In the Service of Others

It was a spontaneous morning for one that had so many plans. A visit with Jane, a trip to the DMV for my driver's license renewal (yes, proof that I can still see!), and then on to IHOP for an early lunch.

There we sat, scrunched into a tiny booth in an impossibly crowded restaurant, when she came up and softly asked in heavily accented English if she could take our order. She must have known that she could be difficult to understand because she never once broke our gaze - using her eyes to ask as much as her voice.

We told her what we wanted, customizing our order just as if we were eating at a more expensive restaurant and she captured what we wanted, perfectly. Shortly we were happily chatting and dining on eggs, scrapple, and...of course...pancakes.

We asked for the bill and it came, promptly. The $30 tab reflected my customization (I'm an ala carte girl) and was the cheapest meal we've eaten in recent memory. Chris wandered off to pay the bill and I reached into my wallet to grab cash for the tip.

I thought about about the percentage for the tip and grabbed $6. Then I thought about the service and grabbed a bit more cash. I remembered her eyes and the softness of her voice and reached back in. Even as I dropped the cash onto her table I thought about how many times I've paid a straight 20% tip on a meal four to five times more expensive ...and, unfortunately...not as good. How is it that her service was worth less?

My first hour this morning was spent in getting ready for the day. My second hour included telling my daughter and my lover that I love them. My third hour reminded me to love myself. My fourth hour was in the DMV where I smiled gratefully at the woman behind the counter and observed outloud to her that it seemed many people come to her for help. She smiled throughout our 10 minute encounter, fixed a problem that had vexed me for years (I have two middle names, the result of refusing to give up the name I'd been born with and Virginia's decision nearly 2 decades ago to hyphenate the second one with my last one), and I was grateful for the good work she was doing.

I arrived the office with a smile, feeling connected to the world around me, greeted by coworkers who have become dear to me and as I unlocked my office door the bright sun caused me to squint as I sat down to my desk to perform my own service to others.

And now, 14 hours after the start of my day I feel as if it was a day well spent - connected to the universe in the spirit of service and grateful for the blessings in my life - including those who served me with a smile today.

NL

Amazing Strength in Unimaginable Grief

It has been nearly two decades now since I first visited my friends Katherine and Tom in their home. I'd brought an ornament for the tree as instructed (one I'd hand painted) and arrived timely for their annual Solstice party, an event so extraordinary that this year 60 people made it through 15 inches of snow. But they live in Martha's Vineyard now and I am still whiling away my time in DC. So I have not been in more than a decade despite being faithfully invited every year.

The first time I visited I was treated to a tour of their home. Both are avid cooks and even now, when I am in distress and say "I've taken to my kitchen" I can picture both of them at their huge stove in a kitchen perfectly outfitted with tools meant to last. As they work away, 30 year partners finely tuned to the ways of each other, they are simply delighting in the experience of doing something together. Tasting, smelling, feeling.

My favorite part of the home tour was a visit to their bathroom. They'd found it too small so they knocked out the wall to the room next door and made it bigger. In their remodelled bath was a large clawfoot tub and next to it a rocking chair so that Tom could read to Katherine while she bathed.

It is to me still the epitome of romance. But more than romance, there is a timelessness in the kind of love that has a man reading to a woman while she soaks in a tub. To simply be there with her in a moment that is about her.

They'd been together for many years before they actually married. Sitting in the cafeteria over lunch one day I asked her why they finally "tied the knot" and her answer was simply "insurance reasons." Over the years some of the rest of the story unfolded and it turns out the insurance issue was the broader one of "what is family?" Apparently Tom had ended up in the hospital - a fall I think - and Katherine had found herself unceramoniously removed from his hospital room by Tom's daughters, who were still unwilling to accept their father's relationship with her. I have no doubt that whatever reservations they had about marriage were resolved when faced with very real issue of people outside of their relationship defining the morality of the couple.

As I write this the smell of a beef dish with fennel and onion wafts from my kitchen. It is joined by the overtones of baking rosemary bread. I'd put it all on to cook and because cooking always makes me think of Katherine and Tom, I remembered I'd not yet read their most recent update.

Mid-stream in Tom's blog - ruminations - he writes: "Clearly, my death has been postphoned by four months but my life has not been extended by one minute while it has produced four months of misery for my caretakers."

At that line I am crying, as I have many times after first learning of Tom's cancer diagnosis, treatment, remission, and the re-emergence. I am praying hard again for Katherine, a woman who considered herself "just a librarian", who introduced the CIA to the internet, who wrote wonderfully whimsical guinea pig poetry - and who had a herd of guinea pigs underfoot while she cooked in her home in Bethesda (today she has an entire porch dedicated to finches!) She has always had long white hair pulled back in a braid hanging down her back and I cannot imagine her any other way. I cannot imagine her without the whimsy, the earthiness, the Texas steel that seems to seep through every pore of her body. I cannot imagine her without Tom.

I don't know how Tom and Katherine came to be together. I know there is an age difference somewhat similar to mine and Chris's and I know that apparently his family did not approve of her. I don't know where the mother of his children was in all of this and nor do I care. For it is Katherine who extends his soul and that I know with certainty that who ever came before and for however long, Katherine was the one intended for him. The mate to his soul.

Now they fight fiercely a disease that fully intends to separate the two of them and I anticipate the collapse of her heart when it finally wins. She is one of the strongest people I know but I cannot imagine how even that strength will bear her up under the grief that will surely fall upon her. He does not leave her willingly. I don't know if he realizes that every breath he takes - whether in sickness or in health - is a breath she treasures with every fiber of her being.

It is not a love I would have understood when I first met them. I recognized it but understood it to be so rare that I could never expect to be so lucky. I now understand. And I understand that it isn't a love that has to be approved of to exist. It simply is.


NL

Welcoming 2010

A friend of mine, who recently published a book btw which can be found at Amazon, pointed out today on his Facebook page that technically the new decade doesn't begin until 2011.

It made me think about the last time I heard this debate. 2000 - the new millenium? Or did we have to wait for 2001?

I didn't wait. I'm not waiting now. This first decade of the 21st century found me exactly where I'd left off. Married and not particularly happily, and a spook.

6 months after it started I was still married but no longer a spook. Spinning wildly and feeling like I'd been completely betrayed by an organization I'd given my entire adult life to I was faced with the choice to shut up and be obedient...or be able to look myself in the mirror in the morning.

The face that looks back at me is older, sometimes sadder, but always confident in knowing that I may be imperfect but I am my own person. For the first time in 17 years I told a certain government agency "no." It cost me dearly - but not as dearly as if I had been compliant.

On September 11, 2001 three thousand people lost their lives. The result, I believe, of an intelligence community going horribly wrong. We saw a part of that in 2000 and we were largely silent...or powerless...in the face of enormous determination and incompetence. I sometimes wonder if things would have been different had I been strong enough to take the stand that needed to be taken.

It is the impossible wondering of a woman. I don't know that anyone would have been strong enough to stand up in the face of the accusations and delusion we faced and do what needed to be done. It was hard enough not to just agree to be "wrong" and be allowed back in to the fold.

The past 10 years have been the best of my life in terms of personal growth. I've accomplished more, experienced more, and become better. They have been harder than any other 10 years of my life. I am still a mom but my work is different and mid-decade I finally bid adieu to a good man who was not the man for me. I know less today than I did at 34.

But today I am grateful for being so much more than I was at this time in 1999. I am praying for the second decade of the 21st century to be one of more joy and less hardship. I am hoping for...hope.

I might end this year skinnier. I might be healthier. I might be more successful. But I will, for certain, no longer be just the "ex-spook." The Agency is my past. I need it to stay there. I am a better person for having left - time to be that person all the way through.

NL

Neither Julie nor Julia but...

While visiting my sister and extended family last weekend we watched Julie & Julia. For me, again.

I really like the movie. I almost never watch a movie twice but there are a few notable exceptions. Anything Star Trek, Benny & Joon, and most Robin Williams movies.

Now Julie & Julia.

As I've been wandering around the "spouse of a diabetic" world - trying to figure out exactly *what* my role in all of this is supposed to be and trying to be a much better person than comes naturally to me - I've taken up cooking.

This is not the first time I've taken up cooking. The last time was when I joined Weight Watchers and had to admit to my then husband of 10 years and the rest of my family that I'd been keeping a secret. I can cook beyond a baked ham or cookies.

Chris knows I can cook. He also knows that that I firmly believe the requirement TO eat is one of the greatest jokes God ever played on mankind.

In the movie Julie & Julia there is clearly a great love of food. I do not share that in common with them. Although I do believe that butter makes everything better. And butter with lemon? Or butter with brown sugar? Oh yum.

At night I send Chris to the gym. Then I put on some music and pour a glass of wine. I spend the next 30 to 45 minutes concocting.

I've discovered the creativity to be had in cooking. Color. Smell. Taste. A little this, a bit of that.

This morning Chris was comparing our cooking. On a scale of 1-10 he says he's at most a 5. Occasionally a 7. But me? I'm occasionally a 5 but usually in the 7 to 9 range. He reserves 1's and 10's for those really extreme moments. So 9 is as good as it gets.

He likes eating what I cook. He says that at some point it just "turned on" for me. It did.

When I got angry with him I took to my kitchen. I rewarded his not telling me about his diagnosis and pill decision by baking all weekend long. Food he could not eat. Food I deliberately taunted him with. I found comfort in baking. I never find comfort in eating so I was happy to throw out everything I made. I just enjoyed making it knowing he wanted it and couldn't eat it.

In a way, I was cooking for him. And it turns out that I *like* cooking for him. I like that he genuinely enjoys what I make, knows I never know exactly what will happen but somehow it is flavorful and good for him (having gotten over the punishing him with food he can't have business.)

I bought a diabetes cookbook for him for Christmas. Diabetes recipe software for me.

I read through the book. It is uninspired.

Unlike last night's dinner of baked ham, baked sweet potatoes, southern collard greens (which he had three helpings of - the secret is bacon grease!) and mexicali cornbread. A meal that in balance was really good for him. Oh, and very very southern.

So last night I bought the two volume set "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" and I'm going to give some of the recipes a whirl. Not all of them. Julia Child had too great a fondness for mushrooms and seafood - neither of which I can eat. But the rich, creamy, lemon-buttery sauces the French and us southerners are known for.

Screw diabetes. I'm going to cook for the shear joy of it. Somehow I don't think it will hurt if I apply a bit of creativity to Julia Child's recipes - and maybe end up with things healthier as a result.

NL

Battling Death in the Season of Light

So God has a sense of humor.

Just when our relationship got to the point where I wanted to run and run and run...he dropped 20 inches of snow on us and made sure I could run absolutely freakin' lutely NO WHERE!

What do two adults do when they are facing serious questions about where they are going and whether they are going to try going there together? I don't know. Because last weekend was not two adults. It was many adults all stuck in the same, thankfully large, house for a couple of days.

(BTW, the bright spot was a wonderful visit with my sister - whom I love beyond measure, as well as my brothers and my sister-in-law.)

So we fought. For several days. In whispers. We got hardly any sleep. We dredged up every issue we could think of and when we ran out we invented some. There came a point in the midst of this that we decided that we were ended. We could not continue. We were done.

Then we looked out the bedroom window at the acres and acres of pure white snow and we realized that of all the things that felt wrong, splitting up felt the most wrong of all.

We ended up staying a day longer than planned which turned out to be a good thing because we were able to take my father to the hospital for his hip replacement surgery. As Chris sat there quietly, patiently, with me and my mom and my dad I realized that he's a good guy. Not perfect. But good.

Good because he knows that in the world of places I hate above all others, the hospital is right at the top of the list. And we were there for HOURS waiting for dad to go into surgery, get out of surgery, come out of recovery. Even with a lunch break in the middle (Cheesecake Factory - Red Velvet Cheesecake!) it was too much time for me. So when I said "I want to check out the gift shop" what he correctly heard was "I need retail therapy NOW!"

I walked through the doors of the gift shop and made a beeline for the jewelry counter where I scored 3 pairs of absolutely fabulous earrings.

I slept like a baby Monday night/Tuesday morning. 3 days of fighting, several hours in a hospital, a trek across still not great roads, and still no freakin' clue what what happening next with us - I was exhausted. But while the fighting was done the talking was not.

It is a week now since the worst of our battle and what we have to work with are a bunch of analogies because we aren't broken, we:

1. Are like several beautiful necklaces all tangled up. Time to tackle it one knot at a time.
2. Like a car stuck in a rut. We need a fulcrum (he had to actually explain to me what one of those is - I understood the intent but had no idea it was a tool!) to help us get unstuck.
3. Are able to work through much of the junk we gunk up between us BUT need to occasional poke to make sure we actually DO it.

At the end of it the visit to the counselor was a good thing - not because the visit went well but because it forced us to decide head on if *we* are worth working on.

We have a long way to go before we are anything approaching perfect - or even completely comfortable with where we are or where we are going. I still don't know if we're going to end up together in the long run. But then, does anyone?

My favorite quote in all of this was from Chris. He said "You are so rational when you are dispassionate. I like it when you are irrational because at least you are passionate." In short, he needs me to be as committed to us as I need him to be.

Meanwhile on our left hand ring fingers are two white gold & diamond rings. Our Christmas gifts to each other. We picked them out - he for me and me for him - with no input at all from the other. We weren't together.

And oddly the designs are lovely, elegant, and very similar. Eerily similar.

They are promise rings. A promise of a commitment to each other - to us. They are the visible reminder of the decisions we made out of last weekend's "fighting." Because what I realize now was that we weren't fighting each other...we were fighting *for* us.

NL

Huh?

So yesterday Chris and I visited a couples counselor. The plan was to discuss with her ways to improve our communications so that when we have our tiffs, we do it more constructively. We find ways to build up and not tear down.

We have hurdles. It seemed like a grown up thing to do.

This is what really happened.

We went in. We sat down. She asked me to talk. I talked for 5 minutes. She asked Chris to talk. He wouldn't. I said "you want to talk without me here?" She said "that sounds like an idea. Go wait in the waiting room and I'll come get you in 10 minutes."

So I waited for more than 30 minutes.

When she finally came back to get me I was on my way out the door. Furious.

I went back to her room, sat down, and listened to what she had to say.

She said "Chris needs to get clarity. You will need to be patient."

I said "how do we pay you. Chris. Pay her. This was clearly a session for you."

We left. I was so angry I couldn't be in the car with him. So I walked/cabbed home. He was blissfully unaware.

I'm still mad. He thought it was a good session. I thought "did we not have the same goal here?"

Then I told him....for the 400th time. "GET OUT!"

He won't. Now we are at my sister's house, trapped in more than a foot of snow (expecting 2 feet) and somehow it is supposed to be okay. Because he still doesn't see the problem. Here's the problem. He either works with me on this or he gets out. Because I'm not really interested in working on a relationship that is one sided.

And somehow this counselor completely missed that point.

So I'm more confused and less helped than ever.

Because I don't know how to make this man either decide to work on us or get out. I am tired of him sitting on some imaginary fence.

Which sucks because other than this quirk, he's a wonderful man and deeply loved by every one I know...including me.

NL

It's A Lot To Process

My father is having his hip replaced on Monday. A friend "in the know" says that she wouldn't be surprised if he wakes up post surgery in less pain than before the surgery. Apparently hip pain can be

JUST

THAT

BAD

So he's going in and they are replacing his bad hip. And I am hoping, hoping, hoping that he gets some of his mobility back. Because in the past two years he's been in so much pain that he has barely wanted to live.

Which, as his daughter, makes me sad.

Meanwhile I am pondering Facebook, lovers, and The Spectrum's really interesting question about relationships. Sometimes bad relationships are like bad hips - they just need replacing. But how do you know?

Hoping to get some insight on that tomorrow.

NL

Little Happy Pills

No doubt about it. The past week has been a trial for me.

There are a few things in my life I have a lot of trouble with. Lying and dependency are the two big ones.

I learned early on in life that lying gains you nothin' but trouble unless there is no way in heck you are going to get caught and only if the lie is for good (I love this sweater Aunt Flo!)

Dependency is a whole 'nother issue. I was on the roof one day at the tender age of 17 and I was BITTER. I'd been invited on a picnic with then boyfriend and my father, for some unbeknown reason, decided that it was high time I learned to fix a roof. So up there I was, in the hot sun, pounding nails and bitchin'. But nicely because I was never sure if my father, pushed to far, might be inclined to throw me off the roof.

"Why do I HAVE to do this Dad?" I whined.

I'll never forget what came next. Instead of exploding he looked up at me and said "because no daughter of mine is going to be dependent on a man."

My life lessons included stacking and loading hay, chopping wood, repairing a car, and fixing a roof. Except for repairing a car, none of those other lessons have done me a whit of good...except this: they reinforce in me the sense that I do not have to be dependent on anyone or anything.

There is good to that. There is bad to that. The good is that I am pretty competent in most things AND I can have alcohol and Ambien in my house and know that I will never become reliant on either of them. Amen.

The bad is that I am extremely resistant to any drug which may become a lifelong requirement - including those for which prescriptions are written by a doctor. This resistance extends to my beloved, who I think should have my same unwillingness to be bound to the pharmaceutical industry.

But one of the best things about Chris is that he is not me. We make different decisions and when we are in disagreement we fight like crazy until we find a spot in the middle. And sometimes one of his decisions turns out to have an unexpected benefits.

(Dad, if you are reading this you might want to stop now.)

So it was that after a week of fighting over a lie and decision it occurred to me that if he was going to go the pill route for life management there might be something in it for me. As a result Chris found himself in the doctor's office in which the conversation, as relayed to me, went like something like this:

"Deb says if I'm going to use pills there may as well be something in it for her. Can I get a script for Viagra?"

She laughed. She said "Did she really say that?"

Chris said "she did." (And I did.)

So he came home with some little blue pills. And I can honestly say that while he's never been a slouch in "that department" these are a *wonderful* addition to his medicine cabinet.

Which makes me wonder about all of the other doors that might be opening up just because Chris is a lot more open minded when it comes to medicine and doctors. I could learn a lot from him I suppose.


NL

Commercial Seductions

A few days ago I discovered that Chris has elected to control much of his health through drugs. I *thought* he was keeping his promise to try diet and exercise first so this was quite a shock. Since 100 percent of his "issues" are lifestyle related and since I believe that pharmaceuticals are important but should not be a crutch, we are having a difference of opinion.

I'm trying hard to understand but I'm failing. He feels like the choice he made is essential to saving his life. I feel like it was weak.

The liberal part of me acknowledges that this is his choice and it isn't my business. The part of me that is pure woman is disgusted by what I consider to be weakwilled. To keep from exploding over and over I have to not think about it.

Tough if you are watching any amount of TV (ironically its own special player in this drama) because the commercial lineup is roughly 60 percent drug company sponsored. As I sit here 3 of the last 4 commercials have been for the following:

Crestor

Lipitor

Viagra

Lipitor is one of the components of his drug cocktail and the one I most object to given its side and cumulative effects. But there sits a man about Chris's age and he is discussing how important it is to him not to have a heart attack. How he is doing this for his wife. He is so convincing it's hard not to be sucked in.

He is exactly the kind of role model men all over the country would follow, the 2009 version of the Marlboro Man.

I'm not an Ad Man but I've touched the industry in my practice and I'm familiar with the concepts of hook and hold. I've been closely involved a couple of campaigns (product and services) and I know the first step is to identify your target audience.

There is no question in my mind that these commercials are just like any commercial for a product upon which profit is the goal.

And they are effective.

This afternoon I was going through a pile of magazines and found an ad for Viagra. It was about having "that talk" with your doctor. A full page ad. It resonated with me because frankly, cholesterol, and high blood pressure aren't the only problems a man like Chris has when they are nearing 60.

What I don't understand is why the ads aren't geared toward women and why they don't say "how to have that talk with your man?"

Oh wait, I know...*we* aren't the gullible ones.

Until we become mothers and we are told to shoot our daughters up with Guardisil in all of its minimally field tested with no long term impact studies conducted. Because we should trust our daughter's fertility to the motives of profit just because a commercial, or a doctor who recently had lunch with a drug rep, told us to.

Personal responsibility has many faces. It starts with asking the hard questions and not falling for the advertisers story telling.

Cigarette anyone?

NL

Pick and Choose

I've had a chance to spend some time recently thinking about relationships...particularly familial relationships... and I've come to the following conclusion:

They are complicated.

Over my desk hangs a snapshot taken at my stepdaughter's wedding. In it is the bride (her), her father and my daughter (her half sister). That is where the blood ends.

The picture also includes my niece, two nephews, my mother, my sister, and my brother-in-law. Oh, and me.

Generally speaking I like this picture. It oddly contains some aspect of each person's personality. My youngest nephew is distracted by something his sister is holding. His sister is focused and wearing her Mona Lisa smile. My daughter is smiling and her eyes are dancing at something the photographer was saying. My ex-husband is wearing the exact same smile he has for every picture.

My sister is smirking. She smirks frequently because, I think, inside her head is this constant Robin William-like chatter. It's even funnier when it exits her mouth. My brother-in-law is a stoic kind of guy and yet he has a pleased look on his face. It's the look that has always anchored my fondness for him. You have to know him to be able to see it and I'm still not sure that everyone in our family has figured that out.

Next to me my mother is grinning her usual grin - it's the one she uses for pictures and moments when she has to smile becauses she is "bucking up." I'm not suggesting she wasn't happy...I think she was...but the tedium of post ceremony pictures gets to everyone. Behind me my eldest nephew is towering over most of us and it is in this picture that I am reminded that the bare-butt baby I helped deliver into this world has grown into a handsome young adult.

And yet...it feels incomplete.

I look relaxed in this picture as I tilt my head in toward my mother and I actually like this picture of me because it doesn't show just how fat I am (vanity thy name is woman.) But if you know me, if you really know me, that smile is the one I give when I am seething and trying to be a good sport. It is a perfect blend of my mother and my father.

Missing from the picture is my heart. He is standing out of the picture looking on. It never occurred to him to be part of the picture - but it occurred to me. The look on my face is the look of a woman honoring a bride's wishes made clear just moments before and trying to be a good sport about it.

It is only just now that I realize why this picture and that scene make me so angry.

With two exceptions, every person in that picture is the brides family because of me and only because of me. Not an ounce of shared blood flows through her veins. She hangs on to the family I brought into her world with a tenacity reminiscient of Molly Brown and the Titanic. But not my WHOLE family. Only the part she picks and chooses.

Also missing from this picture because they could not attend are my father, 2 brothers, my sister-in-law, my brother-in-law, my 5 other nephews and other niece. Had they been there she would have wanted them in the picture and those 10 other people would have spread around her in love. But still she would not have wanted Chris.

But Chris is as much my family as she is. In fact more so.

It is Chris that wakes up with me every morning, worries about whether I've had lunch (or dinner), holds me when I sad, sits quietly with me when I am watching a waterfall, thinks outloud with me when I'm am noodling through a "situation", patiently explains football to me every weekend and laughs at me when I yell at the football refs, players, and coaches. He is not me but he amplifies everything I find good in who I am (and sometimes the stuff that isn't so good.)

My sister wisely suggested that perhaps she did not want Chris in the picture because to her he represents the fact that her father and I are no longer together. That may be true. But my family is as much to blame for that as I am, and certainly more to blame for it than Chris is. It was my family who raised me with enough self-esteem and strength that when I finally realized that we were NOT good for each other I was able to leave him.


So it left the question wide open. How much of your family can you choose?

With that first divorce in my family came a question in our ranks - was my ex-husband (and his children) still part of our family. We pondered deeply for about 3 seconds and then came to the conclusion that yes, they were.

And it was this decision made without hesitation that serves as the backdrop for why my step-daughter's exclusionary behavior bothers me so much. Does she have the right to pick and choose?

After much thought I've decided that while she can choose her family, she can't choose mine. Mine is wide and open and loving even in our every annoyance with each other. Entrance into my family is a gift that seemingly never ends as my divorce from her father (and therefore her) did not alter my family's decision to let them keep their places. Maybe it's the fact that a big family realizes that a new kid does not spread the love any thinner.

At the end of the day I think what I've learned is that I *can't* pick and choose parts of my family. If you're in, you're in. But I think I learned that the moment my parents brought home my first sibling.

So if the piece that glues you to my family is *me* then you get ALL of my family - Chris included.

If you can't deal with that...then it's time to get out.

NL

People Who Mean Something

Ah Facebook....the decisions you force me to make.

Do I accept a friend request from someone I don't know (or at least, don't think I know?) I do not.

Do I accept a friend request from someone who is a great friend and whose invite I've been expecting? I do.

But what about all those people in-between? The ones I'm more a passing acquaintance with or, in a few cases, whose presence brings back some past ugliness?

I have a couple hard and fast rules. One rule is that, no matter how often FB suggests you, if you work for me I don't initiate the friend request. If *you* initiate it then it's probably a yes. If you didn't work for me and now you do, I'm not hurt if you de-friend me. I know that the boss relationship can make the friend relationship a bit...um...awkward.

[Let me take moment here to let all of you who have been friends for a long time and are now navigating with grace the path of working for me AND being a friend that I am very very grateful. I'd hate to be losing friends faster than I make them simply because of a paycheck.]

Recently I found several friends on Facebook and I initiated "friend requests" and I was SCARED. It had been a LONG LONG LONG time and what if they didn't remember me? What if what they remembered was that they didn't much care for me and that's why we lost touch? (I know that's stupid - ALL of my friends will tell you that losing touch is almost always my fault...I've very bad about staying in touch with people...just ask my mom!)

One of them, after several weeks passed, said YES to my friend request. I can't tell you how excited I was to find him in the first place. He had a HUGE impact on my life - there is a part of who I am that was very much shaped by our relationship and I hold several memories very precious. Our lives changed and our paths parted but he never completely left my thoughts.

But as the weeks passed from the time I first asked him to be a friend I thought "oh, maybe what he remembers isn't as fond as what I remember." Maybe he was disgusted by the life/career choices I made and wanted nothing to do with the woman he last knew.

So his "yes" thudded through me like a drum and I was awash in relief.

Turns out that Facebook is full of people and some of those people MEAN something to other people. A lot of people on my friend list are those kind of people in my life. I am who I am today because of them.

And I know that the double blessing is that there are several people who friended me even though I have hurt them through the years. I wasn't always there when they needed me. I wasn't always who they needed when I was there. Sometimes I would get so caught up in my own dramas that I wouldn't pay enough attention to theirs.

So maybe, just maybe, Facebook will be the place where a few relationships are mended while others are rebuilt. Because these are people who mean something.

NL

Songs My Father Nearly Sang Me

When I was a kid, every once and a while my father would burst into the one happy little ditty I think he knew (his other favorite song was the Russian dirge "Happy Birthday".)

He'd get this far:

Last night I slept in a hollow log

With the girl I love beside me;

When my mother would make him stop.

This drove me crazy because I just KNEW the lyrics would be delicious and probably a bit naughty.

I was talking about this the other day with my friend Jane and so she said the obvious "Let's google it." A moment later the lyrics were up on the screen in front of us and when we found the familiar verse I thought "huh...that's not so bad."

It went like this:

Last night I slept in a hollow log

With the girl I love beside me;

Tonight I sleep in a feather bed

And she's right there beside me

This morning I sent the entire song with its lyrics off to my father. It was found in a link from the SCA (Society of Creative Anachronism) in a document titled "Songs unsuitable for children...and small dogs." It is full of songs I think my father would love. It was while sending this email to my father that I noted the verses that followed and I finally understood my mother's concern.

Last night I slept in a hollow log

With the girl I love beside me;

Tonight I sleep in a feather bed

And she's right there beside me

She jumped in bed and covered up her head

And said I couldn't find her

But she knew damn well she lied like hell

So I jumped in bed beside her!

I diddled her once, I diddled her twice,

I diddled her once too often.....

I broke a spring, or some damn thing

I diddled her to her coffin......

My mother was probably right not to let him finish the song because I would for sure have remembered it and sung it for someone - and not knowing what "diddled" meant, likely would have done it in church where I sang most often.

All that said, it is now clear to me that I come by my love of Bawdy English Drinking songs quite honestly.

Thanks Pop! I love you!

NL

Hi! I see you've met my cat.

Buzzzzzzz.....

6:17 am this morning my phone rings. Fortunately, I'd woken up at 6:15 am all on my own so I wasn't completely startled awake.

I knew before I answered it what it was.

I was right.

"Hi, I'm sorry to call you so early but this is the number on the cat's collar" said a sweet voiced young man in my ear. I glanced over at Chris quickly, thinking that tenor sweet had it's advantages but remembering that from the moment I first heard it, Chris's baritone rumble had me at hello.

"I'll come get him, what apartment are you in?" I offered, wondering just how fast I could get dressed.

I am not a pretty sight in the morning. Gone are the days when a boyfriend would greet me with "You really are beautiful in the morning." Now my hair sticks up, more in the grayer places, and my cat allergies show up in my eyes.

I throw on a bra and a house dress and run down the hall in my bare feet. I knock and the door to 408 opens up. He's a nice guy clearly, and way ahead of me in his morning routine. He is obviously okay with his surprise visitor.

"It's okay, we're cat friendly and he's a great cat."

"He loves people" I explain "and he's discovered that by walking the balcony he can meet more of them. He's been visiting other people regularly. I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay" he offers back "we don't mind. He's a really nice cat. What unit are you in?"

I shove my thumb to the left and tell him. He looks surprised, tells me that he thought for sure he came from above and that explains why there were no injuries when he checked for them.

This entire time I have my purring fluffy big boy of a cat in my arms and he is perfectly happy to be in the center of two talking adults. Thanks to him, I've met 3 of my floor neighbors - only one of which wasn't particularly pleased to find him on her balcony. The other two have discovered that he is perfectly content to be petted, held, and chatted with.

Meanwhile, I've decided that I really like my neighbors. I think it might be a nice chance to get to know the people I live next to beyond just a wave in the hallway. Arlingtonians are typically a pretty good lot and I know that already.

But I have to find a way to stop meeting like this!


NL

Freeze this Moment

Yesterday I went to our local farmer's market for the first time. There was a seller there with tons of flowers and herbs. Potted and cut.

I bought a bunch of herbs for balcony planting. And flowers for the vases.

I got home with my loot and got to spend a glorious 30 minutes with my daughter where we clipped and arranged and vased our flowers.

I wish I could freeze that moment forever.

Here are some...right here...

And here is me, as I type this, with some more behind me. In the vases - next to the guitars.

Here's another shot and in the background you can also see the mint, rosemary, and lavender I bought for the balcony. Oh...and yet another guitar. We have 5 hanging, 1 on the floor, and one at my daughter's firehouse. Wonder when I'm getting that one back...hmmmm....

Now, time to go to Best Buy. And the RV. And to find out why our A/C isn't working...again.

But before I go, one last shot. (I just missed the Chris/Beau kiss.)

NL

Back in the Mill

I hadn't realized how working so hard could be such a great vacation. But 10 days of moving was so effective that even though I returned to work on Wednesday, my brain still hasn't accepted that I'm not on leave.

Maybe this is because the entire three days I was back I kept thinking about how much I wished I were still back home working on stuff.

My network is still slow and, btw, so far I am not a fan of FIOS.

My home server is still not set up. Turns out I need to get a switch. If FIOS were not so far behind the times I could be running Wireless N and therefore would not need a switch because my desktop machine would no longer need to be hardwired. But they are behind the times. And for the record, when the FIOS tech sets stuff up the world does not suddenly go all glowy. No. It. Does. Not.

Several folks have suggested that perhaps I have too heavy a load on the network. HELLO? This is why I've changed over to FIOS. They are supposed to be able to handle it. Grrggh.

I did get real work done the 2.5 days I was back in the office. I left early on Friday to work from home and will need to do that work over the weekend since I spent my "work at home" time at the Farmers Market (planned - this is why I want to work at home on Friday afternoons) and then at the vet having a cat put down.

For those of you who have never done this, trust me when I tell you - it is not fast. Some people just hand their pet over and say "do it" then leave.

I am not those people. The decision to put down an otherwise healthy cat was not easy. But I believe it was the responsible choice. For five years now when she gets mad at me she starts peeing on a piece of furniture. She does not stop, even when she is no longer mad at me, until that piece of furniture is removed. As a result, I've lost an heirloom rocking chair, several office chairs, a laundry hamper and, in the non-furniture category, a good smelling closet.

Two days ago our old cat returned and she was miffed to have him back. So she picked our brand new leather $1500 dollar couch.

Called the vet. Explained the situation. He agreed.

When looking for the other cat - the runaway - we visited the local shelter where there were 70 cats in residence looking for a home. I just could not add a 71st with an attitude problem. Nor could I bear the idea of leaving her there lost and alone.

So I sat with her as she drifted off with the sedative - such a nervous little kitty that she fought it off best as she could - and I held her as she breathed her last. Then I swallowed, wiped my eyes, and left.

(Rest in Peace Fluff)

Because she had a great life for 10 years - 10 years she almost didn't have. I will leave this apartment in a few years without the vestiges of bad cat behavior, having done my part to keep this building pet friendly. And maybe, just maybe, a few of the petless residents here will visit the local shelter and adopt.

And PEOPLE! Spay or neuter. Seriously!

NL

Lost & Found

Shortly after our move I misplaced my blackberry. No internet and no blackberry meant no work.

(Okay, I *could* have worked - but let's keep working this excuse.)

The night we moved into our new place we went to bed with three cats (shhh...if anyone asks it's only two) on the balcony.

When we woke up the next morning there were only two cats.

Uh oh.

So I ran out the door to see if there was cat splatter on the sidewalk below. Fortunately, before I got very far, I ran back in and put some clothes on.

Dressed, I took a walk and I looked...and called...and looked...and then noticed the Brueggers bagels and got some breakfast.

The cat was no where to be found. I wandered back up and broke the news to my daughter.

Not a good moment.

She has never known life without this old boy of ours. Proving that she is definitely my daughter she immediately formed a plan and took action. She created flyers and put them up everwhere - using up ALL of my color ink in the process.

Several days passed and no Snickers. A visit to World Market included buying some floor pillows for the two remaining cats (I dream of keeping them from sleeping on my face...I am *allergic* damnit.) Chris looked at me and said "two or three."

I damn near burst into tears.

14 years ago I walked into a petstore to buy pinkies for youngest son's snake and on the other side of the store was this cage FULL of kittens. They were sleeping, and playing, and climbing, and meowing. All except one. THAT one locked eyes with me and did not break his stare even once as I crossed the store to get to the cage - and that kitten. It was clear to everyone that I had been chosen.

He came home with us and a year later Gwen was born. My fondest memory - Gwen crawling out of her room in the morning and Snickers greeting her with the cat head bump. You want to know what a crying cat sounds like? Come to our place when she has gone off to school and he is looking for her. Theirs is a true love.

Sunday we made our way to the Shelter where we were told that if they had him they'd know - a cat like that would stand out. But we looked anyway. We looked at 70 cats/kittens all wishing they could come home with us - and none the one we were looking for. We came home and made a deal - we were going to believe he'd found a good home and was so wonderful that his new family just couldn't bear to give him up.

We'd understand.

I found my blackberry at 10:30 last night. I did not read email. Really, 10 hours before going back to work isn't that just stupid?

Last night at 11:30 my phone rings. It's the front desk folks in our building. "Ma'am" said Rick "I think we have your cat."

We stumbled out of bed, knocked over a lamp, tripped over the comforter, and made our way to the closet to get dressed. Actually, I did that. Chris woke up with my ruckus and when he learned what was going down he swung his legs over the bed and calmly slipped a pair of shorts on. (Why is it that no matter WHAT is happening, men can always get dressed faster?)

We then half ran, half stumbled to the elevator, made our way downstairs and tried to process where we were supposed to go when we rounded a corner and sure enough, there sat Snickers - calmly sitting there looking at us with a look that said "what in the HELL took you so long?"

I scooped him up and we headed back into the apartment and then crept into my daughter's room and then whispered her name so she would wake up.

The look on her face when she realized who it was is what makes me cry now. Happy tears.

Stupid cat.

Stupid cat I love.

NL

Did you say something?

I am the oldest of five kids. This means that I am very good at tuning out noise, especially talking, and creating my own special little quiet place.

This means that at any given time I can be on the couch and suddenly realize that Chris is talking. He usually has been chatting away for quite some time before I realize it.

A moment ago I realize he is having a onesided conversation and I say "are you talking to me?"

He says "no, I was talking to Beau but expecting you to listen."

Oh.

No.

No. No. No.

Someone get me off this slippery slope.

But call my name first - otherwise I won't hear you.

NL

And here I am

all moved in to the new place finally...mostly.

Feet up on the new couch.

Internet all wired up (I install the server tomorrow) with PC's in every room EXCEPT the two baths.

TV in 3 rooms.

And HGTV on all of them.

It's a sickness I tell you.

NL

Confessions of an Addict

57 boxes of books.

Roughly 60 boxes of everything else.

My life is largely packed up and I can't walk through the apartment without bumping, tripping, or stumbling several times as I weave through the stacks.

Last Saturday I flipped on the TV for background noise as I packed a few more boxes. Somehow I tripped over a show called "Property Virgins" and that was the end of it.

HGTV has become my addiction. I am hooked. I am driving Chris crazy because it is ALL I watch. He tries to wrestle the remote away from me - I sit on it. He begs and I am without mercy. He tells me there are two TV's, I say "yes but I was at this one first." This one is the big screen.

I wake up, flip it on. We go to sleep to it. At work I think about getting home and settling in. I can tell you about "First Time Homebuyer" or "House Hunter International" or "Save My Bath" or "Cash in the Attic" and not only that but I've gotten pretty good at the price guessing and figuring out which house the buyer/renter will choose. Oh, and I am SO opinionated when it comes to those million dollar vacation homes.

We take possession of the new place tomorrow. We move into it on Tuesday. Maybe, just maybe, once these boxes are gone and we are settled in this craving for all things home will go away.

I hope so. Otherwise someone will need to come and rescue Chris.

NL

Ummm....Hi...it's Me

I have not blogged in nearly two months.

This is because I have done nothing and I hate the world.

Okay, not really. Well, sort of not really.

Since my last entry a brother, a nephew, a niece, and a sister have all had birthdays. I didn't visit them for any of these even though they only live 45 minutes away. When my niece had her birthday I was all the way in New Mexico. I have no excuse for the rest.

Except that I'm packing. Endlessly.

We picked our apartment. It is even more fabulous than the one I described in my last blog post - nearly 2 months ago. And cheaper. Oh, and no one has ever lived in it before.

Not only do we need to pack up everything we own BUT Chris has decided that we should get rid of a bunch of stuff and replace it with new stuff. So we've been packing, purging, and purchasing.

I am in hell.

This past weekend I sorted out our bar. It was a mystery.

Gin? Almost gone. I love gin.

Vodka? Barely touched. I hate vodka.

Single Malt Scotch? Do not touch. It's my favorite maker.

Lymon Cream? Ryan's Cream? Bailey's Irish Cream? Hey! How long does this stuff last? Is it real *cream?* It's three years old. Toss out.

Vioga Wine? Worst. Wine. Ever. Cool bottle. Toss.

Vermouth? Is this a kind a wine and therefore, does it spoil? I think yes. Chris says no. I'll keep it until he isn't looking then throw it out.

Creme to Cacao? Is it supposed to be *that* dark?

Aftershock? OMG! I love that stuff! I forgot I had it.

So went my waltz through our liquor cabinet - made better only by the fact that there is an ABC (Alcohol Beverage Control) store across the street from us in the new place. Just in case I decided wrong and Bailey's *doesn't* go bad.

But I am sober, and packing, and purging, and purchasing all while trying not to lose my temper at work and shout "you have JOBS people - can't you just do them and be grateful?" as I try to figure out why I am supposed to worry about whether they are also fullfilled. Fullfilled? Seriously?

A dear friend of mine is an older very high performing man with an amazing work history and has been on the job hunt for 10 months. Bad economy. Younger is cheaper. But you get what you pay for.

So I haven't posted because I'm busy. And sometimes I hate the world. Oh, and I'm trying to be fullfilling.

NL