A New Breed of Rescue Society

Chihuahuas are being saved. Pit bulls are even finding new homes. But my neglected and/or downtrodden girlfriends?
They have no place to go.

If I had enough money, I’d start an Unhappy Wife/Girlfriend Rescue and Refuge. It’d be a place for gals to retreat when their husbands or boyfriends were treating them like crap—not respecting their wishes; not looking out for their best interests; not caring how many tears were being shed.

I’d buy acres and acres of land, and build quaint little cottages for the girls and their kids. We would grow vegetable gardens and raise chickens and goats (to make goat cheese, of course). I’d get an on-site therapist to help them work through their “stuff.” I’d make Fridays “mani-pedi night” where we all sat around doing our fingers and toes, wearing our jammies, watching Footloose and Grease. I would encourage the girls to follow their dreams, despite financial setbacks. I would build them back up after their men had knocked them down.

And if they decided to sever the ties to their past, I would help them set up online dating profiles and design manifestation collages to attract men who were committed to honoring, cherishing, and listening to them. I would rehab them into daters that knew when to trust their instincts and recognize when they weren’t receiving the treatment they deserved.

Like the canine rescue programs, I would hope that after living under my roof, I could send them out to better (or drastically reformed) homes, where they would enjoy long, happy lives rolling in the grass and driving with their heads hung out the window.

Blogger’s Guilt

Hi readers. As you may have noticed, I’ve been slacking a little on the posts lately. I haven’t been responding to your comments…I haven’t been reading your blogs as diligently as I was…I can’t even seem to find time to reply to sweet people (like Semicharmed) who send me emails. And despite the lack of actual indicators that I regret my behavior and want to change my ways, you should all know that I feel extremely guilty for not fulfilling my bloggerly duties.

This little web site and the people who read it really matter to me.

It’s tricky when you get tangled in a fishing line of weddings and freelance work and family time and errands and boyfriend time and appointments. As I sit here, I’m eating my lunch with a half-numb face from the dental procedure I had done this morning. Yes, I got a mirror to watch myself eat. And yes, every time I chew, I look like a crazy bag lady who is missing half her teeth. But that’s not the point.

The point is, I’ve been backburnering this blog and I feel bad. So in an attempt to rectify things, I decided to FINALLY post my pay-it-forward list of new bloggers I like. However, when I had to choose 7 people for it, I found myself feeling guilty yet again. Because all of you blog writers deserve an award. Heck, all of you who don’t have a blog but write thoughtful comments deserve an award!

I have to thank Nilsa for not only giving me this blogger award, but for writing this fantastic post that discussed the very guilt I’ve been feeling. She rules. Speaking of rules, here are the rules for the Brillante Award:

1. The winner can put the logo on his/her blog.
2. Link to the person you received your award from.
3. Nominate at least 7 other blogs for an award.
4. Put links to those blogs on yours.
5. Leave a message on the blogs for the people you’ve nominated.

And here are my winners:
Anita Stylist
Charlotte Harris
Just Run Just Live Just Be
My Life and Random Babblings
The Coconut Diaries
Variety is the Spice
Skrinkering Hearts

Thank you for the therapy session. I will send each of you $100 in my heart…

My Parachute

There are times—lately it seems like they’re popping up quite frequently—when stress and anxiety wrap around me so tightly, I think I’m going to suffocate. No matter how much yoga breathing I do, no matter how loud I crank up the Xanadu soundtrack, no matter how many M&Ms I stuff in my mouth, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m literally going to have a heart attack. I get so overwhelmed by obligations or anger at someone’s terrible wrongdoings or my own lack of downtime, I feel I could crack. Like looney farm crack.

Running always helps, but unless I take to just constantly jogging in place at work and home, it’s inevitable that the stress is going to get me again. And again.

So I vent. And thanks to the wonders of technology, I don’t need a blinking, breathing human being in front of me. I can vent over IM. All day. To Mr. Wonderful. And then if I see him in person later, I can spew out some more.

And every time, the most incredible thing happens: He pulls me out of my tailspin and lands me softly on solid ground.

I’m not one of those girls who only wants to vent to vent. I actually don’t mind having someone suggest to me what I should do to fix the problem. So when Mr. W says, “How about trying this?” I find myself feeling grateful.

A couple weeks ago, he and I went to dinner and I was very out of sorts. I was worrying about several different friends; I had a long day at work; I was overtired. And there across the table, he listened to each of my gripes, even saying, “What else, pumpkin?” when I’d finish one story. He offered advice and rubbed my neck. He cushioned what could’ve been a painful fall.

And he does this every time I turn to him.

When I was about 18, I was in my parents’ backyard filling the bird feeder or watering plants or some other inane task, and my mind was wandering to daydreams of travel and how great I thought my life would be when I was older and worldly. When suddenly something clicked. I realized that maybe that was why people got married. Because the fun stuff is even better when you have someone to share it with. I know, I know, I should’ve figured that one out by that age, but I was a late bloomer.

What I realize now, is that it’s not just the fun stuff that's better. It’s the hard stuff, too. The right person is there for you, at your back, willing to take over your descent with one yank of the ripcord. Because they don’t want to see you crash. And that's pretty amazing.

Discoveries

Seems like, no matter how old we are, there’s always something new to learn. Or something old to relearn. As if discovering the joy of, say, a spa day and a facial (I had my first facial ever on Saturday and it was fantastic!) weren’t enough, we have to learn things that make us look at life or ourselves a little differently.

In my last post, I called myself a man pack rat. Yet, upon combing each and every email I had been saving from the ex, I discovered that I really didn’t need them. I deleted all except a couple early ones and a few that contained poetry I had written. Although it seemed scary to just up and trash the entire folder, once I examined its contents, the deleting wasn’t frightening at all. I wasn’t losing any part of my history—I was letting go of old pain. And that’s a great thing.

Another surprise that came with this whole process was the realization that the ex reads this blog more often than I may have thought (see comment 22 on my last post). No matter how many times I tell him I forgive him—and that I’m truly happy everything turned out the way it did—he continues to apologize. He probably needs to delete my email folder, too…

I was reminded this weekend, how important it is to experience moments of true happiness every day. Whether you’re sorting through past relationship pain or buried under a mountain of personal obligations and freelance work (uh, that would be me…thus the infrequent comments on your blogs), it’s critical to take time out for little things that make you smile. In between writing my cousin’s resume and editing for my client, I found time to eat Cherry Garcia ice cream, watch a little Tori & Dean, go running and take a very relaxing hike.

I even rediscovered one of the elements of hiking I love: the way that hikers are sort of “all in this together.” It didn’t matter that I was hiking alone. The people I passed on the trail were my people. They smiled and said hello as we crossed. One guy even waved to me as I swatted at a bug—thinking I was actually greeting him. It cracked me up and made me so thankful that I had chosen to take time out for myself.

Mr. Wonderful was away for the weekend, and I found that it now feels very strange to spend so many days without him. We’ve gotten into a routine and I like it that way. In fact, I wouldn’t mind seeing the routine creep into a bigger routine…but we’ll figure that out when the time is right. Because I’ve discovered there’s no rush.

I also learned that Nilsa gave me a blog award that I must pay forward to 7 others. Instinct tells me this post is already too long (it's my 200th, by the way. yay me.), so I think I’ll save that one for next time…besides, it’ll give you all time to bribe me…

Happy September, everyone.

Man Pack Rat

Today, as I dragged an email to one of the many folders I have segmenting my inbox, I noticed that there’s still a “Sent to Mike” file lingering in there like old yogurt in the fridge. He is the ex who cheated, and a person who hasn’t been in my life since last July.

“I should delete the folder,” I thought.

But I couldn’t.

I don’t know whether I’m afraid of losing a chunk of my history. Or needing to go back to the folder and floundering when I find it absent. I’m not sure what my hang-up is.

I have “ex boxes” stuffed away in dark corners of my apartment, too. For a long time, one held pictures, poetry, a crusty rose and even the toothbrush of a short-lived ex. Eventually I whittled its contents down to photos alone…but again, I can’t bear to just get rid of the box. Because it might mean that the love affair connected to it never happened.

Somewhere inside, I think my children or my nieces will find my old relics after I’m dead and be fascinated by my life. But maybe I’m the only person who is—and ever will be—interested in all my stories. Journals alone don’t seem like enough…

Am I crazy? I need to delete the “Mike” file, don’t I?

Sorting through the Guilt

Having a close family is one of the greatest gifts anyone can ever receive. No one sticks by you like your family. No one is willing to help you out—whether you need your tire changed or advice on what career path to follow—like they are. They are your people in a way that most others can never be.

However, every rose has its sticker. And the pokey part of close families is that they like being just that: close. The idea of moving away is not a welcome one.

I had a dream—after writing my last blog—that my Grandma P. was alive and I left her birthday party to go do freelance work. Just like in reality, I put my life and my busy schedule ahead of my family. This is how I operate. They live near me, so I know I will see them eventually—and therefore, I don’t usually make time for them unless we have a date set on the calendar. My parents have taken to giving me the old “who’s this stranger?!” greeting when I show up at their house. And apparently, my subconscious is feeling very guilty about that.

So if these twinges of guilt can exist when one lives 5-45 minutes from the majority of her family, what sorts of ill feelings surface when she moves to another state or, God forbid, another country? I’m afraid the guilt might kill me.

And I’m afraid because there is a large part of me that wants to move away; experience new things; be somewhere unfamiliar after spending my first three decades in one place. This is exacerbated by a boyfriend who has Travel in his very core. He is not tethered to a family. They are spread out and he doesn’t grapple with guilt when he goes without seeing them for a year. He eats up the idea of living in an apartment in Paris or a villa in Tuscany. And there is a large part of me that wants to remove the screen around my fire and let him stoke it until it sprawls the hills and ends up in Europe.

But oh, the guilt.

I cannot even imagine how a move like that would be regarded. I would become known as the one who forever fractured the family unit.

So what do I do—try to develop sleeker feathers that allow the shame to slide right off? Force the man of my dreams to stay put (when I don’t even know whether I want to stay put) and then feel guilty for holding him back? Or is this some sort of deal breaking sign? That if he really were the perfect person for me, we’d be completely on the same page about all this stuff?

Birthday Girls

Today is my grandmas’ birthdays. Two years apart, they were born on the same day—although, they could not be more different.

Grandma P. grew up an only child. She was adopted by a wealthy real estate developer and his wife, and lived a privileged life, complete with fancy cars and clothes, a billiard parlor—even a wine cellar in the basement. She married Grandpa after about three weeks (or was it three months…?) of dating and tried for a very long time to have a baby. After two miscarriages and a newborn who passed away after coming home from the hospital, she finally got pregnant with my mom. A few years later, my uncle followed, and Grandma had the nuclear family she had always dreamed of. Always the lady, she wouldn’t leave the house without lipstick and earrings. She was feisty and opinionated, and a lover of tradition and everything beautiful.

Grandma H. grew up with twin brothers, and a mother and father who owned a jewelry shop. I remember her telling me that for Christmas she and her siblings usually got a book or a toy and an orange. The first time she received a paycheck, she used it to buy a watchband-like gold bracelet—which she gave to me when I was in junior high. Unlike Grandma P., she didn’t have to struggle to get pregnant. In fact, she had a shotgun wedding in her twenties after accidentally conceiving my uncle. My dad followed, and Grandma found herself running a household of men—which she did surprisingly well. This could’ve been partly because of her fantastic sense of humor. Grandma H. was known for pulling us kids aside at family gatherings to tell us dirty jokes. She was crass and easy-going, yet sensitive and fragile.

Despite any differences in lifestyles they led and opinions they held, my grandmas were dear, dear friends for over 40 years.

I was fortunate enough to inherit some of the best qualities of each. Grandma P.’s legs, outspoken nature and love of connection and communication. Grandma H.’s unwavering sense of humor, wild streak and easygoing-ness.

I think about these two lovely ladies all the time. Since both of my grandpas passed away before them, they became my single cohorts on holidays and at family dinners. Sometimes now, when I’m driving alone, I pretend the two of them are in my backseat and we’re heading out for a girls’ day somewhere. I can’t wait to see them again someday, hear the latest gossip from Grandma P. and a great nasty joke from Grandma H.

I’m sure they’re together somewhere right now, celebrating their birthdays with the pomp and circumstance they deserve, my grandpas and aunts and uncles by their sides, waiting for all of us to arrive and join in the party.