This Learning to Live Again…

Why this blonde haired beauty and I connected, I’ve no idea. I’m so glad we did though. Told her I’d write her a story to a photo prompt. Of course she looks like a model. Here you go my sweet Madeline. Hope you like it.

Photo courtesy of Madeline Walsh

Photo courtesy of Madeline Walsh from 1EarthNow.

Whoever said being pretty had its advantages was full of shit, Leslie said to herself as she gazed into her closet. She searched for a purple skirt that she swore she picked up from the cleaners last Tuesday. Her best friend Raven set up this damn blind date for her. She wanted to cancel. All she wanted to do was change into her yoga pants and fleece pull over and curl up with a good book. She’d have a bottle of sweet red wine too. No need for a glass when you’re alone. Who gives a shit if you swig it from the bottle?

She shook her head and wondered how the hell she got here. She thought, I have so many pretty things. A good life, but no one to share it with.

Leslie thought back to the last eight months. Her heart had been handled precariously by a man she thought she loved. He would tell her one day that he loved her, then the next day, he’d be indifferent. She tried to change. To get Brian to pay attention. To give her more. He wouldn’t. It didn’t matter that she was pretty. Thin. Smart. Made her own money. That she lived an independent life. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t the one for him. Her heart broke when it ended. Now she wasn’t sure if she was ready to start this roller coaster of serial dating again.

She knelt down and found the skirt on her closet floor. Stood up and pulled it snug around her tiny waist. Peered into the full length mirror in her bedroom. After a couple of turns she decided she didn’t look half bad. Whiskers, her fat cat, stared at her from his spot at the end of Leslie’s bed. He lifted his paw and gave it a lick. Settled his fluffy head back onto the bed and promptly fell to sleep. Leslie could hear him purr from across the room as she settled onto the chair in front of her vanity table.

Just then her phone alerted her to a new text. It was him. The new guy, Robert. Two weeks ago, Raven sent her a picture of him via text. He was tall, dark and handsome. Such a cliche. Raven told her not to worry, he was a great guy too. He was in advertising or something. Leslie hoped that their conversation tonight wouldn’t be strained. She prayed she wouldn’t run her mouth too much. It happened a lot. Especially if she had a cocktail or three. She made a mental note to eat a couple of pieces bread before she drank. It would help soak up the alcohol and keep her from making an ass of herself. Damn all this prep work!

Robert’s text informed her he was in the parking lot waiting for her. Leslie replied and let him know that she’d be right down. She’d be damned if he found out where she lived before their first date. She looked at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Put the finishing touch on her dark but sparkly eyeliner. Painted her lips with a crimson and black lipstain. There was no need for lipstick that would spread into the tiny fissures around her lips.

Time for me to get a move on isn’t it Whiskers?, she said to her fat kitty as she walked past her bed and headed through the bedroom door. Leslie paused at the front door, grabbed her purse and coat. She headed out into the night hoping that Robert might be the right one. That he might love her, for everything that she is. And isn’t.

A 27 Year Old Love Story

Why, why can’t we stop talking, loving, dreaming after 27 years like it was yesterday and I was 17?

Those are her words. Not mine. My sweet friend sent me an email a few days ago asking me so many questions. But this one stuck out the most. Why? Why do we fight the love we’ve been dreaming of? Sometimes for 27 years. Why?

She met him in a parking structure when she was 17 years old. A baby, but she knew what love was. She felt a connection with him immediately. She saw her future in him. He was a beautiful young man. She, a beautiful young woman. Their lives full of promise. They were young. He was a rebel, and so was she. He was in a band and she, well she gave the ultimate fuck off to the high school she graduated from. She smoked in the girl’s bathroom after she got her diploma. Ha! Okay so that wasn’t that rebellious, but she’s from Saline. We did what we could to rebel!

Her life turned away from her rebel boy. She moved away. He followed. She pushed him away. She married a man that she though she should be with. Who should have been the father of her children. This “Christian” man turned out to be the devil. He pretended to be a fine upstanding person, but was evil. He was a bully and he hurt her and their two children. She got away. Took care of her babies, and herself. Her rebel boy supported her through all of this. And yet, they still weren’t together. She needed stability and she was afraid he couldn’t give it to her. We women, we are always looking to be taken care of.

She met another man, and he was good to her. Her children. But he wasn’t her rebel boy, who was by now a full grown man. When she thought of him though, she still thought of 17 and the promise of that age. 17. I don’t think there’s an age we women remember more. 17.

She broke off her engagement to the good man. She finally decided to think with her heart instead of her head. After seven years she will reunite with her rebel boy. Who is now a man. Who should be the father of her children. Who should be her partner. Who should be her whole world. And now he will be. They will be together. Come hell or high water they will be, together.

When she wrote me, she asked my advice. I told her, Baby, RUN! Get on a plane, drive, take a bus or a train and get to him. NOW! Don’t wait anymore. 27 years is a long time to love someone from afar. Think with your heart. Go to him. Love him. With everything that you have. Don’t EVER live with regret. Know for sure that he is the one. I get the joy of seeing them reunite. Of her finally finding her way down an endless, broken road that will lead her back to him.


We are NOT our Daughters, Our Daughters are NOT Us

A daughter is a mother’s gender partner, her closest ally in the family confederacy, an extension of her self.  ~Author Unknown

As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied.  ~Oscar Wilde

When Meggie was a teenager, it was never my intention to live vicariously through her. Try as I might it did happen on more than one occasion though. It happened with competitive swimming, with music, with boyfriends. School work too, I’m sure. I saw her, this gorgeous and viable young woman. I wanted everything for her. I wanted her to do everything I didn’t when I was growing up. If she wanted to pursue a new endeavor, Roger Darling and I did our very best to ensure that she got the chance to do so.

She is such a beauty. She looks like Kate Hudson. I saw boys swarm around her like bees take to honey. I didn’t understand it. She looked exactly like me. Acted like me. How could it have been so easy for her to attract attention from young suitors, but I had to work hard for every boy that I wanted to date. Except for Roger Darling, that is. He was always a good one for me.

I never tried to push her to date a certain guy. Well, I take that back. I tried a couple of times. One was with her BFF, M. He’s one of my “other” sons. I love him like he’s mine. I guess he sorta is mine. Rog and I think of him as one of our family. He’s blonde, beautiful, and loves my girl like no other. But there was no more feelings  for her other than best friend love. And though it was hard for me to deal with, I had to let go of the hope that her true love would be her BFF, M.  He is going to be her Man of Honor at her wedding in December. I think that’s pretty damn cool. I don’t know what it is about she and I. We like being friends with dudes. I think it’s easier sometimes. Less hormones to deal with.

I did want her to date another guy, A. But only because I knew he was going to be rich when he was all grown up. They’re BFFs too. Now that he’s done with college he is well on his way to great success. Oh well, she’s found the love of her life, and he climbs and trims trees for a living.  The boy is super damn smart and looks like Eddie Vedder. He’s got a bright future ahead. I worry about her getting married at the age of 22, but she’s a determined sort. She’s like her momma in a lot of ways. God help her future husband. He’s in for a rough ride, that’s for sure.

I have found that Meg has done so much more in her life than I have. And she’s only 22. I told her just because she’s getting married, it doesn’t mean that she can stop pursuing life. She is to get her ass out there and hustle. Do what she wants before she has babies and settles down. Find hobbies, and do them. Travel, sing, write, hell, whatever she wants. Sometimes I want to be her. But then I have to remember that this is her time. My life is not hers, and her life is not mine. We must love and respect one another. And we do. I love that she has my free spirit. I couldn’t be more proud of her. She is an amazing young woman. She will continue to do great things.

Though I’m older than her, I’m still pursuing life. Trying new things. Becoming more me than I have been, in years. It’s partly because of her. Because of my girl. She’s taught me that it’s never too late. It’s never, ever too late.


This letter right here is the reason why I write….. Why I share

So many people ask me why I’m so honest when I write. Why I put myself out there. Why do I share so much. Read this letter from a dear friend of mine and you will know. SHE is the reason why I’m honest, why I share, why I give of myself the way I do. Because just once, just once you might get to save someone’s life. I’m not being haughty, I’m not being arrogant either. I helped save her life. Made her reach out. That is the reason that I write. To help, nurture, and love.

    • Hey mom!
      First off, you look fucking amazing! So proud of you, and dad too! Things haven’t been the best for me the last couple weeks…you’re the one I come to and your posts always bring a smile. To make a long story short, my mom is on pretty much 24/7 suicide watch on me. They’ve changed my antidepressant so I could be on Adepex, to help me lose weight since I can’t do much with my knee and back, and I ended up with the worst thoughts and feelings I’ve ever had before. I kept it hidden, forced a smile so mo one would know. Well, last week it got so intense that I was afraid of myself. I had things planned out, even had a few different ways to choose from. I knew at that point, if I didn’t tell anyone, I would end up making the worst and last decision of my life. So, probably didn’t go about informing my mom the right way, but it was the only way I knew how to so she would know I wasn’t just having a bad day. I chose to have my mom hide my meds and give them to me on schedule throughout the day. I can’t tell you how scared I made myself. I’ve never been one to think, let alone plan my own death. It’s embarrassing going through something like this but deep down, as much as I scared my parents, I make the right choice. It was a side effect of the antidepressant they had me on which caused my suicidal thoughts and almost actions. I made an appointment with the Dr and she went along with me yesterday. I was so embarrassed that when he walked in, I couldn’t look at him in the eye, couldn’t talk, I just cried. My mom told him what was going on and I had to beg him not to admit me to the hospital like he wanted. I go back in two weeks to see how the new med is working but until then, its almost like I have to have a babysitter, at 22. It’s horrible and I’ve never felt anything close to how I was the last couple weeks. It’s one thing to think it, but I was scared at how close I was to acting on it. So needless to say, yet another roller coaster ride for me. No one really knows but my parents and a fam friend about how bad it had gotten. But the point of this message is just to let you know that I love you and out of everything, your posts make me forget about everything for a moment and always bring a smile to my face, which means more than you know at this point. When I catch myself on the verge of tears of thinking things I shouldn’t, I go right to your page and just read. Read everything. But know. Even though you don’t intentionally do it, you have helped me many, countless times. Sorry for the novel I wrote but I love you and I truly look up to you more than you know.

    Oh  honey I loved every word you wrote. I’m so glad you contacted me. You don’t know how much it means to me. I’m so glad you told your mom. We would have been devastated to lose someone as wonderful as you. Life isn’t always easy. It’s not. And it doesn’t get easier the older we get either. But every day, every day we find ways to find happiness. To muddle through. We surround ourselves with good people, we learn to love ourselves and then love others.

    YOU are an amazing young woman. I have always loved you. You are sometimes the reason that I post what I post. The reason that I write what I write on my blog. Because of you incredibly strong young women. I’m amazed at all of you. Honey being on an anti-depressant doesn’t make you weak. It makes you stronger. It’s like a diabetic being on insulin. It’s something we need. If I wasn’t on mine, I would be an absolute mess. Or I would still be self-medicating with alcohol and food.

    It is the events in our lives that shape us. It is the people in our lives that save us or help us fall. We are the ones that are ultimately responsible for our own self-love, our own survival and our own worth. You reached out for help. That was a very brave step. Had you not, I’m sure you would be dead. I’m glad you go to my FB page, to my blog. You darlin’ are the reason that I write. The reason that I’m so blatantly honest. Because I know there are more sparkly girls with broken hearts out there. That are looking for love, for self-worth, for more.

    I’m proud of you for asking for help. I’m proud of you for living. I’m proud of you for everything. I really am. May I write about this? May I take your letter, take out your name and then add my reply? I will never, ever say your name.

    I love you girl and keep reading. Keep building yourself up!!!! And know that if you ever need me, you walk right to my door, call, whatever. I will build you back up and love you. Promise from the bottom of my sparkly heart!


I don’t want a new project. I just want someone to love, that will love me back.-Bette

I first met Bette when we worked together at the SSW. She worked for a project, I was the business manager for faculty and staff. If you needed something, you came to me. She did. For staplers, tape, paper.  Reimbursement and refund questions. Questions about project expenses. We talked and laughed easily. She was so damn funny without meaning to be. She just was. We tried to hook up. Find times to hang out. But my life was busy with a husband and kids. Finally, finally we were able to meet and hang out to watch a movie. It was called “Our Idiot Brother”. We both have a thing for Paul Rudd, and comedy in general, so it wasn’t surprising that our first excursion would be a comedy movie. Turns out it wasn’t that great, but we got to stare at Paul for a few hours. That was a bonus. I don’t know what it is about a funny man that sets my soul afire. Damn! I love it, if you can make me laugh.

Back to Bette. Our friendship grew. We learned things about each other. Through our talks, our texts, our emails. We hung out more. Laughed more. Cried more. I see her, this vibrant, blonde haired, blue eyed woman. This goddess that begs to be loved. She’s a magnet. She draws people to her. She gives herself easily. She’s so funny. Whenever we are together we recite dialogue from Anchorman. People look at us like we’re stupid. We don’t give a shit, really. We’re just two blonde girls having fun.

She has introduced me to some wonderful people. I now get to spend one night a month making a fantastic dish to pass for our monthly potlucks. We pick a theme, and from that theme we pick something awesome to cook. I love to cook, she doesn’t. I told her not to worry, I’m going to hook her up with some decent kitchen utensils. And then I’m going to teach her how to cook anything and everything! I tried to cook quiche at her place once. She doesn’t even have a decent measuring spoon or cup. Not saying I use them much. But the first time I use a recipe, I need to measure everything out! After that I put my own spin on things.

Bette is a beautiful woman. She’s one of my favorites to be with. I see her and I just want to hug her. Love her. Make her better. She is everything. She needs to love, to nurture, to be reassured that she is okay. Which she is. She’s perfect in her imperfection. She makes me better by being my friend. I make her better by being her friend and telling her she is loved.

I love that she calls me in the middle of the night just to laugh about something. I love that she has a filthy potty mouth. I love that she laughs uproariously at little dogs in pink sweaters that are walking with their owners down Main Street in Ann Arbor. I love the fact that I can tell her anything and it doesn’t go anywhere but to her ears and heart. I love the fact that she can tell me anything and it stays with me. Well, maybe it goes to Roger Darling, but that’s it. Roger loves her too. He has barely hung out with her, but when he has, he’s told me how much he enjoys her company. All of her. Roger Darling loves a good, strong willed, funny woman. And she most definitely is.

I hope someone sweeps her off her feet. I hope that she finds the love she needs. I hope, I hope, I hope. Not just for her, but for them. Because whoever gets lucky enough to love her, they will love her forever! I know I will. She is my sister and my friend. Forever.

My thoughts on anger…

Yes, I’m pissed off and most people irritate me. But if people weren’t so ignorant, self-absorbed, and downright stupid, I wouldn’t be so bitchy all the time.-Unknown

Okay so here it goes. I’ve been trying for months to write about my feelings on the whole sordid subject of love. And let me tell you it isn’t as easy as it would seem. I know I’m the sunshiny girl that can write all kinds of flowery shit about rainstorms, springtime, best friends, and children. I can also write sexy and sad stuff. And of course there’s the writing about things  that are super funny. But for love, I’m just stumped. I’m a girl that loves with all of her heart. Not very smartly sometimes, but I do my very best to love the right way. So why can’t I write about it? I’ve got more than one post residing in my draft file, because well, what I write is so damn whiny it makes me want to quite literally puke all over my computer! Sooooo I’ve decided to write about anger. Yes I know, it seems a strange subject for this glittery girl to write about, but hear me out. I think I’m going to tackle this in list form. I may elaborate or I may not. We’ll see how many times I can say the F word in one post….

I’m pissed that I can get so sad when life is really so damn good.

I’m pissed that my male friends think I have a penis and treat me like a dude. I’m all for a great dick joke and I laugh with the best of them. But come on I am a WOMAN, treat me like a delicate flower EVERY once in a damn while!

I’m pissed that I harbor my happiness on one person.

I’m pissed that I didn’t go to college.

I’m pissed that I don’t think I’m beautiful.

I’m pissed that people think I’m not shy. Because I really am. Just watch me blush.

I’m pissed that I’m pissed.

I’m pissed that Harry married Sally!

I’m pissed that I can’t write about love.

I’m pissed that I’m a stupid, sappy girl.

I’m pissed that my credit sucks and I have to work 2 jobs.

I’m pissed that I don’t live in Ann Arbor and I have to drive 70 miles round trip every fucking day. I LOVE Ann Arbor!

I’m pissed that I’m not 25 anymore.

I’m pissed that young people look at me like I’m old.

I’m pissed that I can’t walk away from a situation, even though it’s the best thing for me. And that I can’t back down.

I’m pissed that it seems like other’s lives are better than mine.

I’m pissed that I can’t write 24/7.

I’m pissed that as I write this I’m crying. GAH!

I’m pissed that I can’t eat like a normal person or I’ll get fat again.

I’m pissed that my best friend died of cancer and I don’t get to talk to her anymore. And bitch at her and tell her to get her ass home so I can hug her and have a big damn Pink Panty Dropper Drink with her.

I’m pissed that I’m a drunk and can’t get a good buzz on anymore.

I’m pissed that my friends will read this and not understand it.

I’m pissed that no one gets me!

I’m pissed that I can’t tell someone to fuck off and leave me alone and stop making me feel like my heart is going through a cheese grater.

I’m pissed that Roger Darling told me no more tattoos. Fucking A it’s my body. I want a gorgeous one that starts at the nape of my neck and goes all the way down the base of my spine to my ass. It’s broken hearts inspired by Sally from the Nightmare Before Christmas. They’re all sewn together just like her. Just like me…..

I’m pissed that I’m an incurable romantic. I’m pissed that I’m an optimistic pessimist. I’m pissed, I’m pissed, I’m pissed. NOW I need to listen to some punk rock and slam dance the fuck out of someone.

Oh and I’m pissed that I can’t seem to hate. I just can’t. No matter how badly someone treats me, I do NOT have the capacity to hate. But I am NOT a doormat. And Honey don’t you ever forget that! Okay now I am spent. This shiny, happy girl needs a fucking drink. Of water….

Being married does not mean you are dead!

No matter how happily a woman may be married, it always pleases her to discover that there is a nice man who wishes that she were not.–H. L. Mencken
Recently someone told me I needed to act more appropriately than I do because I’m a married woman. Excuse me? But how do I act inappropriately? Because I said to this person that I thought one of our colleagues was hot? I’m sorry but just because I’m married it doesn’t mean I’m dead! I know my other married friends will agree. We may be married but we still feel, see, hear, want and love other people. We don’t act on it because we are MARRIED! We can still look at someone of the opposite or same sex and say, “My God I’d totally do that person”! Hell I even talk to Roger Darling about people I think are beautiful. He does the same with me. I don’t feel self-conscious about it when Roger says things to me like that. I know he loves and wants me.

I remember when we were first married, and I wouldn’t let the man out of my sight. I was so damn jealous. Now we go to a social event, like a party and we go our separate ways. We look at each other from across the room and just smile… We know we’ll be seeing each other later on and we’re okay with being away from each other. He’s a shameless flirt and so am I. Women love that man of mine for some strange reason. It’s so strange because he’s friends with more women than men and I’m friends with more men than women. We totally get that about each other. I think it just comes from being married for almost 23 years. We’re secure in our differences.

If you have to act differently in front of your spouse than you do in front of your friends, there’s a problem with your relationship. We should be free to be exactly who we are in front of our partner. There should be no pretenses. I didn’t die the day I got married. I’m still me. I’m still human. I still have needs, wants, and desires. What would be a problem is if I didn’t feel that way anymore……