So this is goodbye, then...

After some consideration, I'm closing this blog. Probably this doesn't affect anyone much, because of the fact that I haven't posted regularly in God knows how long. There's a few reasons for that. First of all, I'm busy. Probably busier than I've ever been, but in a good way. Secondly, I'm not the same person I was when I started this blog, not at all. My life has changed. I've changed. The things that I used to write about, well, frankly, I wouldn't anymore. I could go into all the ways I've changed, but really, who gives a damn? Answering myself, I'd guess perhaps 3 of the 7 people who still visit this blog.

I think most of the reason for closing this blog centers around the second reason, me having changed. I went back at one point with the intention of editing or deleting some posts, but that just seems wrong. I don't deny who I am or who I was. However, I am also not proud of all of it either. In a lot of ways, I just want to be past it. I want to be who I am and not be clenched in the tenacious fingers of who I was.

A lot of my posts here were funny, to me at least. As a result, I pressured myself to be funny, to almost be a one person show. I didn't post if I didn't feel I had something relevant or entertaining to say. I got off track of just writing who I am. And by the time I got to a point where I wanted to write who I am again, I was so far past where I was in my last post that it just seemed disjointed and strange. I typed for a while, then I slowly backspaced away the entire post.

At any rate, I will say that there are some people I've "met" through this odd world of blogging who I feel like I "know" on some level. Maybe they feel the same way about me. I don't know. I've watched them grow and change as people, adjusting and adapting to new roles in their lives, and it is beautiful. The human condition is nothing short of miraculous to me. When I look back on where I've been and what I've done, who I was.... then who I am now is miraculous to me. But in a way, it's my own private miracle. Maybe if you know me, you know some of the differences, some of the changes, some of the growth. If you don't, then you probably question the changes or the truth behind them. You know, more power to you. That's your prerogative. But really, you don't have that right. You aren't me and you could never possibly know all the nuances that make up my soul. Question who I am if you will, or the sincerity of my heart and who I am, but question it to yourself.

I'm just me, and I'm free to grow and change and learn and be me. My beliefs are my own; I won't impose them on you. I'm more than happy to share them, but mostly, I want to just live them. I thought for a while about just changing this blog, but I just can't. There are many people who would not understand, who would call my beliefs invalid and untrue and question my character because of my past. Our past does not define us, it's just background information. And some stories are just as good without all the background... I hope mine is.

So if you're still out there, then this is for you. If you are at all interested in keeping in touch or who I am now and whatever it is I write, feel free to email me. I'll send you the link. For now... take care...

No Grilled Cheese on the Foreman

This is just one of the many life lessons I've learned recently. I never considered myself a relationship expert. Experienced, yes, an expert, no. However, I am amazed at how many new things you can learn about being married and relationships and yourself when you think you should already know them.

Today's lesson - shortcuts are most assuredly not always the best way. Grilled cheese sandwiches are not a possibility on the George Foreman Grill. What you get is a very smashed sandwich with all of the cheese oozed out and racing down the wee tracks, with some lovely grill marks. Back to the skillet method.

The greater lesson - there's no shortcut to making a relationship work. It just takes work and time. There are no quick fixes, no magic, no step by step self help books that do all the thinking for you. We're all different anyway, so there's no way that Dr. Phil can tell every woman how to get her man to be more romantic. Any why would we want him to? Why wouldn't we rather spend the time learning all of the intricacies of our partner?

Because we are used to being able to get things served to us wrapped up nicely without even having to get out of our cars. Guess what... now and then, you have to get out of your proverbial car, get your ass in the kitchen and do the work yourself.

Funny how it always ends up better that way anyway. Grilled cheese works so much better in the skillet, one at a time, with real block cheddar sliced and real butter, cooked slowly to a golden brown. Relationships... same thing. And yeah, I suppose that's cheesy, but it is oh so delicious.

Indentation

The definition of indentation is the condition of being indented. So what does indented mean? to divide so as to produce sections with irregular edges that can be matched for authentication.

I suppose this posting is a bit of an explanation for where I've been lately. I've been becoming indented.

I'll save the cliches of "when you least expect it" and "the last place you'd look" and instead simply say that I fell in love with someone who makes me laugh. He makes me laugh so hard that my belly aches, my cheeks are in danger of being stuck. When all of the cliches and cutesy stories fall away and are long forgotten, when I am old and wrinkled and holding his hand and my granddaughter asks me how she will know if he is the one, I will squeeze his hand and ask her if he makes her laugh like no one else. I will ask if his edges match hers, if he leaves his mark upon her soul.

I am old enough and wise enough to know my irregular edges, to be cognizant of them, yet to stop apologizing for them as well. I know who I am, and I want to reveal that, with all of its imperfections and strides toward greatness, foibles and fumbles, hopes and fears. But even beyond that, I longed for someone else to be that transparent with me. To show me their irregularities.

In a movie I saw not too long ago, an explanation is given for marriage. It is to have someone who is a witness to our life, someone who can say, "I get you. You matter. You're important to me and I recognize you." I think that having someone who can do that in this sea of people is how we authenticate ourselves. We all long to be known for who we really are, known and accepted and loved.

So even beyond being irregular, there is the hope of being authenticated by someone who sees the irregularities, reveals their own, and yet, somehow... they match. And when that happens, you sometimes, when the stars wink down at you and the moon smiles its secret smile, get an indentation. You join together and make a mark, something indelible that wasn't there before.

Perhaps the physical manifestation of this is the small and barely visible indentation on my left ring finger. There hasn't been a ring on that finger in 2 1/2 years. It had resumed its normal shape, devoid of a tell tale tan line or indentation. And yet, now, there is an indentation. It's there when I take off the ring to put on lotion, when I slide the ring to my knuckle, I can feel the indentation.

And even though I love the ring and what it symbolizes, what I really love is the indentation, the mark that has been left on me physically. The outward manifestation of the indentation on my heart.

Advice to Fathers

Fathers, if you have a daughter, you have no idea how important the things you say and do are to her. You have no idea how the way that you treat her will shape her life, her future relationships and what she expects of men.

No, I don't have children. But, I do have a dad. He's human, some good, some bad. But I will tell you this:

There is almost nothing that will break a girl's heart like her dad forgetting her birthday. I don't care if she is 14 or 34. If you don't call your daughter and send her a card on her birthday, it will break her fragile feminine heart.

She may never tell you. Instead, she'll cry quietly alone. She won't bring it up until her mother asks if you've called, and then, her silence and the catch in her throat will give it away. Maybe it has happened so many times that her mother is tired of calling you to tell you how you've hurt your daughter. Even if you do call, a day late, two days late, it is just that, late. Too late. You won't be able to change how you've hurt your daughter.

You won't be able to take away the feeling of sadness that her own father didn't call on her birthday, didn't care. It won't matter that her mother, her aunt and her brother all called and made a big deal of it. It won't matter that she got a few email cards and went out for dinner and had ice cream with a candle in it. Because what she will remember about that day is that her dad forgot and didn't call.

And by the time she is 34, even though you have forgotten more than once, she still hopes you remember. She still wishes that you'd call. She still wants you to think she's pretty, to be proud of her, to adore her.

And when you don't, when you don't tell her those things, you'll have no idea how much it hurts her. No idea until you read some random girl's blog whose dad forgot her birthday. Maybe then you'll remember. Maybe it will stick with you. Maybe you'll tell your daughter that you love her the next time that you talk to her. If you do, that will make my one birthday worth it.

That Sucks

If there is a phrase that has become overused in the last 15 years or so, it is that one - "That sucks." I remember when the word "sucks" was a bad word, when it got my thigh slapped and a stern look from my mom. It's mainstream now. Because it is overused, I try not to use it if only for the sake of being more original.

Today however, I had a task at one of my Cinderella minus the mean step-sisters, fairy godmother, prince or ball gigs (translated, one of my cleaning jobs...ack...) that sucked. Heh.

This particular home has a fountain outside on the patio, attached to the wall of the house. It is a beautifully patinaed copper section of an 1800's gutter from a building in New York City. It is about 6 feet long, a foot high, with a very majestic looking lion head in the middle out of whose mouth (usually) pours water into a waiting copper cauldron beneath. For some reason, today, the fountain wasn't working, and it was my job to find out why and fix it.

One second while I flip through my resume to locate where I am an electrician, plumber, pool man, fountain person or anything even remotely related. Oh that's right... I'm not. I'm cheaper than all those. At any rate, out I go.

My first thought is that it is clogged. I turn it off, reach into the icy water and pull out the pump, give it a good cleaning. Because I cleaned it a month ago, it is only mildly slimy. I unhook the tube that carries the water up to the lion as far as I can and also clean the outside of that. Turn it back on, motor comes on, no water comes out. Lion looks somewhat befuzzled.

I hit it a couple of times, because that's what you do when things don't work. Then I decide that the clog is up in the part of the tube that I can't see, behind the lion. How to get it out... ah yes, hot water, that solves anything. I heat a pot of water and bring it out. Unhooking the tube from the pump, I drop it in the hot water. Not even a bubble. It isn't even sucking. I poke a stick up the tube, nothing.

The patriarch of the house is watching from the doorway, as he does, and says, "You're going to have to suck it." I bit my tongue. Of all the times I've heard that before, buddy. I looked around, hoping for some sign from heaven, some magic to make it work. Nothing.

Okay, if I suck it just hard enough to dislodge the clot, but not hard enough to eat the clot, then I can see it and push it out. The tube is too long to blow in the other end, I thought of that. So, tube in mouth, I start to suck. Nothing. It does taste particularly nasty... Windex and algae. Mmmm. Suck harder... nothing. Cheeks hollowed. Panting, take another breath.

One final powerful suck, and with an audible pop, the clot of algae gung dislodges from the tube and sprays into my mouth. There is not enough gagging and spitting to properly describe what happened after that. Yeah, I used to have a good job. That so sucks.

Potato Soup, Lesson Learned

I may have mentioned once or twice that I am an exceptionally good cook. A few of you who read this have enjoyed, I hope, my cooking. (Unless you lied, scoundrels.) However, let it not be said that I am faultless or an expert. I make kitchen disasters on a regular basis, usually once every six months. During said disaster, I will forget an ingredient, add one not called for, cook too long, not long enough... something... but that something is enough to completely ruin whatever I made.

Luckily, I learn from my kitchen disasters.

One such disaster was about two months or so ago. It was a cold and gloomy day here, and I had decided it was a perfect day to make potato soup. Simple enough, right? I had never made it before, and while it SHOULD be simple, well... The recipe I had called for fat free evaporated milk. Even now, typing it, I had to think for 43 seconds if it was evaporated or condensed. The store only had fat free CONDENSED milk, and I figured, "Ehhh, evaporated, condensed... either way, there's less of it." Yes, roll your eyes along with me.

Long story short, it tasted like potato soup ice cream, very sweet. This was despite my attempt to add 5 more pounds of potatoes, two more onions and a heap more garlic. My mother tried to tell me that while it was different, definitely, it wasn't bad. The way she said this with an encouraging smile let me know that it indeed was horrid.

Today, it is 40 degrees outside, raining and blustery. Some imp perched on my shoulder said it would be a perfect day for potato soup. The angelic one chimed in that I didn't have any evaporated OR condensed milk. Smart me, I made it with skim. Hah. And I must say, when I don't f*** it up, I make some pretty incredible potato soup.

All Jacked Up

I think I've had a post with this same title. I probably have and may spend an hour looking for it at some point tonight. Just sayin'.

I'm all jacked up on caffeine right now. 5 cups of coffee with dinner is not a good idea, no matter how cold it is. And for all my yammering about how caffeine does not affect me, I'm full of it apparently. Which is news to me. Not that I'm full of it, but that caffeine does, in fact, affect me.

So I realize that I have the most boring blog of anyone lately, and that people are beginning to think I've fallen off the face of the earth. I haven't, clearly, though I do have a wicked twitch in that direction (the caffeine). I'm here, with nothing terribly funny to report, thus, no new posts. However, I was feeling remiss when I got some "Happy New Year" messages on my beginning of December post. Shameful. So here I am.

The update, in so many words or less. I'm still officially unemployed. Two months now. However, I have begun being a domestic assistant for a family... pardon? What were you saying?... Oh, that. Yes, well... a domestic assistant is a ... (mumble). So anyway, like I was saying... pardon me? You didn't hear me? (Sigh)

I'm a maid. There. Said it. A maid. I clean people's crappers.

Truthfully, there's more to it than that, but that IS what it all boils down to - I clean their house. They certainly don't do it. Sure, I do other things as well, but I'm the maid. Ha. Needless to say, I'm not adding it to my resume. Anyway, it is for an art professor at the college and her husband who are the nicest people, and have really been wonderful to be around. I get paid in cash, at the end of every day "in case [he] dies before tomorrow" which is what the husband said. Ha ha.

I've been doing this since the week before Christmas, on average 4 days a week, and I am worn out. This manual labor thing is killing me. Swear it. I have developed arthritis-like symptoms in my hands and knees from all the cleaning, and my OWN house is no where near as clean as it used to be. On the bright side, there's something simplistic and liberating about some manual labor. I don't think about it at night, stress over what needs to be done or get headaches from the mind cramps. I just do whatever tasks need to be done. No office politics, no attitudes, no egos (especially not my own).

The gig was supposed to be to fill in until their regular "girl" got back from her holiday at home. However, they don't appear to be needing me less, so I'm not sure what's up with that.

Oh, the other stuff I do, lest you think it's all about mopping. I cook for them some. I defrosted a freezer, reorganized the garage. I run errands occasionally, walk the dog, bathe the dog. The husband collects antique books and I've been taught to determine their value. Project given to do that for all (1500?) books, then catalog them with all the information in a spreadsheet. I keep the records for the condos he owns, do some computer work. And yes, I change the beds and do the dishes.

Things I never thought I'd be doing in my professional life. C'est la vie.

So I've still been looking for employment in my very small town, finding nothing that pays even half of what I was making. I broke down and sent my resume to Atlanta. I had an interview down there for a paralegal position today. The drive is HELL, but I'm anxious to see if they make me an offer. Just hanging out down there for a few hours today, I saw men in suits, women with great hair cuts, a bevy of restaurants and 3 different Starbucks. Insane. I saw corporate America, people with "real" jobs, ambition and goals. Not that they don't have that in Rome, I just haven't found the mother lode of it yet. (Please note the optimism.)

Anyway, so that's what is going on with me. Just so you know, I typed this at warp speed due to the caffeine. I have no idea how I am ever going to fall asleep tonight. Oh, and seriously, I get to wear sweats to work (being a maid, not in Atlanta). That's kinda nifty.