off of, to where I want to end up. Walking is not normally a problem for me and I enjoy doing it, but only if I’m wearing the appropriated footwear.
I did sort of wistfully gaze at those ankle boots though, and think “Well, maybe I could wear them around the house.”
Friday, September 28, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Death warmed over
Somebody please take me out into the back yard and put me out of my misery. I have been sick since yesterday and today has been the worst! I have a massive cold and I’m running a temperature and I have just added Robitussen to my self-medication regime. And just so you know how bad this is, I didn’t even taste the Robitussen when I took it….. for anyone who has ever taken Robitussen, you know how yucky it is and to not have been able to taste is says a lot.
It’s unfortunate that I’m still in my probationary period at my new job or I would be staying home tomorrow. That period ends on Friday…… of course, and by which time I’m hoping to feel better. I could really have used a sick day tomorrow though, but considering I just signed an apartment lease, working a day without pay is not an option.
Yes, today I signed a lease on an apartment and I’m so excited about it…even if I feel like crap. Right now my fantasy is to have a nice guy in that apartment, who I really, really like, and who will run me a bath, make me tea and rub my back. Oh, and who would also know what to do about the “check engine light” that came on in my car tonight. That’s really a moot point since I’m selling my car, however I though I’d add it to the “guy wish list” just in case. I’ve already written about “car dilemmas” so I won’t go back down that road at this time though.
So, even though I feel like “death warmed over,” (a favorite saying of my father’s), and my car has decided it needs it’s engine checked, I’m getting a place of my own to live in…….how freakin’ cool is that?!
It’s unfortunate that I’m still in my probationary period at my new job or I would be staying home tomorrow. That period ends on Friday…… of course, and by which time I’m hoping to feel better. I could really have used a sick day tomorrow though, but considering I just signed an apartment lease, working a day without pay is not an option.
Yes, today I signed a lease on an apartment and I’m so excited about it…even if I feel like crap. Right now my fantasy is to have a nice guy in that apartment, who I really, really like, and who will run me a bath, make me tea and rub my back. Oh, and who would also know what to do about the “check engine light” that came on in my car tonight. That’s really a moot point since I’m selling my car, however I though I’d add it to the “guy wish list” just in case. I’ve already written about “car dilemmas” so I won’t go back down that road at this time though.
So, even though I feel like “death warmed over,” (a favorite saying of my father’s), and my car has decided it needs it’s engine checked, I’m getting a place of my own to live in…….how freakin’ cool is that?!
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
11 secrets most men keep
I took this directly off of AOL tonight. In my new life, I've been doing a good deal of reading about relationships and what makes them work. This way, if one should happen my way I'll be better prepared.
I wonder what men think about these 11 secrets?
My comments are in blue, and not to be taken as part of this article.
"Magazine writer and editor Ty Wenger revealed in Redbook what every woman wants to know: What secrets is her husband keeping from her?Although men who tell too many lies and keep too many secrets risk souring a relationship from lack of trust, some of the more innocuous lies are told and secrets are kept to keep the peace. That is the kind of secret Wenger is revealing. And ladies, some of these secrets will melt your heart and make you so happy you married the man you did. 11 secrets most men keep, including your husband:
1. Yes, he falls in lust 10 times a day -- but it doesn't mean he wants to leave you. Yes, men like to look. Overall, they don't need the cerebral to get them going like most women do.
2. He actually does play golf to get away from you. I think time away from each other is a wonderful thing. Everyone needs their own interests in order to be well rounded people and partners.
3. He is unnerved by the notion of commitment, even after he has made one to you. Really?
4. Earning money makes him feel important. Not so much for me.
5. Though he often protests, he actually enjoys fixing things around the house. I don't really care if he can fix stuff, as long as he knows who to call when the stuff he can't fix, breaks.
6. He likes it when you mother him, but he's terrified that you'll become your mother. Me too! And, I do love my mother.
7. Every year he loves you more. That is so sweet. I'll have a man like this please.
8. He really doesn't understand what you're talking about when you discuss "issues" in your relationship. It makes no sense at all to him -- even though he will nod in agreement and apparent understanding. I don't think this is true for all men. I think this statement sells men short. I know a number of really great men who understand relationship issues and are good at talking about them.
9. He is terrified when you drive. I'm a great driver, even if I am slightly on the aggressive side.
10. He'll always wish he was 25 again. Not me....I'm loving where I am in life.
11. Give him an inch and he'll give you a lifetime. Translation: Let him be a dumb guy and play poker with his buddies or go on vacation alone, and he'll love you forever for that. 'And that's the truth,' insists Wegner. "
(Source: Redbook)
I wonder what men think about these 11 secrets?
My comments are in blue, and not to be taken as part of this article.
"Magazine writer and editor Ty Wenger revealed in Redbook what every woman wants to know: What secrets is her husband keeping from her?Although men who tell too many lies and keep too many secrets risk souring a relationship from lack of trust, some of the more innocuous lies are told and secrets are kept to keep the peace. That is the kind of secret Wenger is revealing. And ladies, some of these secrets will melt your heart and make you so happy you married the man you did. 11 secrets most men keep, including your husband:
1. Yes, he falls in lust 10 times a day -- but it doesn't mean he wants to leave you. Yes, men like to look. Overall, they don't need the cerebral to get them going like most women do.
2. He actually does play golf to get away from you. I think time away from each other is a wonderful thing. Everyone needs their own interests in order to be well rounded people and partners.
3. He is unnerved by the notion of commitment, even after he has made one to you. Really?
4. Earning money makes him feel important. Not so much for me.
5. Though he often protests, he actually enjoys fixing things around the house. I don't really care if he can fix stuff, as long as he knows who to call when the stuff he can't fix, breaks.
6. He likes it when you mother him, but he's terrified that you'll become your mother. Me too! And, I do love my mother.
7. Every year he loves you more. That is so sweet. I'll have a man like this please.
8. He really doesn't understand what you're talking about when you discuss "issues" in your relationship. It makes no sense at all to him -- even though he will nod in agreement and apparent understanding. I don't think this is true for all men. I think this statement sells men short. I know a number of really great men who understand relationship issues and are good at talking about them.
9. He is terrified when you drive. I'm a great driver, even if I am slightly on the aggressive side.
10. He'll always wish he was 25 again. Not me....I'm loving where I am in life.
11. Give him an inch and he'll give you a lifetime. Translation: Let him be a dumb guy and play poker with his buddies or go on vacation alone, and he'll love you forever for that. 'And that's the truth,' insists Wegner. "
(Source: Redbook)
Friday, September 21, 2007
Beach scented perfume
Published in the Long Island Advance, September 20th
Last Sunday night was the one of those perfect evenings for walking. Almost fall like, it was cool and clear and the scents that perfumed the air overwhelmed me.
When walking outdoors, I have a few routes that I take that always lead me to the bay. Even on very cold winter days, that’s the direction I head, never north, always south, because I love the smell of the sea air.
On this particular evening as I started out toward the bay the first scent I noticed was that of a backyard fire place. I love the smell of fire places and used to have one in my yard. We would sit around it at night, drink coffee, talk with whoever showed up to sit and watch the fire burn, and listen to the Screech Owl that lived in the woods nearby.
Layered over top of the burning wood smell, was the scent of autumn clematis in full bloom. Growing vigorously throughout the summer, it blooms in a mass of tiny white flowers that perfume the air with a heady, sweet scent. This particular smell I recognized immediately, having planted this variety of clematis in my garden years ago and each summer, watching as it climbed its way up the side of my dining room window, with the scent of the tiny white flowers traveling into the house on the heels of the breeze that blew in through the open windows.
As I got closer to the bay, the scent of the sea air mingling with the others made me feel wistful, missing home before I have even left it. I love this smell, the smell of the bay and nearby ocean, that mixture of seaweed and salt, shells and suntan lotion. I have a “sun and sand” candle and a perfume called “Beach,” both of which if I close my eyes and breath in deeply, remind me of what it’s like to lie on the beach and listen to the surf roll onto shore, and watch the gulls as they glide on the ocean breezes.
As I continued my walk my son pulled up to the stop sign on the corner of Brook Street and Rider Ave. Having only seen him a short while before for dinner, it was amusing to run into him again so soon. Further up the road, I saw my father as he rode his bike across Rider, heading back home from his evening bike ride and one of my old neighbors as she cut her lawn. It’s odd to feel so excited about moving away and so sad about it too, sad to think about missing out on these every day encounters that for so long I have taken for granted.
My pile of boxes in the living room of my brother’s house is getting larger. I keep trying to keep in mind what he said when I was starting to say good-bye. (I’ve been starting to say good-bye in a variety of ways for a while now.) He reminded me that I’m moving to Queens, not California. I often use that line when talking about my move to other family members, like my 12 year old niece Regina, who I have also lived with for the past three years. We are making plans now for things she would like to do when she comes to visit me. This way, she too can be excited when I move, and not sad.
There’s a very good possibility that the next time I appear here, I will have written this column from an apartment in Jackson Heights. Hopefully I will be able to regal you with amusing tales and observations about how different life will become. I’m thinking that possibly I can get over the homesick part prior to actually leaving, at least that’s what I’m going to hope will happen. I’m feeling a bit dramatic about it all; you would think that I wasn’t planning to be back at least every other weekend. And in between, I can always turn out the lights, light my “sun and sand” candle, spray on my “Beach” perfume and close my eyes and breathe deeply.
(I can't believe I still have not posted my birthday column. Actually, I'm still working on it. )
Last Sunday night was the one of those perfect evenings for walking. Almost fall like, it was cool and clear and the scents that perfumed the air overwhelmed me.
When walking outdoors, I have a few routes that I take that always lead me to the bay. Even on very cold winter days, that’s the direction I head, never north, always south, because I love the smell of the sea air.
On this particular evening as I started out toward the bay the first scent I noticed was that of a backyard fire place. I love the smell of fire places and used to have one in my yard. We would sit around it at night, drink coffee, talk with whoever showed up to sit and watch the fire burn, and listen to the Screech Owl that lived in the woods nearby.
Layered over top of the burning wood smell, was the scent of autumn clematis in full bloom. Growing vigorously throughout the summer, it blooms in a mass of tiny white flowers that perfume the air with a heady, sweet scent. This particular smell I recognized immediately, having planted this variety of clematis in my garden years ago and each summer, watching as it climbed its way up the side of my dining room window, with the scent of the tiny white flowers traveling into the house on the heels of the breeze that blew in through the open windows.
As I got closer to the bay, the scent of the sea air mingling with the others made me feel wistful, missing home before I have even left it. I love this smell, the smell of the bay and nearby ocean, that mixture of seaweed and salt, shells and suntan lotion. I have a “sun and sand” candle and a perfume called “Beach,” both of which if I close my eyes and breath in deeply, remind me of what it’s like to lie on the beach and listen to the surf roll onto shore, and watch the gulls as they glide on the ocean breezes.
As I continued my walk my son pulled up to the stop sign on the corner of Brook Street and Rider Ave. Having only seen him a short while before for dinner, it was amusing to run into him again so soon. Further up the road, I saw my father as he rode his bike across Rider, heading back home from his evening bike ride and one of my old neighbors as she cut her lawn. It’s odd to feel so excited about moving away and so sad about it too, sad to think about missing out on these every day encounters that for so long I have taken for granted.
My pile of boxes in the living room of my brother’s house is getting larger. I keep trying to keep in mind what he said when I was starting to say good-bye. (I’ve been starting to say good-bye in a variety of ways for a while now.) He reminded me that I’m moving to Queens, not California. I often use that line when talking about my move to other family members, like my 12 year old niece Regina, who I have also lived with for the past three years. We are making plans now for things she would like to do when she comes to visit me. This way, she too can be excited when I move, and not sad.
There’s a very good possibility that the next time I appear here, I will have written this column from an apartment in Jackson Heights. Hopefully I will be able to regal you with amusing tales and observations about how different life will become. I’m thinking that possibly I can get over the homesick part prior to actually leaving, at least that’s what I’m going to hope will happen. I’m feeling a bit dramatic about it all; you would think that I wasn’t planning to be back at least every other weekend. And in between, I can always turn out the lights, light my “sun and sand” candle, spray on my “Beach” perfume and close my eyes and breathe deeply.
(I can't believe I still have not posted my birthday column. Actually, I'm still working on it. )
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Another birthday.....
I can't believe that I didn't put a post up on what was a very big birthday for me...the half century mark....50! I did have a column in the newspaper where I wrote all about it, but....I couldn't say all I wanted to say.....hence, I'm still working on it to post here.
I'll be back soon....
I'll be back soon....
Thursday, September 06, 2007
A new chapter begins
Published in the Long Island Advance
September 6, 2007
I’m back again, sitting in Brian’s chair and trying to come up with a plausible reason why I do this. Why I write these guest columns where the letter “I” shows up way too many times. It might have to do with the fact that I’m a social worker by nature, if not by degree. I process my life, and the lives of those I know in words, thoughts and feelings. I started out writing for myself as a means to see in a concrete way where I was coming from, and going too, and I have come to share this journey in a very public way with those of you who read what I write.
When setting out on this journey to create a new life, my decision was to make it as big and bold as it could be, and my hope was that others might see themselves reflected here as well. And, at this very moment I’ve come to the end of a chapter….and a new one is beginning.
While sitting in a friend’s kitchen in Greenwich Village one day last week I wondered out loud how I came to be at this point in my life and how it happened so fast. Not actually sitting in his kitchen, I know how I came to be there, but how I’ve reached the point where I’m on the cusp of accomplishing the last of three very large goals I set for myself two years ago.
Twenty-nine years ago I left my parents home to get married. Three years ago I left that home due to circumstances that so often happen in our lives, prompting us to choose different paths to follow. Three years ago I could never have envisioned this new life that’s unfolding in front of me.
When I was 5 or 6, I can distinctly remember looking out the window of our yellow, wood paneled station wagon as we drove through midtown Manhattan on our way to visit my grandparents in Pennsylvania, and telling my parents that one day I wanted to live in Manhattan. The sights, the sounds, the “bigness” of it all were so very appealing to me and for a number of years that was the vision I carried around in my head. Somewhere along the way I think I became afraid, afraid of living my life and my sister took over that dream and made it her own, at least for a little while. My fear was unconscious and my vision became buried somewhere deep inside of me, until it was surprisingly set free by life circumstances. Now that it’s taken flight, there’s no telling where it will end up…this vision of mine.
Today is September 6th and I am about to contact a realtor to begin apartment hunting in Queens. It may not be Manhattan, but it’s darn close. Not only will I be looking for a home of my own, I will be looking for it in the place I so long ago felt drawn to. It’s both exciting and frightening to teeter on the rim of this precipice.
As I stand here at the edge of a new beginning, I wonder about the journeys that others of you have taken, the steps and missteps, the laughter, and the tears that you shed along the way. As an observer and one who always has an opinion, I would love to hear your stories and continue to share mine with you, no matter how infrequently I can be found sitting in Brian’s chair. Yes, I write from a woman’s perspective, yet that is not the only point I can see from. If you would like to share any of your stories with me, please feel free. I’m going apartment hunting now, but….I’ll be back.
September 6, 2007
I’m back again, sitting in Brian’s chair and trying to come up with a plausible reason why I do this. Why I write these guest columns where the letter “I” shows up way too many times. It might have to do with the fact that I’m a social worker by nature, if not by degree. I process my life, and the lives of those I know in words, thoughts and feelings. I started out writing for myself as a means to see in a concrete way where I was coming from, and going too, and I have come to share this journey in a very public way with those of you who read what I write.
When setting out on this journey to create a new life, my decision was to make it as big and bold as it could be, and my hope was that others might see themselves reflected here as well. And, at this very moment I’ve come to the end of a chapter….and a new one is beginning.
While sitting in a friend’s kitchen in Greenwich Village one day last week I wondered out loud how I came to be at this point in my life and how it happened so fast. Not actually sitting in his kitchen, I know how I came to be there, but how I’ve reached the point where I’m on the cusp of accomplishing the last of three very large goals I set for myself two years ago.
Twenty-nine years ago I left my parents home to get married. Three years ago I left that home due to circumstances that so often happen in our lives, prompting us to choose different paths to follow. Three years ago I could never have envisioned this new life that’s unfolding in front of me.
When I was 5 or 6, I can distinctly remember looking out the window of our yellow, wood paneled station wagon as we drove through midtown Manhattan on our way to visit my grandparents in Pennsylvania, and telling my parents that one day I wanted to live in Manhattan. The sights, the sounds, the “bigness” of it all were so very appealing to me and for a number of years that was the vision I carried around in my head. Somewhere along the way I think I became afraid, afraid of living my life and my sister took over that dream and made it her own, at least for a little while. My fear was unconscious and my vision became buried somewhere deep inside of me, until it was surprisingly set free by life circumstances. Now that it’s taken flight, there’s no telling where it will end up…this vision of mine.
Today is September 6th and I am about to contact a realtor to begin apartment hunting in Queens. It may not be Manhattan, but it’s darn close. Not only will I be looking for a home of my own, I will be looking for it in the place I so long ago felt drawn to. It’s both exciting and frightening to teeter on the rim of this precipice.
As I stand here at the edge of a new beginning, I wonder about the journeys that others of you have taken, the steps and missteps, the laughter, and the tears that you shed along the way. As an observer and one who always has an opinion, I would love to hear your stories and continue to share mine with you, no matter how infrequently I can be found sitting in Brian’s chair. Yes, I write from a woman’s perspective, yet that is not the only point I can see from. If you would like to share any of your stories with me, please feel free. I’m going apartment hunting now, but….I’ll be back.
Friday, August 24, 2007
The subway tour
This was one long day of riding the train and subway and somehow doing a tour of all the places I silently wept in last Tuesday night. I think it’s pretty damn amazing that I managed to find my way into Grand Central Station and on to every one of those subway platforms, with the exception of the N.
Having managed to only minimally email Harry this week, my resolve broke when I was in GCS and I text messaged him telling him how hard it was for me to be there, so close and yet so far away from him…..and how I missed him. Of course he didn’t respond, nor did I expect he would. I found myself in almost the exact same spot we said good-bye in while my heart was crumbling into a million little pieces. It was hard to be back in that moment. Especially since I have always hated the “good-byes” and that was such a final one. Maybe not final forever, but final in so many other ways. Ways that I will dearly miss.
I spent the day traveling to and from the Bronx, all the way up to Pelham, for a 1 hour meeting that they kept me waiting for. Getting there was easier than returning once I got past the Grand Central Station part. However, the return trip involved Miles, so getting back was just a little more complicated and involved me having to write direction on a napkin. (Miles is always trying to find a better way for me to get from place to place, which normally just confuses me more.)
After attending my much delayed meeting, Miles, who lives on City Island, picked me up and we went to Arthur Avenue for lunch. Miles has been such a wonderful friend and has been doing his best to distract me and cheer me up. Last Saturday I went to City Island for the day and we had a barbeque with a very interesting cast of characters (and, I’ll write about that another time…it really was entertaining). And today, it was lunch on Arthur Avenue. Arthur Avenue is the Bronx version of Little Italy, minus all the tourists. It was the coolest place, where you could buy pasta bowls and dishes from sidewalk vendors, and find authentic food, including fresh baked breads and pastries. And, there were people there who actually spoke Italian!
Over lunch was when I got the napkin out and wrote down the directions. Miles knows that I need all the directions, right down to the tiniest details, just to make sure I don’t get lost. It wasn’t until he was dropping me at the subway, which he thought was the 4, but turned out to be the 5, that the directions had to be tweaked just a little. It was on this return trip that I managed to find myself on almost all the subway platforms I had previously cried upon. I didn’t cry today…..but, I did feel really sad. It was a bittersweet, underground tour of my most recent heart break. I wish I didn’t still feel so emotionally wounded, feeling the need to continue to wallow in self pity and despair. (OK, maybe despair is a bit dramatic….)
I survived the “heartbreak tour,” and while doing so, think I figured out how to comfortably ride the subway while standing. The trick is to just relax and go with the flow. It’s sort of like standing on a boat; you have to sway with the movement. Jeez…I wish I could just go with the flow of my life. I wish I were not one of those over thinkers who carries an unprotected heart with her, everywhere she goes.
Having managed to only minimally email Harry this week, my resolve broke when I was in GCS and I text messaged him telling him how hard it was for me to be there, so close and yet so far away from him…..and how I missed him. Of course he didn’t respond, nor did I expect he would. I found myself in almost the exact same spot we said good-bye in while my heart was crumbling into a million little pieces. It was hard to be back in that moment. Especially since I have always hated the “good-byes” and that was such a final one. Maybe not final forever, but final in so many other ways. Ways that I will dearly miss.
I spent the day traveling to and from the Bronx, all the way up to Pelham, for a 1 hour meeting that they kept me waiting for. Getting there was easier than returning once I got past the Grand Central Station part. However, the return trip involved Miles, so getting back was just a little more complicated and involved me having to write direction on a napkin. (Miles is always trying to find a better way for me to get from place to place, which normally just confuses me more.)
After attending my much delayed meeting, Miles, who lives on City Island, picked me up and we went to Arthur Avenue for lunch. Miles has been such a wonderful friend and has been doing his best to distract me and cheer me up. Last Saturday I went to City Island for the day and we had a barbeque with a very interesting cast of characters (and, I’ll write about that another time…it really was entertaining). And today, it was lunch on Arthur Avenue. Arthur Avenue is the Bronx version of Little Italy, minus all the tourists. It was the coolest place, where you could buy pasta bowls and dishes from sidewalk vendors, and find authentic food, including fresh baked breads and pastries. And, there were people there who actually spoke Italian!
Over lunch was when I got the napkin out and wrote down the directions. Miles knows that I need all the directions, right down to the tiniest details, just to make sure I don’t get lost. It wasn’t until he was dropping me at the subway, which he thought was the 4, but turned out to be the 5, that the directions had to be tweaked just a little. It was on this return trip that I managed to find myself on almost all the subway platforms I had previously cried upon. I didn’t cry today…..but, I did feel really sad. It was a bittersweet, underground tour of my most recent heart break. I wish I didn’t still feel so emotionally wounded, feeling the need to continue to wallow in self pity and despair. (OK, maybe despair is a bit dramatic….)
I survived the “heartbreak tour,” and while doing so, think I figured out how to comfortably ride the subway while standing. The trick is to just relax and go with the flow. It’s sort of like standing on a boat; you have to sway with the movement. Jeez…I wish I could just go with the flow of my life. I wish I were not one of those over thinkers who carries an unprotected heart with her, everywhere she goes.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Delete, delete, delete, delete.....
He said he had no idea she loved him. How is that possible she wonders to herself? Over the past two years they have exchanged hundreds of emails…hundreds. She’s a writer and in the thousands of words she’s written to him, how did he miss this? She was not vague. Today she is amazed that he says he didn’t know how she felt about him. It would have been almost impossible for him not to know. Strangers knew. People who only know her through her writing in cyberspace could tell that she loved this man. And he, who she has spent time kissing….had no idea?
This morning she awoke and used the delete key on her computer. She deleted the few pictures she had of him, deleted his website from her “favorites” list and deleted him from her AOL Buddy List. It was purely a symbolic act though. Let’s face it; it’s not like she doesn’t know where to find him, like she’s forever severed her cyber link to him. It’s not like she doesn’t have his phone number, or know where he works, or of a place she can go to hear his voice, even if it’s not her he’s talking too.
She deleted so it would be just a little less convenient to perseverate on him. To torture herself by seeing his face or hearing his voice. She wishes there were a way to delete this heart ache she feels. It’s been four days. She should be feeling better…right?
Unable to cry any longer, she feels numb and overwhelmed with sadness, and angry. Angry at his professed inability to see her standing out here, angry at his inability to see how much she cared about him and how much she wanted to care for him.
She deleted him from her buddy list...for now....for now the sound of his door opening and his name appearing on the right side of her computer screen, as if he’d walked into the room with her, is much more than she can handle. It’s hard enough having him walk across her conscious mind a hundred times a day. Seeing him in a tangible way is too difficult for her.
She could not have deleted in a permanent way though, in a way where you suddenly feel cold and clammy and think “OMG, I’ve just deleted something that I’ll never get back!” She still has his phone number and can certainly type in his web address. She’s trying so very hard not to let herself be weak. Not to let herself call, or text, or even go to a website and look. She’s trying so hard to distance herself from him and it’s one of the most difficult things she's ever had to do.
She's trying so hard to get to a point where it won't matter to her anymore. Where he will just be someone she knows..........
She gambled and she lost. Why does she insist on learning these lessons the hardest way possible?
This morning she awoke and used the delete key on her computer. She deleted the few pictures she had of him, deleted his website from her “favorites” list and deleted him from her AOL Buddy List. It was purely a symbolic act though. Let’s face it; it’s not like she doesn’t know where to find him, like she’s forever severed her cyber link to him. It’s not like she doesn’t have his phone number, or know where he works, or of a place she can go to hear his voice, even if it’s not her he’s talking too.
She deleted so it would be just a little less convenient to perseverate on him. To torture herself by seeing his face or hearing his voice. She wishes there were a way to delete this heart ache she feels. It’s been four days. She should be feeling better…right?
Unable to cry any longer, she feels numb and overwhelmed with sadness, and angry. Angry at his professed inability to see her standing out here, angry at his inability to see how much she cared about him and how much she wanted to care for him.
She deleted him from her buddy list...for now....for now the sound of his door opening and his name appearing on the right side of her computer screen, as if he’d walked into the room with her, is much more than she can handle. It’s hard enough having him walk across her conscious mind a hundred times a day. Seeing him in a tangible way is too difficult for her.
She could not have deleted in a permanent way though, in a way where you suddenly feel cold and clammy and think “OMG, I’ve just deleted something that I’ll never get back!” She still has his phone number and can certainly type in his web address. She’s trying so very hard not to let herself be weak. Not to let herself call, or text, or even go to a website and look. She’s trying so hard to distance herself from him and it’s one of the most difficult things she's ever had to do.
She's trying so hard to get to a point where it won't matter to her anymore. Where he will just be someone she knows..........
She gambled and she lost. Why does she insist on learning these lessons the hardest way possible?
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
"Leave love bleeding in my hands..."
“I love you,” she finally says.
She physically hurts from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. She aches deep down inside, in a place she never knew existed.
“I love you,” she finally says. “I’m standing out here at the edge of your life, waiting for you, and I have no idea if that’s what you want.”
“Don’t wait for me,” he replies
“I want to wait for you,” she whispers.
“Don’t wait for me. I want you to have a happy life.”
“I love you. I want to wait for just a little while.”
“Don’t wait for me. I don’t love you,” he says.
And inside of her, her heart breaks…shattered into a million little pieces. Tears well up into her eyes and silently trickle down her face as her head rested upon his chest. She walked down this road of her own free will, her eyes wide open and knowing full well that she might end up in this place. This crying place.
It’s taken 49 years, 11 months for her to feel heartbreak like this. Almost like heartbreak over the death of someone she loves, only different and in some ways far more difficult, since he still exists in the real world, just not in her world in the way she wants him to be. She aches for him and for the potential that she knows he’s walking away from.
She said she is living her new life with no regrets and that she would never regret loving him.
He said that she was braver than he.
Silently she cried while lying next to her daughter, whose apartment she stayed at that night. She wanted to go home so that she could lie in her own bed and sob, hoping that if she did so, she might rid herself of some of this heart break.
He is not to blame for her tears. He was never anything but upfront about where he was in his life and his situation. She thought if she loved him enough, she could change that. She was wrong and yet she loves him nonetheless.
She loves him in spite of the fact that he does not love her.
She wonders how long it will be before she runs out of tears. She feels stupid being almost 50 and finding herself truly loving someone for the very first time in her life….. and now having to cry about him. But, living a life with no regrets means putting yourself in situations where you risk having your heart broken into a million pieces. She has no way to protect her heart….it’s always right out there for everyone to see.
She can’t imagine her life without him in it……..and she can’t imagine never being able to love him the way she wants to love him….
There’s a song on her iPod she cried while listening to on the train tonight. (Silently of course, so as not to appear to be a total nut job….in the past 24 hours she’s gotten very good a crying silently.) The song is by Fuel and the title is Hemorrhage (In My Hands), one line in particular speaks to her right now.
“Leave love bleeding in my hands….”
This is exactly how she feels as she stands here at the edge of his life, love...bleeding in her hands.
She physically hurts from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. She aches deep down inside, in a place she never knew existed.
“I love you,” she finally says. “I’m standing out here at the edge of your life, waiting for you, and I have no idea if that’s what you want.”
“Don’t wait for me,” he replies
“I want to wait for you,” she whispers.
“Don’t wait for me. I want you to have a happy life.”
“I love you. I want to wait for just a little while.”
“Don’t wait for me. I don’t love you,” he says.
And inside of her, her heart breaks…shattered into a million little pieces. Tears well up into her eyes and silently trickle down her face as her head rested upon his chest. She walked down this road of her own free will, her eyes wide open and knowing full well that she might end up in this place. This crying place.
It’s taken 49 years, 11 months for her to feel heartbreak like this. Almost like heartbreak over the death of someone she loves, only different and in some ways far more difficult, since he still exists in the real world, just not in her world in the way she wants him to be. She aches for him and for the potential that she knows he’s walking away from.
She said she is living her new life with no regrets and that she would never regret loving him.
He said that she was braver than he.
Silently she cried while lying next to her daughter, whose apartment she stayed at that night. She wanted to go home so that she could lie in her own bed and sob, hoping that if she did so, she might rid herself of some of this heart break.
He is not to blame for her tears. He was never anything but upfront about where he was in his life and his situation. She thought if she loved him enough, she could change that. She was wrong and yet she loves him nonetheless.
She loves him in spite of the fact that he does not love her.
She wonders how long it will be before she runs out of tears. She feels stupid being almost 50 and finding herself truly loving someone for the very first time in her life….. and now having to cry about him. But, living a life with no regrets means putting yourself in situations where you risk having your heart broken into a million pieces. She has no way to protect her heart….it’s always right out there for everyone to see.
She can’t imagine her life without him in it……..and she can’t imagine never being able to love him the way she wants to love him….
There’s a song on her iPod she cried while listening to on the train tonight. (Silently of course, so as not to appear to be a total nut job….in the past 24 hours she’s gotten very good a crying silently.) The song is by Fuel and the title is Hemorrhage (In My Hands), one line in particular speaks to her right now.
“Leave love bleeding in my hands….”
This is exactly how she feels as she stands here at the edge of his life, love...bleeding in her hands.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Rumor mongers again....
OK...so, I'm not going to post on the message board if I ever find it. The hell with the rumor mongers...why stoop to their level......I've written about here...have thought about it a bit more...and now I'm fine with letting idiots be idiots.
The rumor mongers
I have a passionate dislike for rumor mongers. You know, people who like to make crap up at the expense of others. I have a very good friend Kermit (I call him Kerm), who is going through a dramatic life change right now and who I will gladly spend all the time he needs, supporting. He allowed me to cry into my pancakes over Saturday morning breakfasts a few years ago and for that I will be forever grateful. He is one of a few men I’ve come to think of as my “platonic boyfriends,” and is by far my very favorite. In many ways he’s like the older brother (although not by much), that I never knew I wanted. He dispenses “guy advice” that sometimes I take and other times I shake my head and think “yeah, right….I don’t think so.”
I met Kermit through a local political organization where we both live, becoming involved with them because I could no longer live my life sitting on the couch watching television. We were fast friends almost immediately, with never one spark of romance or sexual tension involved in our relationship.
Kermit supported me when I need it, he didn't freak out when I cried, he always paid for breakfast, he sent me emails and he bought me a Goo Goo Dolls DVD he saw in a store knowing how much I liked them, even though I suspect he still has no idea who they are. Over the past few years he has been one of my primary advisors when it came to looking for a new job, or…..a new life.
It’s now my turn to help Kermit make a new life. It’s unfortunate that it’s going to be a drama filled process, but that’s not the story here. The story here is about the “rumor mongers.”
Politics, is politics, is politics. Because Kerm and I were at one time both involved with the same local, grassroots political organization we have now become linked on a sleazy political message board. A message board where people post anonymously about others and it makes no difference whether the information is true or not. In some ways I find the whole thing amusing. I could care less what the rumor mongers post, especially considering there are maybe only a handful of people who even look at that message board. Yet, in other ways I’m feeling really pissed off about it. Kermit's wife, who is involved in his drama is affected by this and was the person who found the post and then questioned him. Although she and I are only acquaintances, people adding to their family drama by lying only adds to the discomfort that already exists….and I’m not talking about my discomfort which is actually quite minimal. I know what the truth is.
I can’t seem to find the damn message board and believe me; I’m still looking for it. I have all intentions of posting my thoughts about what the rumor mongers are saying, even though on some levels, all it will do is reinforce their bad behavior. Nevertheless, I’m going to have my say, and it won’t be anonymously either. And you can bet your sweet ass that I’m not the least bit afraid of being seen with Kerm, be it here, or anywhere else.
I met Kermit through a local political organization where we both live, becoming involved with them because I could no longer live my life sitting on the couch watching television. We were fast friends almost immediately, with never one spark of romance or sexual tension involved in our relationship.
Kermit supported me when I need it, he didn't freak out when I cried, he always paid for breakfast, he sent me emails and he bought me a Goo Goo Dolls DVD he saw in a store knowing how much I liked them, even though I suspect he still has no idea who they are. Over the past few years he has been one of my primary advisors when it came to looking for a new job, or…..a new life.
It’s now my turn to help Kermit make a new life. It’s unfortunate that it’s going to be a drama filled process, but that’s not the story here. The story here is about the “rumor mongers.”
Politics, is politics, is politics. Because Kerm and I were at one time both involved with the same local, grassroots political organization we have now become linked on a sleazy political message board. A message board where people post anonymously about others and it makes no difference whether the information is true or not. In some ways I find the whole thing amusing. I could care less what the rumor mongers post, especially considering there are maybe only a handful of people who even look at that message board. Yet, in other ways I’m feeling really pissed off about it. Kermit's wife, who is involved in his drama is affected by this and was the person who found the post and then questioned him. Although she and I are only acquaintances, people adding to their family drama by lying only adds to the discomfort that already exists….and I’m not talking about my discomfort which is actually quite minimal. I know what the truth is.
I can’t seem to find the damn message board and believe me; I’m still looking for it. I have all intentions of posting my thoughts about what the rumor mongers are saying, even though on some levels, all it will do is reinforce their bad behavior. Nevertheless, I’m going to have my say, and it won’t be anonymously either. And you can bet your sweet ass that I’m not the least bit afraid of being seen with Kerm, be it here, or anywhere else.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
A dog in the garden
Published in The Long Island Advance
August 2, 2007
I finally broke down recently and gardened just a little where I’m living. For a few weeks there were a couple of cell packs of marigolds sitting on the porch, left by my mother who was planning to plant them with my niece. They never got planted and I started to feel guilty when mom took one of the packs back to her house to plant there. After she left I looked at the remaining plants sitting on the step, happened to spot a trowel on the picnic table and though “Oh, just go ahead and plant the darn things. You know you want too.” After I got my hands dirty, I noticed the Morning Glories and Nasturtium were drooped over, dying of thirst. It was at that point that planting lead to watering, another activity that I don’t do much of these days.
While standing out front, hose in hand, a guy rode past on his bike with his Bull dog trotting happily on a leash by his side. Without even thinking I called over to him as he passed and said “Kind of like the ‘Dog Whisperer’….” and let the rest of my thoughts speak for themselves. “I love that guy,” he shouted back, laughing. I couldn’t help think about how I assumed some random guy with a dog would know who The Dog Whisperer was….and he did! We continued our loud, yet brief conversation with me telling him that Cesar Millan, The Dog Whisperer, makes me want become a dog owner.
I don’t watch much television anymore and when I do, it’s normally the National Geographic or Discovery Channels. I stumbled upon Cesar Millan, “The Dog Whisperer,” one night and I’ve been hooked on him ever since. A few weeks ago it was “Dog Whisperer Week” on National Geographic and I spent literally hours watching one show after another. At one point I realized that it was Saturday night and I had just spent three hours watching this TV show, and what kind of social life was that? And then I decided I didn’t care. The man is a genius with dogs. I now know how to choose the right dog from an animal shelter, how to be the “leader of the pack,” and have gleaned all sorts of other interesting dog behavior knowledge from his example.
Some of my new found knowledge I’m trying to impart upon the crazy Jack Russell Terrier, Bingo, who lives in this house and belongs to my niece. So far I’ve been unsuccessful and think that I need to take written notes as I watch the show in order to get Bingo to behave like a follower, and not the leader he thinks he is.
Bingo is a little dog with a big attitude. When he looks in the mirror, he sees a huge, ferocious German Shepherd, instead of a ten pound Jack Russell with short legs.
Bingo would never be lying contentedly in the grass while I watered the garden. He would be off and running down the street, yipping at the heels of that Bull dog, determined to show him who the lead of the pack was. Short of Cesar Millan showing up on the doorstep to whisper Bingo back into shape, I doubt very much that my fantasy of a well behaved dog in the garden will come to pass, at least not with this dog. Perhaps for now I should stick with my cat.
August 2, 2007
I finally broke down recently and gardened just a little where I’m living. For a few weeks there were a couple of cell packs of marigolds sitting on the porch, left by my mother who was planning to plant them with my niece. They never got planted and I started to feel guilty when mom took one of the packs back to her house to plant there. After she left I looked at the remaining plants sitting on the step, happened to spot a trowel on the picnic table and though “Oh, just go ahead and plant the darn things. You know you want too.” After I got my hands dirty, I noticed the Morning Glories and Nasturtium were drooped over, dying of thirst. It was at that point that planting lead to watering, another activity that I don’t do much of these days.
While standing out front, hose in hand, a guy rode past on his bike with his Bull dog trotting happily on a leash by his side. Without even thinking I called over to him as he passed and said “Kind of like the ‘Dog Whisperer’….” and let the rest of my thoughts speak for themselves. “I love that guy,” he shouted back, laughing. I couldn’t help think about how I assumed some random guy with a dog would know who The Dog Whisperer was….and he did! We continued our loud, yet brief conversation with me telling him that Cesar Millan, The Dog Whisperer, makes me want become a dog owner.
I don’t watch much television anymore and when I do, it’s normally the National Geographic or Discovery Channels. I stumbled upon Cesar Millan, “The Dog Whisperer,” one night and I’ve been hooked on him ever since. A few weeks ago it was “Dog Whisperer Week” on National Geographic and I spent literally hours watching one show after another. At one point I realized that it was Saturday night and I had just spent three hours watching this TV show, and what kind of social life was that? And then I decided I didn’t care. The man is a genius with dogs. I now know how to choose the right dog from an animal shelter, how to be the “leader of the pack,” and have gleaned all sorts of other interesting dog behavior knowledge from his example.
Some of my new found knowledge I’m trying to impart upon the crazy Jack Russell Terrier, Bingo, who lives in this house and belongs to my niece. So far I’ve been unsuccessful and think that I need to take written notes as I watch the show in order to get Bingo to behave like a follower, and not the leader he thinks he is.
Bingo is a little dog with a big attitude. When he looks in the mirror, he sees a huge, ferocious German Shepherd, instead of a ten pound Jack Russell with short legs.
Bingo would never be lying contentedly in the grass while I watered the garden. He would be off and running down the street, yipping at the heels of that Bull dog, determined to show him who the lead of the pack was. Short of Cesar Millan showing up on the doorstep to whisper Bingo back into shape, I doubt very much that my fantasy of a well behaved dog in the garden will come to pass, at least not with this dog. Perhaps for now I should stick with my cat.
Friday, July 27, 2007
To U-Haul or not
Published in The Long Island Advance
July 26, 2007
As many of you know, I’m planning a move to Queens in the fall. Anticipating this I’ve begun to pack boxes. I don’t have much in the way of furniture, but boy, do I have a lot of boxes. They sit in closets or the spare rooms on the third floor of the house I’m living in, just waiting for me to carry them down three flights of stairs and out the door.
Initially when thinking about moving my thoughts were, “no big deal,” it’s just a bunch of boxes and some minor furnishings, figuring a U-Haul, my son Nick, and one or two of his friends and maybe a few pizzas’ and my move would be accomplished. My daughter, Erin, I suspect will be more like a “box unpacker” as like her mother, carrying heavy objects is not our thing.
In my mind my move was all figured out using a U-Haul and the man-woman power of my children. That was until I helped move Erin to Astoria a few weeks ago. It didn’t take long for me to decide that hiring professional movers was a much better idea. Twenty (well, maybe that’s a little bit of an exaggeration, but it felt like twenty) trips later, up three flights of stairs each time, and I was convinced of it.
The day of Erin’s move she and I drove to Queens early, my car packed with bags and boxes, wine glasses, a full length mirror, her laptop and TV. First we had to stop in Forest Hills to pick up the key from her new roommate. Of course the Map Quest directions were not quite accurate and not being familiar with the area, we drove around, and around, and around, until we eventually ended up in the general vicinity of where her roommate works and the elusive apartment keys. I finally found myself parked in front of a fire hydrant outside a church with the word “martyr” in the name. “Ah, the perfect spot,” I thought to myself.
Miraculously, we made it from Forest Hills to Astoria using directions provided to us by people who do not drive. Need I say more?
After my car was finally emptied, we had time to kill while waiting for her father to arrive with the U-Haul and her cousin and uncle, all there to be the furniture movers. In between we went looking for a mattress pad on Steinway Street and found ourselves in a linen store. As I walked in, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath saying to Erin, “I can’t believe it! We’re in the old Swezey’s linen store!” I was so excited to be there that I stopped thinking about my twenty trips up and down the three flights of stairs, and those that were yet to come.
The U-Haul was a drama unto itself. Even though I wasn’t actually driving it, I felt like I was, after all, this was a collective experience. Where were we going to park it? Where did we have to go to return it? When we couldn’t find the place to return it, what way were we going to drive to get it back to were it was picked up, since you can’t drive them on parkways? One mini U-Haul nightmare after another, found me making calls the next day for estimates from professional movers.
When she heard this, my mother’s first words were “We used to move your sister all the time and we never used movers.” I think she’s forgetting that was over twenty years ago and we’re all that much older now. Personally, I’m done with physical labor. I want someone to carry out my boxes, drive them to where I’m going, carry them in and leave me sitting on the floor in my new living room, unpacking them.
July 26, 2007
As many of you know, I’m planning a move to Queens in the fall. Anticipating this I’ve begun to pack boxes. I don’t have much in the way of furniture, but boy, do I have a lot of boxes. They sit in closets or the spare rooms on the third floor of the house I’m living in, just waiting for me to carry them down three flights of stairs and out the door.
Initially when thinking about moving my thoughts were, “no big deal,” it’s just a bunch of boxes and some minor furnishings, figuring a U-Haul, my son Nick, and one or two of his friends and maybe a few pizzas’ and my move would be accomplished. My daughter, Erin, I suspect will be more like a “box unpacker” as like her mother, carrying heavy objects is not our thing.
In my mind my move was all figured out using a U-Haul and the man-woman power of my children. That was until I helped move Erin to Astoria a few weeks ago. It didn’t take long for me to decide that hiring professional movers was a much better idea. Twenty (well, maybe that’s a little bit of an exaggeration, but it felt like twenty) trips later, up three flights of stairs each time, and I was convinced of it.
The day of Erin’s move she and I drove to Queens early, my car packed with bags and boxes, wine glasses, a full length mirror, her laptop and TV. First we had to stop in Forest Hills to pick up the key from her new roommate. Of course the Map Quest directions were not quite accurate and not being familiar with the area, we drove around, and around, and around, until we eventually ended up in the general vicinity of where her roommate works and the elusive apartment keys. I finally found myself parked in front of a fire hydrant outside a church with the word “martyr” in the name. “Ah, the perfect spot,” I thought to myself.
Miraculously, we made it from Forest Hills to Astoria using directions provided to us by people who do not drive. Need I say more?
After my car was finally emptied, we had time to kill while waiting for her father to arrive with the U-Haul and her cousin and uncle, all there to be the furniture movers. In between we went looking for a mattress pad on Steinway Street and found ourselves in a linen store. As I walked in, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath saying to Erin, “I can’t believe it! We’re in the old Swezey’s linen store!” I was so excited to be there that I stopped thinking about my twenty trips up and down the three flights of stairs, and those that were yet to come.
The U-Haul was a drama unto itself. Even though I wasn’t actually driving it, I felt like I was, after all, this was a collective experience. Where were we going to park it? Where did we have to go to return it? When we couldn’t find the place to return it, what way were we going to drive to get it back to were it was picked up, since you can’t drive them on parkways? One mini U-Haul nightmare after another, found me making calls the next day for estimates from professional movers.
When she heard this, my mother’s first words were “We used to move your sister all the time and we never used movers.” I think she’s forgetting that was over twenty years ago and we’re all that much older now. Personally, I’m done with physical labor. I want someone to carry out my boxes, drive them to where I’m going, carry them in and leave me sitting on the floor in my new living room, unpacking them.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
The Third Rail
It's never a good thing when you're sitting on a stopped train, looking out the window and wondering how deep the water is that your train is sitting in. It's even worse when the engineer announces that you can't proceed because the water you're sitting in is over the "third rail!" Correct me if I'm wrong, but...isn't the "third rail" the electric one? He continued on by saying "We're not exactly sure what we're going to do next."
We obviously did not get electrocuted, which of course was my first thought. But knowing that I was sitting in a big metal box on something electric that was now covered by a river of water, was not a comforting thought at 8 AM this morning.
We obviously did not get electrocuted, which of course was my first thought. But knowing that I was sitting in a big metal box on something electric that was now covered by a river of water, was not a comforting thought at 8 AM this morning.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Well behaved women...
One morning last week I left home early enough to stop in the deli and pick up a cup of coffee before having to make the train. While caught up in conversation with three women that I know from the area and who I haven’t seen in a while, an older gentleman walked into the deli, chuckling to himself.
“Who has the blue car outside with the bumper sticker?” he said looking from one to the other of us.
“The one that says ‘Well behaved women seldom make history?’” I asked, raising my eyebrows just a little.
“I expected to see some big burly guy in here with that on his car,” he said, laughing.
“No, that would be my car and my bumper sticker,” I replied, just a little puzzled.
Taking my coffee I said good-bye and left, still just slightly confused as to why the man in the deli would have expected that bumper sticker to be on a car driven by some “big, burly guy.” It wasn’t until I was sitting on the train that I realized he didn’t get it. He didn't understand that it’s the women who make noise, who ruffle feathers, who are not “well behaved” that do make history. He didn’t get that the statement I was making was that *I am not a well behaved woman,* nor do I ever intend to be.
Jeez…I wish I could have a “do over” of that conversation. Possibly I will be able to parlay this little bit of writing into a column for my next guest appearance in my local newspaper, in the hope that the man in the deli might read it and understand what “Well behaved women seldom make history” really means.
“Who has the blue car outside with the bumper sticker?” he said looking from one to the other of us.
“The one that says ‘Well behaved women seldom make history?’” I asked, raising my eyebrows just a little.
“I expected to see some big burly guy in here with that on his car,” he said, laughing.
“No, that would be my car and my bumper sticker,” I replied, just a little puzzled.
Taking my coffee I said good-bye and left, still just slightly confused as to why the man in the deli would have expected that bumper sticker to be on a car driven by some “big, burly guy.” It wasn’t until I was sitting on the train that I realized he didn’t get it. He didn't understand that it’s the women who make noise, who ruffle feathers, who are not “well behaved” that do make history. He didn’t get that the statement I was making was that *I am not a well behaved woman,* nor do I ever intend to be.
Jeez…I wish I could have a “do over” of that conversation. Possibly I will be able to parlay this little bit of writing into a column for my next guest appearance in my local newspaper, in the hope that the man in the deli might read it and understand what “Well behaved women seldom make history” really means.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Two years of weblogging....
Two years ago I started this weblog. Here I am, 86 posts later and starting my third year of writing in this space. Since June 29, 2005 I've finished my Bachelor's degree, my divorce became final and I've gotten a new job. Accomplishments that while I was working on them seemed as if they would never happen. (Somehow along the way I think that maybe I really have become a writer too.)
These are goals that I can now cross off my "To do list." One of the realizations that I've come to over the past two years of writing is that if you work hard enough toward accomplishing something that you really want, you can make it happen.
Hmmm.....I wonder what I'm going to be writing about over the next year of weblogging? In the mean time, maybe I should go out and have Margarita tonight in order to celebrate these 86 posts, and while I'm drinking, I'll write out a "To do list" for this coming year of weblogging. As is my nature, big and bold will prevail.
~Susan~
These are goals that I can now cross off my "To do list." One of the realizations that I've come to over the past two years of writing is that if you work hard enough toward accomplishing something that you really want, you can make it happen.
Hmmm.....I wonder what I'm going to be writing about over the next year of weblogging? In the mean time, maybe I should go out and have Margarita tonight in order to celebrate these 86 posts, and while I'm drinking, I'll write out a "To do list" for this coming year of weblogging. As is my nature, big and bold will prevail.
~Susan~
Friday, June 22, 2007
You go girl....
This was an email that my good friend Jane sent me tonight. And, this is exactly why I love Jane and her husband Lewis (even though I don't know him very well.)
Since Jane doesn't have a weblog of her own even though I think she should, I'm going to post this email from her on mine.
I think Atlanta is going like having Jane and Lewis there, and will be an even greater place because of them.
Enjoy!
Tonight, we walked down to Piedmont Park for the annual PRIDE festival. (Gay Pride) A lot of the participants are staying at our hotel and we've been having fun with them, so even though we're not gay, we decided to check it out. Right outside the gate were 6 men with a bullhorn and a sign that read "Homos are in sin" Lewis and I walked up to them and I said "Judgment is the greatest sin." Thay all started yelling at us and telling us we would die in our sin. I said Jesus would never stand on their corner with them, and if he was here, he'd be crying for them and their cruel hearts. Lewis just kept telling them "Judging others is a sin against God." It was great. I was accused of being a sick Lesbian!! I answered, "Actually, I've bee married for 27 years to that man...and together, we love ALL of our neighbors." And they were horrified. I told them they needed to read the Bible and not just the chosen tracts from their cult. The police escorted us across the street. We were followed by a bunch of nice, cheering women who Lewis thought smelled really good even though they weren't interested in him at all. I think I like Atlanta a lot.
Love,Jane
Since Jane doesn't have a weblog of her own even though I think she should, I'm going to post this email from her on mine.
I think Atlanta is going like having Jane and Lewis there, and will be an even greater place because of them.
Enjoy!
Tonight, we walked down to Piedmont Park for the annual PRIDE festival. (Gay Pride) A lot of the participants are staying at our hotel and we've been having fun with them, so even though we're not gay, we decided to check it out. Right outside the gate were 6 men with a bullhorn and a sign that read "Homos are in sin" Lewis and I walked up to them and I said "Judgment is the greatest sin." Thay all started yelling at us and telling us we would die in our sin. I said Jesus would never stand on their corner with them, and if he was here, he'd be crying for them and their cruel hearts. Lewis just kept telling them "Judging others is a sin against God." It was great. I was accused of being a sick Lesbian!! I answered, "Actually, I've bee married for 27 years to that man...and together, we love ALL of our neighbors." And they were horrified. I told them they needed to read the Bible and not just the chosen tracts from their cult. The police escorted us across the street. We were followed by a bunch of nice, cheering women who Lewis thought smelled really good even though they weren't interested in him at all. I think I like Atlanta a lot.
Love,Jane
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Maybe I'll just nap
Published in the Long Island Advance
I’m now a commuter, and whatever made me think it would be a breeze, I can’t imagine. Prior to starting my new job, I had visions of spending my three hour per day train ride in a much more productive manner than I have been. Three hours is a long time to sit and do nothing. It’s tiring sitting on a train, and lately on my way home at night I’ve been feeling the need to nap.
The one nice thing about my morning commute has been that I’m sitting next to my daughter Erin on the 7:17 AM train each day. She’s been doing this for over a year now and has mastered all the finer nuances of being a daily commuter. I understand from her example that one does not talk on one’s cell phone early in the morning, nor carry on any kind of in-depth conversation or heated discussion when those around them have still not woken up yet, and relish silence on their morning ride. I find myself becoming annoyed with the realtor sitting ahead of me who is leaving message after message for people who have not yet arrived in their offices at 7:30 in the morning, and figure that she must not be a regular commuter, as regular commuters know the rules. And the same rules apply for the return trip, although there does seem some flexibility in the “conversation” factor. However, flexibility does not mean that it’s OK to spend an hour on your Nextel phone, having a walkie-talkie type conversation, with every sentence prefaced by that annoying beeping sound that the entire car of people can hear. IPod’s come in handy at times like these.
Sitting next to Erin has other perks as well. She holds my coffee while I open a breakfast bar to eat as a morning meal, and I return the favor as she sits, scraping all the extra butter off the roll she sometimes buys from the coffee truck that’s outside the train station every morning. You can’t do that if you’re sitting next to a stranger. She’s also taught me exactly when I want to get up from my seat in order to stand by the door, waiting to exit at the Jamaica train station. From her perspective this is important, as you need to make a quick getaway from the first train in order to get a seat on the second one. This is not really an issue for me, since I get off in Jamaica and take the subway to Woodhaven. Yet, it’s important information to know for those days when I do have to travel into Manhattan in the morning.
Erin and I have not lived together in a while, so seeing her five mornings a week has been lovely and she has eased the transition into my new world. I sometimes get lost in the transitions of my life, so sitting next to her each morning has meant a great deal to me. Oddly enough, we’ve been heading in the same direction, she, a few steps ahead of me, paving the way for her very grateful mother.
Next month I’ll be commuting without my daughter, who is finally moving closer to her job. I’m excited for her, knowing that this is something she’s wanted for a while, and knowing that I’ll continue to follow in her footsteps. She’ll find the best places for an occasional Sunday breakfast; she’ll know where the parks and the laundries are, where in her new neighborhood you can shop for shoes, bags and perfume, and the quickest way to get into Manhattan. And she won’t mind if her mother apartment hunts in her new neighborhood either.
In the mean time though, I’m going to have to figure out a way to be more productive during my three hour commute. Perhaps I can relearn Spanish by downloading lessons onto my iPod, or listen to books. Writing too might be an option, but since I prefer to type as opposed to actually write in longhand, I struggle with that. When I bought my Dell laptop I thought six pounds sounded light, that was only until I tried lugging around that six pound laptop along with all the other essential stuff I carry to and from work. So, maybe I should give up the need to feel productive….and just nap.
I’m now a commuter, and whatever made me think it would be a breeze, I can’t imagine. Prior to starting my new job, I had visions of spending my three hour per day train ride in a much more productive manner than I have been. Three hours is a long time to sit and do nothing. It’s tiring sitting on a train, and lately on my way home at night I’ve been feeling the need to nap.
The one nice thing about my morning commute has been that I’m sitting next to my daughter Erin on the 7:17 AM train each day. She’s been doing this for over a year now and has mastered all the finer nuances of being a daily commuter. I understand from her example that one does not talk on one’s cell phone early in the morning, nor carry on any kind of in-depth conversation or heated discussion when those around them have still not woken up yet, and relish silence on their morning ride. I find myself becoming annoyed with the realtor sitting ahead of me who is leaving message after message for people who have not yet arrived in their offices at 7:30 in the morning, and figure that she must not be a regular commuter, as regular commuters know the rules. And the same rules apply for the return trip, although there does seem some flexibility in the “conversation” factor. However, flexibility does not mean that it’s OK to spend an hour on your Nextel phone, having a walkie-talkie type conversation, with every sentence prefaced by that annoying beeping sound that the entire car of people can hear. IPod’s come in handy at times like these.
Sitting next to Erin has other perks as well. She holds my coffee while I open a breakfast bar to eat as a morning meal, and I return the favor as she sits, scraping all the extra butter off the roll she sometimes buys from the coffee truck that’s outside the train station every morning. You can’t do that if you’re sitting next to a stranger. She’s also taught me exactly when I want to get up from my seat in order to stand by the door, waiting to exit at the Jamaica train station. From her perspective this is important, as you need to make a quick getaway from the first train in order to get a seat on the second one. This is not really an issue for me, since I get off in Jamaica and take the subway to Woodhaven. Yet, it’s important information to know for those days when I do have to travel into Manhattan in the morning.
Erin and I have not lived together in a while, so seeing her five mornings a week has been lovely and she has eased the transition into my new world. I sometimes get lost in the transitions of my life, so sitting next to her each morning has meant a great deal to me. Oddly enough, we’ve been heading in the same direction, she, a few steps ahead of me, paving the way for her very grateful mother.
Next month I’ll be commuting without my daughter, who is finally moving closer to her job. I’m excited for her, knowing that this is something she’s wanted for a while, and knowing that I’ll continue to follow in her footsteps. She’ll find the best places for an occasional Sunday breakfast; she’ll know where the parks and the laundries are, where in her new neighborhood you can shop for shoes, bags and perfume, and the quickest way to get into Manhattan. And she won’t mind if her mother apartment hunts in her new neighborhood either.
In the mean time though, I’m going to have to figure out a way to be more productive during my three hour commute. Perhaps I can relearn Spanish by downloading lessons onto my iPod, or listen to books. Writing too might be an option, but since I prefer to type as opposed to actually write in longhand, I struggle with that. When I bought my Dell laptop I thought six pounds sounded light, that was only until I tried lugging around that six pound laptop along with all the other essential stuff I carry to and from work. So, maybe I should give up the need to feel productive….and just nap.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Leaving less of a footprint
Published in The Long Island Advance
May 24, 2007
It’s difficult to live in the world today and not have heard the words “global warming.” You can’t open a newspaper or read a magazine, go online or watch television without seeing something related to this topic. I’m initially good at not paying attention to issues that seem far greater then I am. If our government refuses to see the light, what can I, one person do about it?
For me it’s become increasingly difficult to ignore this subject. Some would like us to believe that scientists are needlessly scaring us, but I’ve decided not to take that chance. That’s why I now own six reusable shopping bags that I take when I go to the grocery store.
Ever since grocery stores replaced paper bags with the plastic ones, I’ve hated them. My five or six reusable bags hold the same amount as 12 plastic bags, which would often spill their contents all over the trunk of my car. I do wish that my environmentally friendly shopping bags were just a little less flashy though. They’re a bit too bright, but no matter, I’m not trying to make a fashion statement, just an environmental one.
Often when shopping in local grocery stores I look around me to see if anyone else is using the flashy bags and I have yet to spot anyone. I’m very good about making sure those bags are always in the trunk of my car and ready to use should I need to make a run to the store. Sure, once in a while I forget them and have to use the plastic ones. (I still haven’t figured out what to put the cat litter in, so for now I continue to need a few.) Yet, I would love to see more people leaving the store with all their groceries in the flashy new bags.
Leaving less of a carbon footprint is important to me. There are huge political issues involved. More than I have the time, the space, or the understanding of to write about here. For me, this is about being responsible for what my impact here on earth is. I can’t help believe that if everyone gave just a little more thought to that, it might very well make a difference. I think being
environmentally responsible now might be an important gift I can give to my children and theirs.
You all know how I feel about my car. Although for me one of the biggest draws to moving to a more urban area is avoiding those car dilemmas that I’ve written about, another is the fact that I will further decrease my carbon footprint. I realize that it’s almost impossible to live in Suffolk County without one, so I’m not anticipating a mad rush of people to follow in my particular footsteps. All I would really like to do is to get you to think in simple terms about what you can do to help stop global warming.
The Inuit’s are falling through thin ice while hunting; Polar Bears are starving while their natural habitat melts before their eyes. The poorest countries in the world will suffer the most, and the riches, the least. Maybe those of us here today won’t feel that suffering, but it’s a sure bet that the generation that comes after us will.
Do something to decrease your carbon footprint. Even if all it is, is to replace your light bulbs or start to shop for local produce, or to make a fashion statement by using those fancy new grocery store bags.
May 24, 2007
It’s difficult to live in the world today and not have heard the words “global warming.” You can’t open a newspaper or read a magazine, go online or watch television without seeing something related to this topic. I’m initially good at not paying attention to issues that seem far greater then I am. If our government refuses to see the light, what can I, one person do about it?
For me it’s become increasingly difficult to ignore this subject. Some would like us to believe that scientists are needlessly scaring us, but I’ve decided not to take that chance. That’s why I now own six reusable shopping bags that I take when I go to the grocery store.
Ever since grocery stores replaced paper bags with the plastic ones, I’ve hated them. My five or six reusable bags hold the same amount as 12 plastic bags, which would often spill their contents all over the trunk of my car. I do wish that my environmentally friendly shopping bags were just a little less flashy though. They’re a bit too bright, but no matter, I’m not trying to make a fashion statement, just an environmental one.
Often when shopping in local grocery stores I look around me to see if anyone else is using the flashy bags and I have yet to spot anyone. I’m very good about making sure those bags are always in the trunk of my car and ready to use should I need to make a run to the store. Sure, once in a while I forget them and have to use the plastic ones. (I still haven’t figured out what to put the cat litter in, so for now I continue to need a few.) Yet, I would love to see more people leaving the store with all their groceries in the flashy new bags.
Leaving less of a carbon footprint is important to me. There are huge political issues involved. More than I have the time, the space, or the understanding of to write about here. For me, this is about being responsible for what my impact here on earth is. I can’t help believe that if everyone gave just a little more thought to that, it might very well make a difference. I think being
environmentally responsible now might be an important gift I can give to my children and theirs.
You all know how I feel about my car. Although for me one of the biggest draws to moving to a more urban area is avoiding those car dilemmas that I’ve written about, another is the fact that I will further decrease my carbon footprint. I realize that it’s almost impossible to live in Suffolk County without one, so I’m not anticipating a mad rush of people to follow in my particular footsteps. All I would really like to do is to get you to think in simple terms about what you can do to help stop global warming.
The Inuit’s are falling through thin ice while hunting; Polar Bears are starving while their natural habitat melts before their eyes. The poorest countries in the world will suffer the most, and the riches, the least. Maybe those of us here today won’t feel that suffering, but it’s a sure bet that the generation that comes after us will.
Do something to decrease your carbon footprint. Even if all it is, is to replace your light bulbs or start to shop for local produce, or to make a fashion statement by using those fancy new grocery store bags.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
A cyber flirt
Dane is probably the most gorgeous man I have ever seen……dark hair, dark eyes, amazing smile and just overall, a beautiful specimen of a guy. He contacted me on My Space with a message that had the word “Princess” in it. I’m not normally one to respond to the name “Princess.” Although I have to say, it was far different coming from a 32 year old, as opposed to reading posts by the 60 something men who are “looking for a Princess to spoil,” and they want her to be 21. To say that I was flattered would be an understatement.
Dane is a man who likes “mature women.” I am a woman who likes “mature men.” And although I like my men with some edges, his are just a bit more then I would be comfortable with. However, that did not stop me from cyber flirting with him for 24 hours. I did have to finally decline a picture exchange that would have included him sans towel. That was so difficult to do. I really would have liked to have seen that picture. The one with the towel was pretty incredible, believe me.
While caught up in my little bit of cyber flirting, it didn’t matter to me that we had not one thing in common, other than we both believe in the theory that “anything is possible.” It didn’t take me long to realize that I want to flirt with someone else that I have more in common with though. And once again I have come full circle, right back to Harry.
Dane was like “thinking about having a really crazy, calorie laden dessert,” and then making a different choice, one that is still decadent and delicious, but better for me. Of course that remains to be seen too……..
Dane is a man who likes “mature women.” I am a woman who likes “mature men.” And although I like my men with some edges, his are just a bit more then I would be comfortable with. However, that did not stop me from cyber flirting with him for 24 hours. I did have to finally decline a picture exchange that would have included him sans towel. That was so difficult to do. I really would have liked to have seen that picture. The one with the towel was pretty incredible, believe me.
While caught up in my little bit of cyber flirting, it didn’t matter to me that we had not one thing in common, other than we both believe in the theory that “anything is possible.” It didn’t take me long to realize that I want to flirt with someone else that I have more in common with though. And once again I have come full circle, right back to Harry.
Dane was like “thinking about having a really crazy, calorie laden dessert,” and then making a different choice, one that is still decadent and delicious, but better for me. Of course that remains to be seen too……..
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