The Green Armchair

Blind faith (part 2)

2010-10-07T05:17:00.001-07:00

It wasn't until I was in high school that I began skipping church. Going to church every Sunday was something that was not only expected in my house, but enforced. Sick or not, you were going. You could have a fever and be vomiting, and you were still going. Not honoring the Lord's day was the pathway to Hell and a mortal sin to boot.

And every chance I got, I'd head toward church in case one of them was looking out the window, which they often did, and then just walk around the neighborhood, or go to the store or find another way to occupy that hour.

I always envied those people who found comfort in being in church, and in group worship. From as early as I can remember, I always felt like an observer when I was sitting the pew...an outsider who didn't belong there...a sinner who didn't deserve to be in God's house. A hypocrite.

When I met my future husband, my parents were mortified that he was protestant. In fact, when we became engaged, my mother told me she was actually afraid to call my grandfather in Ireland and tell him I was marrying someone who wasn't Catholic. That he would never understand such a thing. You would've thought I'd committed a felony.

I know that being Catholic is not an easy thing, but I was never given a choice. There was no choice. If you were born into Catholicism, that was it. End of story. You follow the rules, you do what you're told, there was no questioning anything. There was no tolerance for other religions, because Catholicism was the only true religion.

And being the person I am, I began to question everything, which did not go over well in my home. It wasn't until I was in my late 30s that I finally told my parents that I didn't go to church anymore. For years, I lied about it, because I knew well how they would react. And when I sat my mother down finally and broke the news to her, she responded exactly how I anticipated she would.

How can this be true? Didn't I fear for my soul? Didn't I care that it was a mortal sin? And what about my children? Didn't I care about their souls? The guilt was laid on as thick as ever. And I was so tired of feeling guilty over how I chose to live my life.

To be continued.

Blind faith

2010-10-06T08:19:00.001-07:00

When I blog here or write my column at work, there are two things I normally try to stay away from - politics and religion. Like most people, I have opinions on both, but I choose to keep them to myself. These topics get people fired up, which isn't a bad thing in itself, but often the conversations can break down into personal attacks quickly, and that's never good.

But today, I'm going to break from my own rule and talk about religion. Faith is a very emotional subject for me for many reasons. I was raised by people who believed most things in life were sinful...that anything that gave us joy or pleasure was most likely sinful. They themselves were raised on the belief that fire and brimstone were what awaited us in the afterlife if we didn't lead pious lives. They took no joy at all in this great gift we've been given, and lived in constant fear of their souls and ours, burning in Hell for all eternity.

Let me tell you first what I believe. I believe in God. I believe in Heaven and Hell, and saints and angels and miracles. I'm not much of a churchgoer because I believe my relationship with God is a private one. But I pray all the time, every day, mostly to the blessed Mother. And I try to live a good life and to be kind to others.

As I've gotten older, I've lost faith not in God, but in Catholicism. That is to say...in the church itself. I take issue with a group of men deciding how I should live my life, and in the ways women have always been painted throughout the histories of organized religion. Not always, but in great part, we have consistently been the second-class citizens, the greatest sinners, the ones who lead good, God-fearing men to do evil deeds. Please.

I went to Catholic school for ten years. My teachers were primarily nuns. Some of them were funny, kind, remarkable women, and others were everything one thinks of when they think of old-school nuns...strict, rigid, and to be feared. One in particular used to beat us on a daily basis. And this wasn't in the olden days, mind you, when such a thing was tolerated. This was in the early 80s.

It was that nun, a bride of Jesus, a woman who had taken vows to live her life for the Lord, who first initiated my turn from Catholicism. She beat children. She humiliated us. And she did it without hesitation and with what seemed almost like joy. She left her mark both physically and mentally, year after year, on class after class, while the school turned a blind eye. I'll never forget the day the told my classmates and I that she hoped we all burned in purgatory for a hundred years. Very Christian of her.

To be continued at a later date.

Life, in all its sweetness...

2010-04-30T05:55:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I sat down to blog, to open that tender, exposed vein and let the words and the emotions flow out of it. But I think today is a good day to give it a shot.

When I opened the front door this morning to take my youngest to school, I stopped and just stood there for a moment, letting the morning take me in. It's such a beautiful day outside today...not just nice and spring-like, but spectacular. The sun is shining, there's a light warm breeze coming from the ocean, just beyond the main road to the left of the house, and over the streets and trees beyond that. I closed my eyes for a second, and just breathed it in.

The sun was warm on my face, and I could hear the birds calling to each other from every direction in the trees above. The perfume of all the flowering trees is in the air. It's an incredibly beautiful morning. And I said a quiet "thank you" for the gift of seeing such a morning.

I must be getting sentimental in my old age. lol No, that's not true, I've always been sentimental. I think I'm becoming more....aware now. The last couple of years have been a huge trial for my family, with sadness and worry and insecurity to accompany every month that passed. But we made it through. And now, lately, I am feeling a new appreciation for life.

It's easy to go through this existence and to complain and be bitter and wish that we'd been dealt a better hand. We've all done it at one time or another, and as human beings, we will continue to do it. But while we're doing that, we should also keep in mind that this life is so fleeting, and the trials and problems we face now will do one of two things....make us stronger people who embrace what we have, or bitter, angry people who just can't. Which would you rather be? I know which I would choose.

So yes, I do get teased sometimes for being disgustingly positive, and to be quite honest, I take that as a compliment. It sure as hell beats being the opposite of that. I want to be aware of the beauty that is often hidden beneath the ugly. I want to watch less bad news and take more walks in the sunshine. I want to smile at strangers and say good morning, even if they ignore me and continue on in there own little unfriendly world.

I guess what I'm suggesting here, not only for myself, but for anyone who knows that the little nuisances and tribulations just won't matter at all in the end is this....

Embrace this life, take a walk in the sun, listen to the birds, laugh more, love more, smile at strangers, don't be afraid to look people in the eye and say thank you and mean it, don't be afraid of being judged or being silly...BE silly. Hug your children more, hold your lover's hand, kiss more, dance more, sing to yourself, swim in the ocean, draw in the sand.

And most importantly, and I can't say this enough, if you love someone...tell them. Don't be afraid that they may not feel the same. It doesn't matter. Just tell them. Life is too short to keep love to yourself.

Now go breathe in this beautiful day. :)

Time to live

2010-02-20T14:19:00.001-08:00

Today was one of those days where I took a long look at my future. What prompted me to do this was the visit to my aunt in the hospital. She's been very ill with cancer for a very long time. But because of the months I spent at my mother's side as she lay dying, I delayed it. And delayed it. I felt awful about it, but I was afraid of what I might see when I did see her. And it was worse than I ever expected.

My aunt, my mother's younger sister, has been one of the two most influential women in my life. My relationship with her has always been a good one, a fun one. She is not only my aunt and my Godmother, but a friend as well. She was the yin to my mother's yang, and on more than one occasion in my life, she had run referee between my mother and myself when I was growing up. She is a rare and beautiful person inside and out, full of life and always enjoying it.

When I came home today, I went out with Jim for a ride...to vent, to describe, to cry. The worst of it was when I shared my fear that THIS - the fates of both my mother and my aunt - is what I have to look forward to. I choked out that one day that would be me in the hospital bed, gasping for air and at the mercy of breathing tubes and chemicals and intravenous liquids to keep me alive. And the fact that these women were still relatively young when they were diagnosed (my mother was 69 and I believe my aunt was only 64 or 65 at the time) prompts me to think about what the next 20 years will bring me. Or if I even have 20 years.

I know, of course, that none of us can predict the end of our lives or how we'll exit this existence. But with both women so closely related to me suffering the fate of cancer, albeit in different forms, I know my chances are greatly increased of meeting a similar fate. In fact, a few weeks ago, I had a dream in which I was in the shower, shaving my legs, when clumps of long red hair began falling from my head. Each time I pulled a tangled clump from my leg, another would fall. That dream has been haunting me for weeks. I haven't spoken a word of it to anyone until now. What a cheerful thought. Bet you're glad I shared, eh? lol

So now, what I'm thinking is, it's time to stop obsessing and start enjoying, as much as possible. It's time to stop being afraid of what might or might not happen, and start embracing the gifts that have been given to me. It's time to stop analyzing, and overanalyzing, and putting everything under a miscroscope, and instead welcome with open arms the adventures and opportunities and blessings that God has deemed fit to place in my life for whatever reasons. It's time to not only tell people I love them, but to show it. It's time to do more unto others than I would expect them to do unto me.

It's time to live...for however long I may have it.

In pursuit of happiness

2010-01-23T16:32:00.000-08:00

I feel happy. There is no one particular reason for this, but many. Some are bigger than others, and some are small, easy to overlook, but still present enough to catch my attention. I feel lucky and blessed.

No, I haven't won the lottery, although I will faithfully continue to try. lol I haven't gotten a great new job that will pay me triple what I'm making now, allowing me to travel occasionally to New York or California. And no, I haven't yet hit my goal weight, although I'm close, and that's something in itself. lol

I'm happy because I have a perfect life.

I know that statement means something different to everyone. To me, it means many things, but perhaps not exactly what you might expect:

I am relatively healthy, I have a home, I have a job I still like, and I have the love of people who matter to me. I can still trust, and I can still hope and laugh and cry. And I can return love.

I have been blessed (or cursed lol) with the ability to write, to express myself so that others might laugh, or cry, and feel that they are not alone.

I can appreciate the beauty in nature. I believe in the existence of God and angels and miracles. And I try to keep in mind that we are here in these bodies and on this planet for a very short and precious time.

I know that I will always make mistakes. I will sometimes do things because my heart tells me to, even when my head insists I shouldn't. I will always try to see the good in people before the bad. And I will sometimes be impatient when I could show more understanding.

It will always mean more to me to sit quietly with a book than it ever would to make a deal. I know I may never be a success in business, but I feel confident that I will still be a success in living.

This life I've been given, for me at least, is perfect.

My childhood friend once told me years ago that a perfect life, to her, would be to have a husband with a white-collar job, a large, beautiful home, and for her to play the charming wife, and host dinner parties for her husband's peers. I could have gagged.

It wasn't until much later that I understood that those things, that image she had in her mind, is what she felt at the time would bring her happiness.

And isn't that what we all seek? Happiness? It, too, means something different for each of us. But I think, in many cases, happiness can be found in what we have now, and not always in what we think will make us happy.

My husband told me a few years ago that if he died tomorrow, he would die knowing he was loved. What matters after that?

I guess my point is, even though we all have dreams and goals, we should take pleasure in what we have around us now. The simple things that make us smile should not be so easily overlooked. Laughter should be an every day occurrence. Peace can easily be found within ourselves. Joy and pain both show us that we are still alive.

So breathe...laugh...cry...love...and find that perfect life you may already have.

Surviving the earthquake

2010-01-12T19:32:00.001-08:00

Each year aound this time, I make an effort to sit down and write about the earthquake. Every attempt that I've made so far over the years has gotten only so far before my hands begin to shake and I need to stop. So we'll see how it goes tonight.

It seems ironic and sad tonight that a major earthquake, the largest in 200 years, has hit the island of Haiti. I'll say a prayer for them, although I feel that the casualities will be astronomical.

In 1994, my husband and I were living in a small apartment in Northridge, Calif. I was four months pregnant with our first child. It was the long weekend before the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday, Jan. 17, and I'd gotten up early in the morning hours while it was still dark, because I was hungry and I needed to use the bathroom. The clock said it was around 4 a.m. So I had a snack and returned to bed, glad that we'd be able to sleep in that morning.

A little over twenty minutes later, a 6.9 magnitude earthquake hit, with its epicenter there in Northridge. And just recalling the beginning of that sentence has set my hands trembling once more. Recalling that event, even so many years later, is so difficult. I don't understand why it is still. We lived. His parents lived. But others did not, many who lived close to our small apartment.

And now I have to stop once more. Maybe I'll try to pick it up again tomorrow.

* Saying goodbye to 2009 *

2009-12-31T11:09:00.000-08:00

Finally.

Yep, that pretty much sums it up, not only for me, but for all of us who felt that this last year could peacefully and happily have been skipped right over in the decade's calendar. It's finally over.

It was a hell of a year, wasn't it? Personally, I'd have to say it was probably the worst year in memory. My husband was laid off for eight months, my mother died from an incurable form of cancer, friends and family divorced, lost jobs, lost homes, lost loved ones, and we've had a number of crises within our little household alone.

And yet...

There were still a few bright spots, and a few unexpected surprises. There were still causes to laugh, and to smile, and to celebrate small victories. And it's those small moments that brought me through to today, the last day of the year.

I was hopeful about the year ahead on this very same day last year. But it seemed that there were more bumps and kicks for us in 2009, and for many others, than seemed fair. But life isn't fair. We all know that.

And still....

There was just enough joy to keep us sane. Enough happy moments to float us along to the next one, regardless of the hurdles we had to jump over in between them. There was just enough light to balance the darkness, even during the moments where it seemed the darkness would swallow us whole.

We're alive. We're healthy. We can still laugh and play and love and enjoy this gift we've been somehow able to cling to, if only barely. We're still here.

And now I sit here once more, looking back on 2009 with only a feeling of relief that it's over. It has scarred us permanently and some of the wounds from it will never heal. But they'll fade. Over time, they will fade.

And I look ahead with hope once more, that the new year will be a good one for all of us. And it will be. I know it.

For my friends

2009-11-20T15:22:00.000-08:00

When I wrote my last post, I was full of self pity. It was a rare day when everything seemed to go wrong, all of the hardships of the past few months were beginning to catch up, I felt invisible, overlooked, and I was having a really hard time dealing with the loss of my mother.

But as 2009 draws to a close, I've been thinking not about all of the tough experiences we went through in my family, but of all of the good things that have happened this year. It would appear that all the bad would easily eclipse the good, I know, and as anyone who knows me would agree. We've had more than our fair share.

And yet....I conjure up the faces of people who have touched my life this year, some of whom I've known forever, some only in the last few years, and even a couple of surprises from the past, long forgotten, who have reappeared and made a place for themselves in my life, and I can't help but smile just thinking about them.

Through all the tears and pain 2009 has brought into my world, there have been equal, if not greater amounts of laughter and smiles and joy.

So I suppose it's appropriate, with Thanksgiving coming next week, for me to say thank you to these incredible, crazy, beautiful friends who know me...and like me anyway. lol

May God bless you all, as well as your loved ones, and thank you so much for being in my life.

Ann

Care not

2009-11-10T13:59:00.001-08:00

I've been sitting in front of this screen for quite a while now, not knowing exactly what I wanted to say, or how I wanted to begin. So I'll wing it.

My mother died last month. I've been dealing with her death pretty well, I think, but there are times when I really miss her. I came home from work today, in an awful mood, thinking I needed to call her. But then I remembered she wasn't there. And that felt like a punch to my gut.

Today started out as a very good day for me. I turned 40 today. And I don't look at that with any kind of regret or fear, but with excitement at what's to come for me in the next pages of my life. I was in a great mood.

But as I drove home this evening, I felt....disappointed...let down...and maybe a little invisible. I thought about my father this past weekend, when my brother reminded him that my birthday was today, shrugging his shoulders and saying, "So?" That really stung. And when I tried to take his arm as we walked to a restaurant, he shook me off. That hurt.

And today, a very good friend of mine, someone I had spent time looking for just the right birthday card for a few months ago, didn't even remember mine was today. Had no idea. As childish as it may sound, I felt like...an afterthought. Because I was. And that stung too. As many of my friends and acquantances sent well wishes, which I was very touched by, I was still stung by this one person's lack of care.

I know people are busy, and their minds are occupied with other things, but I also feel that no one is too busy to make a small effort. I try to, and I often think I don't do enough. Why, then, is it so hard for others to make the same effort?

I drove home wishing I could learn how to just not care anymore, because caring often leads to disappointment. You'd think it was easy, so many people do it. But I can't imagine myself approaching any experience in life without care.

Work, friendship, experiences, sex....people have these things all the time with hardly a care.

We've almost obliterated all forms of politeness from our daily lives, that it seems almost NORMAL not to care. I just can't understand that.

I wonder how people go through life, with no passion or opinion one way or another on things. Indifference, in my eyes, is like a disease....something we need to recover from. People need that human touch...that kind word...that small compliment. We need them. Because we all feel.

Well, I can see that what I've written reflects exactly what's in my head at the moment - complete disorder. lol Hopefully my next entry will be written with a clear mind. :)

Going home

2009-09-24T18:08:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those days you know you'll always remember, not for being a joyful occasion, but because the sadness of it just pierces your heart so hard, you feel as though the pain of it will never go away.

Back in February, my mother was diagnosed with a fairly rare and incurable form of cancer called Primary Peritoneal Carcinoma, which stemmed from undetected ovarian cancer. The reason the ovarian cancer was undetected, was because my mother is the type of woman who felt that going to see a doctor was unnecessary unless you actually lost a limb and couldn't sew it back on yourself.

For the last seven months, my parents have understandably held onto the hope that chemotherapy and good medical care would eventually cure her, and refused to hear the doctors' diagnoses that she would not live past a year. Although I admired their faith that this illness would be conquered, I knew in my heart that they would be disappointed in the end.

I drove to Boston this morning, hoping that the bad feeling that had been nagging me the last few days would not be realized today...that the doctors wanting to meet with the family might just be nothing more than a means to get us all up to speed and on the same page at the same time.

And now, I find myself too emotional to write about the content of that meeting, although I was prepared a few moments ago to get it all out and down on the page, my own small bit of personal therapy, and yet I find that the words are caught in my throat. Maybe in a few days they'll loosen up.

What I will say is that after the initial shock to my parents at the doctor's words, and the expected upset at the words that nothing else could be done but to make sure she was as comfortable as possible, my mother went back to her room and turned to God.

My aunt and I sat with her, holding her hands, as the news began to sink in. And to my surprise (although I really shouldn't have been, after witnessing her religious devotion for the last four decades) she began to calm herself and really think about the next life. She said she would finally see the Blessed Mother, and maybe see her parents again, and her cousin, who died young a few years ago from leukemia.

Her fear began to turn into a sort of...I don't even know what word to use here. Not acceptance, or excitement, so much as the realization that everything she did her whole life, everything she lived for, every Mass, every prayer, every day of mental anguish and suffering, had carried her toward this final goal...of Heaven and God and peace.

I talked to my father briefly on the phone this evening, and cried with him, and listened to him grieve for what he was about to lose. Before he hung up, he asked me, "Guess what your mother said before I left the hospital this evening?

She said, "God is calling me home.'"

Having faith

2009-08-29T10:19:00.000-07:00

Today was Senator Ted Kennedy's funeral. I wasn't a supporter of the senator, but I always admired his fierceness in fighting for what he believed in. Listening to his children talk about him was beyond moving, and I was surprised to feel the hot tears running down my cheeks as I listened to them speak of their memories of him.

My own mother is approaching the end of her life, and I thought it was interesting that Kennedy's funeral was held at Mission Church. My parents brought me to that particular church once, many years ago. I couldn't have been older than 9 or 10 at the time, but I remember snippets of it.

I've always admired people, of any religion, who have such unshakable faith. My parents have that unwavering faith. Yes, it sometimes bordered on the fanatical at times, in my opinion, but they always took comfort in it. God and Catholicism is the foundation of their lives. It's the epicenter of their existence, above anything else. And although I haven't adopted the same zeal in which they practice their faith, I do admire them for it.

The night they took my brothers and I to Mission Church, a famous healing priest was there. A man who had the gift to perform miracles. The church was filled almost to the rafters with believers, and those who wanted to be healed...of their physical ailments, their sins...whatever they felt it was that was causing them suffering.

We had to sit in the balcony, body to body with those around us. It was hot and stuffy, and I was on the edge of sleep at any given moment. But some things about that night and that church and the reason we were there always stayed with me.

At the front of the church, before the altar, were large columns. Hanging from those columns, from floor to massive ceiling, were crutches and canes and walking sticks. There were wheelchairs and walkers on the floor around them. I'd never seen such a thing. I asked my mother what they were for, and she told me they had belonged to people who'd been healed by this priest.

I also remember people proceeding up to the altar, and the priest touching them on the forehead and mumbling some words, although we were too far away to hear what was said. Some of them passed out right on the floor. In minutes, there were half a dozen or so church-goers lying there, out cold, and other people crying and returning to their seats. I had no idea what was happening.

What I came to understand years later was that my mother wanted to be healed. She'd been to several such events over the years at different Catholic churches. She believed in these miracles, and always had hope that God would ease her pain one day. She didn't suffer from any physical ailments, but from mental and emotional illnesses that have plagued her since she was young. She wanted to be freed from her pain. When she wasn't healed, she would become depressed.

I never understood that. She is the most faithful woman I have ever known. Why would God feel that she was not worthy of being healed?

Of course, I know we, as Catholics, believe that God has a plan for all of us, although we may have yet to know what it is. But I always felt her pain when she returned home with the same mental anguish she left with, and no ease of her burden. And it made me angry.

Now, as her days on this earth slowly close, and as sad as I am to know that she will soon be gone, I know that her burden will be finally lifted. And I can't help but feel grateful for that.

Confidence...or lack thereof

2009-08-23T15:54:00.001-07:00

I woke up today feeling fantastic. The sun was out, and it felt great on my skin. The weight is coming off steadily, and I went for a walk down on the beach, and was again amazed at the beauty of this place. I felt really good about life and myself.

Tonight, I am just the opposite. I feel insecure, and I hate that. I see beautiful, stunning women out there, and I feel fat and unattractive. I really hate that. It's very unlike me. And it bites.

Is this just a woman thing? Do we all compare ourselves to each other? I think so, to a point. But I've always been confident in myself, and not unhappy with my physical appearance. I like my good skin and my curves, and I like having a nice smile.

But tonight, I feel.....I don't even know what word to insert here, or what adjective to use. I don't like to use insecure, because I am not normally an insecure person. I like me.

I think, as women, we all have moments of weakness like this now and then, where we look at someone else and think...why can't we all look that good, or be that healthy, or have a waist that small? Imagine all the cool clothes we could fit into! lol

Ah well. We are who we are. All shapes and sizes. And no doubt, beautiful people have their own insecurities. Yeah, I'll cling to that raft for a while. lol

And now I'll stop whining. :)

Choices and beauty

2009-08-08T11:47:00.000-07:00

I'm going to take the next 15 minutes and do what's in my nature.

I'm not much for self-help CD's, unless they actually DO help someone, but I've been listening to one of my husband's for a while now...a little here, a little there...and to my own surprise, I have found it helpful. In fact, that first line comes from something I've been listening to.

I've been thinking a lot lately about choice. We've all heard the saying that everything happens for a reason. And I've read a train of thought that the universe unfolds exactly how it's supposed to, which would mean that all of our choices, both good and bad, selfish or righteous, result in exactly what was destined to happen in the big picture anyway. So that makes me wonder...was my mother destined to have cancer? Was it already preordained that my daughter make the choices she's making? Are my brothers' fates already written on some cosmic slab?

I don't completely understand that myself, but I have always believed that everything happens for a reason. What that reason is, is always the question. And the answer is....in this life, we will never know.

The calm, deep voice on the CD I've been listening to says that we need to stop wanting more; stop needing things we don't need; stop this drive to succeed and find peace in what we have. He says all of our desires, if they are truly destined to happen, will come to us exactly when they're supposed to. But that goes against everything we're taught from the cradle through the grave. We are taught that we MUST have the drive to succeed, to be the best, to have more, to do more and to want more.

Personally, I made a big choice a few years ago. My choice was to be a happy person. I may still need to work on it more, but I can FEEL happiness in myself, and that's something. And being happy IS a choice. You can choose to be miserable, or you can choose to rise above it.

The only constant in life is change. Life will always bring a new beginning after a painful end. Choose to embrace it, or choose to dwell in remourse. We can choose to have faith that we will get through difficult events or we can choose to believe we are destined for unhappiness. How would you rather spend your time?

As we go through this life, I believe that in embracing everything that is placed our doormat, whether it be something beautiful and unexpected, or another hard mountain that must be climbed, we can always come out better and stronger.

Sure, I know that sometimes this is easier said than done, and it is. You have to work at it. But it's so worth it. Choose happiness, choose optimism, choose to see beauty in everything. Life will be so much sweeter.

Speaking of beauty, we all see beauty in different ways. Some people see the beauty in a piece of artwork, or in a bed of flowers, or a full moon, or in another person's physical appearance. We see beauty in a lover's touch, or in a child's smile. It's different for everyone. And I think it might be a good idea to actually pay attention to what we consider beautiful. So today, I took a ride with my husband.

I saw the beauty in a horse farm not far from us. They were cutting the hay, and birds rose up from it in alarm as we passed. Horses were grazing in front of the big barn, and behind the barn was a river, as blue as sapphires. It's probably the prettiest place I know of in this town.

We passed a car on that road, with a white dog sticking its head out the window, the wind blowing his fur wildly, and a huge smile on his hairy face. I couldn't help but smile seeing his enjoyment.

In another local community, as we drove around the quiet maze of roads, we saw what looked at first like a small dog on the side of the road. It was actually a coyote pup. We slowed as we came next to it, out in broad daylight, the sun shining off its brown coat, and he just stood there, looking at us, before he scooted off into the tall grass and trees near the road.

We passed an open field filled with yellow and purple flowers, and I had the urge to stop and take off my shoes and just walk among them. Sound a little overdramatic, does it? The feeling was there. What I saw was beautiful and I wanted to be in that beauty.

We drove out near the ocean close to home, where there is a home there, overlooking the big blue, that I really love. It's smallish, compared to some of the homes there, but every time I pass it, I can't help but stare at it's wide farmer's porch, and its gray weathered shingles, and the baskets of flowers hanging all around it. It looks...perfect. Beautiful. To me. :)

Slowing the wheel

2009-07-23T20:43:00.000-07:00

Unable to fall asleep tonight, I lay in bed just a few minutes ago thinking about my day. At first glance, it was uneventful....quiet, somewhat productive, nothing new and exciting. Like many people, especially women, I tend to look back on my day as I look at the mental list of things to do in my head....did this, check; did that, check...and so on.

But then I really slowed down the hamster wheel in my brain and thought about it. Small, yet significant details began to emerge as I started in the morning and went through my day. And it turns out, it wasn't as uneventful as I'd originally thought. Paying attention to the little things, instead of rushing through them at light speed, helped me focus on those things I'd zipped by.

This morning at work, I was opening a can of pineapple with the old can opener in the drawer, which always seems to skip a few places on the lid (and yet I continue to use it anyway). I then grabbed a spoon and began to try to pry the lid off just enough to drain the juice into the sink and allow the pineapple chunks to fall into my bowl. In my haste, and I swear I saw it happening before it actually happened, I'd sliced my hand on the razor-sharp lid. Yep. Always the klutz. lol It bled like crazy, and fortunately, no stitches were required.

Later in the morning, I'd finally (finally!) made an appointment to get another MRI on my back tomorrow. I've been having pain down my right leg for about six weeks now, ever since I seriously began a walking routine again, and I want to make sure I didn't re-injure anything that had been fixed by surgery last September. I've lost over ten pounds and a pants size, so don't even suggest to me to stop walking. lol

At another point in the morning, I selfishly opened my mouth and inserted my foot in an e-mail to a friend. I assumed, which is never a good idea. I've made a policy try not to do that in the future.

I made tentative plans to see my girlies for a movie Saturday night. Haven't had a girls night out in a long while, so that should be fun if we can get a plan in action.

I daydreamed for a while about a magazine that I want to write for (freelance of course ;)). I've been after them for years, and its looking positive. Time will tell.

I laughed a lot at work. My co-worker Chrissy always makes my laugh. We have the same bawdy sense of humor, and although we have to try to restrain it at work, sometimes the humor just slips out. She's very funny.

I bitched with my co-workers (and later, my husband) about President Obama's remarks last night about the Cambridge police. That really pissed me off. How does a president, on national television, say he doesn't know all the facts and then make a comment like that in front of the world? Unbelievable.

I missed my daughters. The house has been so quiet without them. But I'm happy they're having fun. I'll be going to see them in Texas in a few weeks. The thought of flying makes me want to hurl, of course, but as I always say, you can't see many places if you don't fly.

I tried a new wine today, a recommendation of another co-worker (thanks Dave!). It was called Barefoot, and was very inexpensive and very tasty. I love the cabernet.

I cried again tonight for my mother. At her most recent doctor's appointment this week, she was told that although the cancer has shrunk, it will never be gone. Without the chemo, it will come back without a doubt. And again, regardless that she looks so much better and as even gained some weight, he gave her a prognosis of one year. I could hear my father's voice catch in his throat when he answered the phone.

The rain is coming down hard out there now. It's pounding against the deck just outside the sliding door there. I was tempted to open the door and go outside and stand in it, just let it wash over my face and my body and soak through my clothes. It's still tempting.

Another time, perhaps.

My parents

2009-07-19T08:32:00.000-07:00

I was one of those children who vowed to never be like my parents. I grew up rebellious and pig headed and I hated anyone telling me what to do. In fact, that's one characteristic that has stayed with me all my life, for better or for worse. I don't like being told what to do. It sounds childish, I know, but I have a hell of a stubborn Irish streak in me.

I like to decide things for myself, make my own choices and follow up on things only if I feel they are right. I like to follow my gut instinct, without anyone saying "You should do this" or "you should do that." I like to think for myself.

But back to my parents. My parents have always been a bittersweet spot in my life. They are simple in so many ways, and yet complex in so many others. They can be unsociable and stubborn, and they can easily offend others and think nothing of it. Yet there have been moments of great generosity and compassion in times of stress.

My father is a great man. I've always thought that about him. He has a wonderful heart and a good sense of humor. He's funny and loving and hardworking and I used to like to listen to him sing. He was very handsome in his day, and was a favorite dance partner of the ladies. He was very popular. It's been a long time since I've heard him laugh. And he has always loved my mother.

My mother is the polar opposite. She can be cold as ice, and as insensitive to others' feelings as I've ever seen. She spews out intolerance and indifference, and I believe her parents may never have told her she was loved. She has never had a positive word for anything I've ever attemped, but the criticism always flowed. Yet, she has held me on the rare occasion when the world was too much for me, and tried her best to comfort me. As much as she could anyway.

Things have gotten better for us since the day I had that talk with her, the one where I told her that when I was growing up, I'd felt I was nothing more than an inconvenience to her. Oh, and that I never went to church anymore. I thought she'd have a coronary right there.

My parents live in fear. They fear death, they fear life, and more than anything, they fear going to Hell. They keep the house dark and the windows shut tight in fear of someone breaking in.

They are afraid to live...to appreciate this life they were given, this gift. And that one fact, above all others, I believe, is what made me who I am today - a person who will not be afraid to live.

I go up to visit them fairly often. It used to be less, but since my mother was diagnosed with cancer, I go as much as possible. But from the time before I leave my own house to the moment I leave theirs, I am wound up like a spring. The thought of going into their house, into that dark, airless cave they live in, where depression sits out in the open like a permanent guest, makes me want to run screaming in another direction.

I try to encourage them to open a window and let some air in, or turn on a light instead of sitting in darkness. But they refuse. They continue to wallow in misery and then complain about how unhappy they are. And then they go back to bed. I believe eighty percent of their lives are spend in bed. Seperate beds. I know this is an obvious sign of clinical depression.

They are unhappy people, who refuse to do anything to change it. And I refuse to become that way. There is so much beauty and laughter and joy in the world. I will not waste it in the dark.

OK, rant over. lol

Taking personal stock

2009-06-02T13:42:00.000-07:00

So I'm turning 40 this year. I knew it was creeping up on me. I could even see the big 4 and the big 0 way up the road there, not quite as big as a mountain, but bigger than a Mack truck at least, standing there, facing me, waiting for me, calmly...patiently. And positive of my soon arrival.

Is it normal for women to take stock of everything as they pull into 40? I find myself doing exactly that lately. Luckily, I don't seem to feel like a person who looks back on her life and where she is now and fills with regret. I like my life. Sure, I've made mistakes in the past, but I've come to terms with them. I try now to look ahead.

I have had my share of both comedy and tragedy, love and joy, sorrow and pain, and it's been an incredible roller coaster ride this far. I look forward to what's next. I don't fear it.

But sometimes, in the evening, I'll find myself standing in front of the full length mirror before I go in the shower, and wonder what the hell happened.

I try to look at my body as a reminder of some of the most important events in my life. And although it's no model's figure (not even in the same ballpark), it could be worse. The thin, smooth body of my youth is long gone. It's been replaced with a curvy, somwhat plump body that sometimes I like, and sometimes I'm really unhappy with.

I'm glad I finally grew breasts! LOL That took a while. I recall a female co-worker once describing my decolletage as "two raisins on a cookie." LOL But two pregnancies have scarred them with stretch marks, to match the ones on my lower abdomen and thighs. And lucky me, I inherited cellulite from mom. Thanks, Mom.

My first tattoo, which I had gotten as an act of rebellion at the age of 18 was once a small rose, but childbearing has stretched it into a blurry, colorful mess, twice its original size. Ah well. The other two tattoos I got simply because I liked them.

As for the rest....well, things could stand to be a little tighter, especially through the belly and thighs. And a little smoother in other places. My very least favorite parts have to be my upper arms and my back. The latter is so scarred from childhood chicken pox and teen acne, that I hate to wear a bathing suit. A backless dress is out of the question.

But I love my hair (most of the time) and I've always taken good care of my skin and teeth.

So in all, not too bad. Could be better, and like I said, could be worse.

I like the woman I've become. We'll see how it is when I'm 50.

The icing on the big, fat, horrible cake

2009-05-06T18:04:00.000-07:00

Today just happened to be one of those awful days you sometimes have.

I thought I'd been handling the trials in my life pretty well lately, with all that's been going on. My husband is still unable to find a job after four months, and although he's holding up pretty well, I can see the panic there just beneath the surface on any given day. My mother is getting worse now, with a chronic cough and the chemo making her very sick. There are other things going on too, lesser things, but still big enough to buzz around in my brain, constantly reminding me of their presence.

But still, I even wondered myself lately at how well I seemed to be handling things. It was with an almost freakish calm. I just assumed someone up there was giving me the strength I needed to deal.

And then the call came last night. A very close relative of mine told me his marriage may be coming to an end. I could hear in his voice every single emotion he was feeling, and I could feel it all...fear, shock, frustration, anger, bitterness, confusion...all of it, including just an edge of potential hysteria. It almost knocked the wind out of me.

For someone like me, who feels the emotions of others so much, things can sometimes be...well...a bit difficult. I can't just listen to someone with detachment. I feel what they feel. Maybe to a slightly lesser degree, but still...the pain, the joy, the hurt, the loss...it takes its toll now and then. Not often, but now and then.

And last night's call was the icing on the cake. As the day dragged on today, I felt the emotions trying to bubble up to the surface, threatening to overwhelm me. It was just too much all at once. I had enough on my plate to deal with. And I came home, got my husband alone, and completely broke down.

So. It's over for the moment. I'm relatively calm again. I know the storm isn't over...far from it. But I'll sleep off today's panic and hopefully, tomorrow will be a brighter day.

My mother

2009-04-10T05:53:00.000-07:00

I haven't written about my mother's illness in a while, so I thought I'd post an update on her.

You'll remember not long ago, she was diagnosed with a rare and deadly form of cancer, primary peritoneal carcinoma. Her doctors were preparing us for the worst, asking us to make end-of-life decisions, and she also received last rites (Annointing of the Sick, for those Catholics here) from a hospital priest. We were preparing for her end.

It's been just over two months since we were told she was dying, though it feels like much longer. She's been in a long-term care hospital in Cambridge since then, receiving large doses of chemotherapy on an almost weekly basis. The doctors finally discovered that the origin of her carcinoma was ovarian cancer, which allowed them to begin chemo treatment.

In these two+ months, she has gone from a stage 4 cancer to stage 1 or 2. She's lost 25 pounds and counting, because she's still unable to eat, and is being fed solely through IV. She's still vomiting on an almost hourly basis, and feels miserable. But she's improving.

She walks every day, and her color has improved. That grayish yellow sunken look has left her face, and although she's very weak, she looks better. I can tell she's feeling better, because she's bitching at the nurses. LOL Her hair has begun to fall out now, and she's talking about what kind of wig to get.

They think she might be well enough to come home soon. It won't be the same for her, of course. She'll need continuous IV feeding at home, and my father is learning how to do that. She won't be able to have the staples of her diet...tea and toast...because she can't keep anything down.

So that's where we are now. She's alive. She's looking better. She wants to go home. We know that she's on borrowed time, as the cancer will come back, but at least she has a while.

And a while will do.

Including the bad with the good

2009-03-24T16:31:00.001-07:00

So I've been spending a lot of time thinking about the past...again.

If I'm going to write about it, growing up where I did, the adventures I had, the people I knew, I'd have to include as much as information as possible, right? Right.

But here's my dilemma...I have a few dark things from my youth...extremely dark...that no one but my husband knows about. (Well, maybe one or two others know about them.)

These are not things that I did, or that any of my loved ones did, but events that just happened to happen in the course of my childhood. One of them scarred me for life. The other I had actually blocked out completely until it suddenly jumped up at me one day from somewhere deep in my subconcious, giving me several nights of sleeplessness and anxiety since.

I want to include them in the story. I don't want to paint a ridiculous picture of some fictitious and skewed childhood where the bad is not included with good. There was good. I liked where I grew up at the time. But there was bad as well. I saw it. I experienced it. I want to write about it.

And I think I will.

Me-time and the story of my life

2009-03-15T09:07:00.000-07:00

I have a day to myself today. The husband took to kids out for the afternoon, and I have a few blessed, quiet hours to do what I want to do.

If you're a woman, you know what this means. We prepare in our mind a mental list, yes - one of the hundred others in there - of what we'd like to do in this free time. Read a book, go for a walk, do our nails, watch a movie in peace.

Yet, part of our mind is telling us, well, we can certainly do all those things after we put on just one load of laundry. And maybe just wipe off the countertops. Oh, and quickly dust the wood furniture in the living room...that won't take long. And before we know it, the day is gone.

Why do we do this? We look forward so much to doing absolutely nothing but the things we put off doing for ourselves, and then when the time comes, we find ourselves doing what "needs" to be done. I could kick myself sometimes. LOL

I've been turning over a story in my mind these last few days. My husband gave me the idea for it, and I want to try to get some of it, at least, down on paper as soon as possible. I have almost no discipline at all when it comes to writing. If it's something for work, I wait til the very last moment and then throw it all down in haste. I hate that, but unfortunately, it seems to work for me.

I have the beginnings of several books written, both fiction and non-fiction. I'd write them in a crazy, almost delusional pace for days or weeks, and then get bored with the direction they start to go in. So I put them down, or save the files, and never touch them again.

What I've always wanted to write about is my life. I've lived a very interesting life to this point, more than most people's, I've been told, even during those years when I thought my life was so boring, and I want to write about it. But like any family, mine would die of shame if I wrote about them. But I have so much to tell! So many experiences to share!

So thanks to my husband's idea, I'm tossing over in my mind how to write about my life from the viewpoint of a fictional character. I wouldn't be that hard, I think. I would be speaking from my own experiences.

What would be hard, unfortunately, is remembering all I'd need to remember....the moments, the feelings, the dialogue...a lot of it is hazy at best. I'd need to think about how to talk about the people I knew over the years, without them recognizing themselves and possibly being offended.

In the end, I know I need to suck it up and just do it and worry about all the editing later.

There are a lot of my friends here who are writers, so your input would be most welcome.

Gone, Baby, Gone (spoilers!)

2009-03-13T15:02:00.000-07:00

Now, I know this is a controversial subject, but I can't help but bring it up again.

I've just finished watching Dennis Lahane's "Gone, Baby, Gone" for the second time, and I'm riled up again.

I love that movie, not only because I think it's a great movie, with a lot of talent in it, but because it shows a lot of true life from the streets of Dorchester and South Boston.

Yes, we really do talk like that. Most of us try not to curse as much, I think, but the characters and the lives of those from this neck of the woods really are like that. I knew many people like that in my time, as have a lot of you who will read this. It's where we grew up, where we lived, where our parents struggled to put food onthe table...or places close by that are just like it.

Now, here's the spoiler, so if you haven't seen the movie yet and don't want the ending ruined for you...don't read any further.

A child was kidnapped from her mother in this story. Her mother is a junkie...a selfish woman who didn't give a shit about her child until the cameras were rolling. Otherwise, this beautiful girl was hardly an afterthought in her mother's head, while she looked for her next fix or lay.

In the end, after many violent turns and about a hundred f-bombs, we discover that the child was taken not by a sex offender, as believed, but in a well thought-out plan by the police themselves. And not just any policemen, but by the captain himself, who wanted nothing more than to give her a decent life, to be raised by people who would love her and provide for her and care of she were alive or dead.

So the dilemma Patrick (Casey Affleck) faces in the end is whether or not to return her to her mother from whom she was taken, and leave her to whatever future she would be dealt, or turn the other way and let her begin a new life with a good family.

My husband would do what Patrick did. He would return her to her mother, because of course kidnapping is a felony, and that's where she belongs. He would then try to work through DSS and hope she could be taken from her mother and placed in a foster home, and then maybe have a better chance at life by going through the system.

I would walk away.

I know it's wrong. I know it was a kidnapping and that her mother would never see her again. But I know that if I took away that child's possible only chance to be brought up in a loving, safe environment and return her to a mother who's only concern is what's in it for her, and just hope for the best, it would haunt me for the rest of my life. I would do what my heart told me to do.

So...now I ask....what would you do?

La Luna Bella (and other mystical things)

2009-03-10T18:43:00.000-07:00

There's a full moon tonight.

Well, officially, the calendar says it's tomorrow night, but I just came from the store and I couldn't help but stand in my driveway, looking up at the moon, bags forgotten in my hands.

Why is it that the moon holds so much magic for us small humans here on earth? That bright white circle in the sky is just a big chunk of rock, reflecting the light of the sun.

But cultures have been mystified by it for centuries. They've prayed to it, worshipped it, planted their crops by it, knew the time of night depending on its position in the sky. The oceans ebb and flow to its cycle. It's a prominent figure in tales of romance.

There was a time when I didn't believe in anything mystical. Considering the fact that I'm Christian adds irony to that remark, as faith in the unknown is the fiber of our religion. Yet, I never believed in spirits or unexplained phenomena or anything like that. I considered myself a realist. And I never bought into any superstitions. I felt they were just stories created to place fear and doubt into the minds of the weak.

I've discovered, however, as I've grown older, that I am not completely the realist I thought I was. Events over the years led me to believe in the possibility of the existence of things that cannot be explained. Part of me still wrestles with it, and tells me to cut the shit and screw my head back on straight.

But another part of me...a part that wants to believe in the mystical and magical things...has been floating on the edges of my conciousness more than it once did. I see it more now. Call it what you like...intuition, Celtic superstition, silliness...but it's there. It tells me to believe; to stop being so closed-minded and accept the things I can't explain.

I've written here in the past that I get feelings about things sometimes. I always have, even since I was a child. I have that feeling tonight. It's a nervous sort of excitement. Giddiness. My hands are trembling (although they do that sometimes when I'm stressed) and I feel like something is coming. Something is going to happen soon.

I can't get a read on if that something is positive or negative, and that's the frustrating part. I think it's something positive, but I've been wrong before. We'll have to wait and see.

In the meantime, I'm looking at that moon. I can hardly pull my eyes away to focus on this post. I feel very drawn to it when its full like that. Is that a female-thing, or just me? LOL Does everyone feel that same draw?

Either way, I'll continue to stare at it with wide eyes, and expect the unexpected.

Standing at the crossroads

2009-02-23T10:09:00.000-08:00

I'm very lucky, you know. I've wanted to be a writer since I was 6 years old. I wrote stories in elementary school and in high school, and I have a dozen or so journals from childhood stuffed away neatly in a plastic bin in our crawlspace attic. Even writing notes to friends in high school demanded no carelessness on my part, but as much detail and feeling that I could cram into them.

I have my own column here at the paper, which was my goal since the day I got my toe in the door, and I do a little freelance on the side when an opportunity presents itself. A column isn't my end goal in life, of course, but I consider it a very important step along the way. So, I thank my lucky stars all the time for choosing the right path the last time I was at the crossroads.

And now, here I am again. I have two paths before me. These crossroads are the ones that will demand me to choose between what's right and what's easy. One way will allow to me to leave everything as it is, with the safety and continuity it affords me, and the other requires me to take a bold step and make a scary, but necessary change in my life.

I already know which way I'll go. It's an easy decision but a long road. We'll see where it brings me.

Stay tuned.

Testing the waters

2009-02-16T18:19:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about my childhood and my teen years.

Of course, most of it stems from my mother's illness. I know that. Memories have begun trickling back to me, a little here, a little there, bringing me home again and again to my past.

I've forgotten most of it. I was telling a friend recently, someone whom I haven't seen in over 20 years until we met again recently on Facebook, that I have maybe a handful of clear moments where I can remember all the details...a person's face, an expression, a place I'd been many times...I can even remember they way people moved when they walked. I remember the way I felt about people...the crushes, the friendships, the rivalries...all the teen angst you could cram in there. But the rest is shadow, brief flashes, and bit and pieces.

When I was a teenager, my parents forbid me to date until I was 16, and even then, they had a set of rules laid out that they fully expected to me abide by. Of course, being that teenager, I ignored most of it, and did whatever the hell I wanted. When I was 16, and the acne had mostly cleared up, I had a job and could afford my own clothes, and I learned how to better take care of my appearance, I began to test the waters.

I was a huge flirt in those days. There's no denying it. I've never been a shy person in any sense of the word, and I was unstoppable. And it wasn't that I actually knew what I was doing. I had practically no idea. But I liked boys...a lot...and I had no shame at all when it came to flirting. Kissing was my favorite pastime. It sometimes earned me a negative and undeserved reputation, true, but it was my way of trying someone on to see how they fit. And hell, I just liked it. LOL

But those days of flirting were as brief as they were intense (and in some cases, insane). I met my future husband at 17 and have been by his side ever since.

But now that I've been prompted to take those glances backward, and although I sometimes look back at someone or other from that time, and wonder where in life they might be now, and reminisce on the moments we may have (or may not have) had together, I don't have any doubts at all about the person who is by my side being the right one.

I tell my husband all the time how lucky he is to have me. LOL He might disagree with this on occasion, and he makes jokes about it, but ...as we look around at our married (and several formerly married) friends... I know he knows it's true.

I don't waste time wondering about what might have been with those relationships or crushes from the past, because I don't know what kind of partner I would have made for any of them, or what kind they would have made for me, nor will I ever know. I only know that I'm a good partner for the one I married.

I may have made a terrible partner for someone else...who knows? And I like to tell myself that ALL of them missed out on something good with me, although that's only for the sake of my own ego. LOL ;)

I guess my point is, although I've been looking back a lot lately, it doesn't prevent me from looking forward to all the years ahead that I hope he and I have together. And we have been through more in over 20 years than most people or couples will experience in their lifetimes.

My parents have been married for over 40 years, through thick and thin, through everything. And suddenly, now especially, it doesn't seem long enough.

A word of thanks

2009-02-13T16:25:00.000-08:00

Today has been a most unusual day.

First of all, my mother is dying. A few posts back, I sarcastically made fun of her alarmism, and I regret that very much. She has been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer that, although possibly treatable, will never be curable. I haven't told my parents this, but I researched the disease, and it has a 100 percent mortality rate. No one outlives it.

I've cried a river in the last 24 hours and still have some to spare, but I'm just too tired tonight to cry anymore. I say that now of course, and in ten minutes I'll be a weepy mess again. (sigh) This morning, before the sun was even up, I couldn't stop myself. My body shook with my sobs, as my husband held onto me in bed, rubbing my hair, letting my tears soak into his t-shirt. I could barely catch my breath.

Last night I held my father's hand as he wept for his wife, my mother, calling out for his "poor girl" and asking why had such a thing happened to her. I had no answer. I tried as best I could to calm him, to say what I thought the right things would be, but I was no comfort. He told me I just didn't understand. You're right, I told him. I don't. I can't. Because its not my time for that yet.

My mother and I had a very strained relationship when I lived at home. Twenty years later, we have one that may not be ideal in the eyes of other mothers and daughters, but is comfortable for us and works for us. We are both stubborn Irish women. I don't regret anything from our past, other than my disrespect during those teen years. Otherwise, I'm glad for the relationship we forged over the years, with the common thread of motherhood as its basis.

As we waited for them to come to take her to surgery yesterday, I watched her as she laid with her eyes closed against the pillow, her belly distended to a frightening roundness, and her breath coming in quick little gasps. Her face was white and gaunt, the skin stretched over her cheeks. Her lips were a thin line, pressed together. I imagined that that must be how her mother, my grandmother, must have looked when she died.

So now we wait....to see how long she'll old on, to see if chemotherapy will have any effect, to see if she will starve because she can't keep anything down, nor can she go on with no nourishment. She's being fed intravenously because her stomach won't take a feeding tube. We wait to see how much strength she has left.

And second of all, I'm feeling very overwhelmed with the outpouring of support from my friends.
I never thought of myself as someone who had many close friends. And it never bothered me. I'm more of a friendly, but solitary person, it's just the way I am, and I just happen to know a lot of people. But since I've let those people I know in on what we're going through, I've been absolutely stunned by the reaction. I feel humbled. And that's not even close to being a strong enough word.

I feel very lucky to know these generous, thoughtful people whom Heaven has inserted into my existence some crazy reason, who come from all walks and who have taken time out of their own lives and away from their own problems to offer words of comfort, shoulders to cry on, ears in which to vent, and so much more.

I find myself without words at their selflessness. I can only thank them, and hope to be able to return the favor one day, if it's ever needed.

Forgetting Memory Lane

2009-02-07T14:50:00.000-08:00

I took a ride up to the old neighborhood today to visit my parents. After a two-hour visit and some lunch, it was time to go, but before we headed for the highway, I turned the minivan up toward the Aves.

The Aves were a series of streets, located across the main road, Broadway, from the part of the neighborhood where I grew up, and mostly named after various states.

The main street was Pennslvania Ave., with smaller aves branching off of it: Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois, etc. As I turned down Wisconsin, I began pointing out to my kids who lived where from my childhood, when I realized most of the houses didn't look familiar to me.

I saw immediately my former closest friend's house, which I'd been to the most, now painted white instead of the dark brown it was back then, as well as the house my husband's cousin and his wife lived in more recently, and that was it. That's all I could remember.

The houses looked different, of course many of them painted again and again over the last 20-odd years. I just couldn't remember which houses belonged to which family. It really bothered me.

I'd hung out on the Aves for many summers, along with my brothers, seeing the same faces and families from the same houses for years, and I just couldn't remember who lived where, no matter how hard I tried to picture members of the various families coming out their front doors, sitting on their steps, calling out to people passing by whom they knew.

I kept drawing a blank. I've completely forgotten where everyone lived.

I was sad to come to this realization today. Another part of my youth is gone for good. I've been away too long, and the memories have faded. As much as I couldn't wait to flee the old neighborhood, I lament the loss of some of the memories I made there.

Paying the price

2009-01-28T05:08:00.000-08:00

My heart is so heavy today. I see my loved one beginning to sink into that black hole and I can't seem to find the words to comfort him.

One of the biggest differences between my husband and I has always been the fact that he looks back and I look forward. He dwells on past mistakes we've made, regrets, things we should've done better, things we should've prepared for, and he lets them overwhelm him.

I refuse to dwell on past mistakes because, although I would agree that we can learn from them, dwelling on them only prevents a person from appreciating the here and now, as well as looking forward to the future. Why can't he see that?

I have everything I've ever wanted: two beautiful children who bring us a lot of happiness, a perfect little house that I can't wait to return to each day, we live in a great neighborhood, I have a job that I still enjoy after 6 and half years, I'm a published writer, and I have a husband who still loves me, even after all these years...who makes me feel like a supermodel (even though I'm clearly not) every time I'm in his arms.

And even though he does see all of these blessings, he regrets the things we do not have...a bigger house, more money to pay bills and travel more, and financial security. He rehashes the things we should have done better, or smarter, in the past.

Sure we have bills. Too many. We made stupid mistakes and we have to deal with that, however much it will hurt. But I can't live life on could have's or should have's. The past is what it is, and we can only go forward. We're human. Everyone makes stupid mistakes. Learn from the past and move on.

We've had our share of unfortunate events in the last two weeks. More than anyone should have in such a short period of time. I believe he sees it as just a few more things to add to an already existing pile of shit. I see them as temporary hard times that will have to be dealt with, but already with my eye past them, to the future, when things will be good again.

I can't help it. That's just me. I'm not naive. I'm hopeful.

We have had a good life up until now, with many blessings. He just doesn't think that way though. He sees only the mistakes...and what we don't have...and what he can't give us. Why can't he see that I love our life? Our kids don't want for anything they need. They're happy and healthy. What more could a parent ask for? I have absolutely no desire to have a bigger house. I loved our house from the second we saw it.

I know he wants more for us, and more from life, and for things to be easier for all of us. Everyone wants that for their families, and I understand that. But you just can't go through life looking back over your shoulder. You won't enjoy it that way.

How can I make him see this? What words can I say that I haven't already said? How do I keep him tethered to the present when he insists on living over the past again and again? How do I convince him that this will only hurt him, when he already knows it?

Sigh.

How do I bring him out of this?

Role reversal

2009-01-22T05:46:00.000-08:00

I've heard a thousand times over the years that God only gives as much as He thinks you can handle. I'm sorry to say, on days like this, I take issue with that statement.

It seems as though God, or Heaven, or fate seems to think I must have a bottomless pit of strength these days. Why else would so much shit hit the fan at the same time?

I'm motivated to write today because what I really want to do is scream. As if I didn't have enough on my plate at the moment, my mother told me yesterday that she found out she has tumors all over her stomach. She'd been in the hospital recently for another issue, and they decided to give her a CAT scan to check her out.

And now she's having hysterics, convinced she has cancer and is going to die.

My parents are very old-school people, and refuse to see a doctor unless they lose a limb or something. I've told her a hundred times over the last year to go to a doctor for help with her numerous physical ailments, and she always tells me the same thing...."I can't be bothered."

Well, what the hell! See what's happened? I'm so angry I could slap someone right now. Or worse. But of course, I won't.

As per usual, I took the opposite road of my parents, and go to the doctor all the time. I'm not at all paranoid, but I believe firmly in regular visits, checkups, necessary tests, etc. just in case something unusual ever does appear, and catching it immediately.

But I digress. Once again, the child has become the parent, and vice versa. Of course, I'll take it upon my self to calm her down, to make sure she asks questions, to follow up. She won't do it otherwise. She'll pull the covers over her head and wait for death to take her. It's just what she does.

You can't see me, of course, but I'm shaking my head in disgust.

I am worried about her, but I'm also insanely angry that she never bothered to take care of herself. (sigh)

So I'll be the good daughter. Again.

Thanks for listening. :)

Too much to ask

2009-01-04T10:45:00.000-08:00

It's come to my attention that I seem to have a problem.

It's such a small thing to many, no doubt, but to me, it's huge. I can't explain why, but it infuriates me. I think that the fact that it IS such a small thing that makes me so angry.

A few nights ago, I took my teenage daughter to the movies to see Twilight (which I loved, by the way). We had read the first book in the series, and were excited to see it on the screen. As the theater began to fill, I noticed there were still two empty seats to our right.

Just before the movie began, I was chatting with my daughter about the book, when I felt someone's presence. I didn't hear anyone approach us, I just knew suddenly that there was a person or people standing next to my seat.

I turned my head to see a pair of white jeans, standing in front of a pair of blue jeans. I looked up at the girl who owned the white jeans, as she was just inches from my leg, and was surpised to see she wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the floor in front of my feet.

I was tempted to say "Yes?" or "Can I help you?" but of course I knew what they were waiting for. They wanted us to get up so that they could move into those two unoccupied seats. Sure, no sweat.

And this is where my problem came into play. Neither girl spoke to us, they just stood there, waiting. I was expecting to hear what I though was something reasonable, like "excuse me," or "pardon us," but they just stared at the floor. As I got up and elbowed my daughter to rise as well, I felt something else rising....my Irish temper.

I felt that hot rush of anger crawl up my neck until my cheeks were burning with it.

I know it's probably petty, but lack of courtesy is something that has always bothered me, but to the extreme. It bothers me when I let someone go when I'm driving and there is no wave of thanks, and it bothered me as I crossed the supermarket parking lot the other day, with a heavy cart, and two women walked directly in front of me, causing me to swerve so I wouldn't strike them with the cart. And not a word from either of them.

I don't remember my parents ever enforcing common courtesy much, which may explain why I feel so vigilant about teaching my own kids to practice it. I feel it shows other people that we respect them, and we appreciate their efforts. And I believe they deserve it. So I always try to say thank you, or excuse me, or show my courtesy in some other way.

It's not a hard thing to do. It's easy to say some people might not know any better. Sorry, but I think that's a big giant crock of shit. There is no excuse, in my opinion, for someone not knowing how to say two little words...or wanting to say them, for that matter. It's not that much of an effort.

I know, I know. I'm bringing on this grief myself. I can't make people change. I just don't understand it. Someone please explain to me why people would even WANT to be discourteous.

The girl with the white pants had a bit of a sneezing fit during the movie, and just by habit, I turned to her and God blessed her, loud enough for my daughter (next to her) to say, "Uh, no need to shout, mom." I waited......and nothing. No "thank you." No "excuse me."

I was horrified....and pissed.

(sigh)

So yes, I have a problem. I expect a lot from people. No, that's not right. I expect a little of people. Just a little. I don't think that's a lot to ask.

The search for good

2008-12-18T12:15:00.001-08:00

In case you don't know me well enough to know this, I'm a glass half-full kinda person.

My husband has told me on more than one occasion that I'm delusional, that's I'm too trusting, that I have no filter, etc, etc, and that the world is basically full of mean people who will take what they want and stab you in the back just as soon as look at you.

What a sad, sad way to look at things, isn't it? I think he believes it to a point, but I also think that, somewhere in him, he wants to believe that it's not really that way, that people aren't that bad. He's a good man with a bad outlook.

The fact is, there were many years when I subscribed to that very train of thought myself - angry at my lot in life, full of negativity, resentment, suspicion - and I couldn't have been more miserable. As I got older, and heard and read more about all the evil in the world, I began to find myself searching more for the good.

I work in the news business, and in the news business, bad new sells. Murders, robberies, fraud, muggings...all the worst that we have in us is what makes the front page...and the next page. The bottom line is, we, the media, focus too much on the negative and not nearly enough on the positive. It's disheartening.

I have a younger brother who sees the worst of man every single day at his job. He sees the lowest of the low, and has for the last 10 years. And he feels despair on a regular basis. That's no way to get through this precious life we've been given. I had to practically talk him off the ledge a few months ago, when he told me he feels we are all doomed. He said he felt the world will end soon, and it will be a result of mankind's own foolishness and hate.

You can't look at life from only that angle, I told him. Those things you read online or hear on TV are the very worst of it. There is so much more to our existence than what we get from the news. I tried to tell him that life is so full of joy and beauty and yes, you have to look for it, because it's just behind all the shit that gets pushed at us every day. There are men (and women) who are evil. Mankind, as a whole, is good and caring, and full of hope and only wants to be better than yesterday.

He said I couldn't possibly really believe that. But I do believe it.

Years ago, I went into Boston for an appointment. I sat in my car, in an unknown area filled with homeless people. I saw five or six men sitting across the way, as I put a cigarette in my mouth and felt around my pockets for my lighter. One man, an African American man, hurried over to my car, and came around the driver's side. I yelled through my closed window that I didn't have any money. I was scared shitless.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he said through the window. I leaned away from him as I eased the window down just a crack. "I'm not going to hurt you," you repeated. " I was just wondering if you could spare a cigarette."

I felt so stupid. And judgmental. I pushed two or three cigarettes through the crack, and he thanked me and said, "We're not all bad, miss. We're just down on our luck, some of us." And I apologized.

Now, I know if my mother OR my husband were reading this, they'd admonish me for even speaking to him or letting the window down at all, and they'd be right. That could have been a very dangerous situation for a woman alone in an unknown area. If one of my own daughters did it, I'd probably freak.

And although I don't believe for a second in being outright foolish our putting myself or anyone else potentially in harm's way, I feel that we are all struggling through this life together, some with less opportunities than others, some with more, and we should not always assume the worst of people. I still have faith in mankind.

I still hope.

A new dawn in America

2008-11-05T06:17:00.000-08:00

Today is a new day in America, and as I sit here waiting for the guy to come and pump our septic tank, I find myself full of hope for our nation.

One online dictionary defines hope as "the feeling that what is wanted can be had, or that events will turn out for the best." Yep. That's me today. Amen.

I didn't vote for Barack Obama yesterday, and it wasn't because he was young, or liberal, or black, for that matter. I could care less what color he is. I didn't vote for him because he has so little political experience to speak of.

I'm a semi-conservative Independent voter. I will not vote for a party, but for the person I think will do the job best.

I voted for McCain because I was afraid ... afraid that someone with so little experience would be in the White House, and potentially not be strong enough to make the decision to defend our country, should the need arise. And that still bothers me. But don't get me wrong...the thought of Sarah Palin in the White House scared the crap out of me, and I don't have all that much hope in Joe Biden, either.

Americans are tired. We're tired of worrying about war and health care and the economy and we're tired of being the laughing stock of the international community. We're tired of working so hard to feed and shelter our families, and have nothing left to show for it. College is a short few years away for our oldest daughter, and we have no plan.

We need to be able to feel hope again.

Last night I fell asleep before all the numbers were in. I knew Obama was in the lead by a sizable margin, but just couldn't keep my eyes open another minute. But I awoke around midnight or thereafter, as a clearly-tired and grateful Obama had finished his speech, cameras were flashing, people were screaming, and his family stood with him on the stage....and suddenly, I felt hope rise in me.

I didn't expect it. I didn't vote for him. But as sure as I sit here typing these words, I felt hope surge through me, and tears welled up in my eyes. America had spoken. History had been made. The world cheered at a new dawn and I was humbled to see it from the warmth and safety of my bed.

As my husband and I argued lightheartedly this morning about hope, I reminded him that no matter how he felt as a die-hard Republican, or I as an Independent who voted for McCain, there was no denying that Barack Obama gives people hope. My husband told me that hope is not tangible. Hope is not a plan. I agreed, but added that hope inspires people to act. I told him that I felt sorry for anyone who could not feel hope in their lives. And I mean it.

He told me to prepare myself to get taxed up the arse. LOL

And that will probably happen. There's no getting around it. But I find myself cautiously optimistic that Barack Obama will make a good president.

Today is a new day. And I feel hopeful.

Reaching for that star....or should I?

2008-10-03T06:11:00.000-07:00

In the sales industry, the big mantra is "getting past 'no'," and not taking 'no' for an answer. I'm not a salesperson, per se, but I think we are all salespeople to a degree in the big picture, when it comes to selling ourselves and getting what we want or need from others. But when should we accept the fact that 'no' really IS the answer?

I've been trying to get an interview with The Man Himself for an article about his new movie, RocknRolla. I've never interviewed a celebrity before, and though admittedly, I am the slightest bit intimidated at the thought, I didn't think twice about it when my editor suggested I try to get him on the phone for the story. I've interviewed hundreds of people over the years for stories at my full-time job. Most were very receptive, and others not so much. But in my opinion, people are people, even the ones who make my yearly salary just by showing up at a club for 20 minutes.

So I embarked on my mission, thinking there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that I'll get the interview. In fact, I think it's more likely that I'll sprout another head before I'll get the OK to talk to him. But I followed the chain of command....contacting his PR reps by e-mail, with a follow up phone call a few days later. Then I got the e-mail from them saying simply that said he would be "unavailable for this interview." Hmmph. No surprise there.

Then I tried another avenue. I left a message at his manager's office, explaining who I was and what I was trying to do. I waited for a couple of days for a return phone call, which of course never came. And I didn't expect it to. A friend of mine who works in radio, and has interviewed many celebrities, tried to brace me for disappointment and for a less-than courteous handling by the powers-that-be. So I called them again yesterday. A very nice gentleman told me that I'd have to go through the PR agency with my request. Um, yeah, already did that.

And now that I've been given the big "no" by both principals, I find myself not pulling my tail between my legs and slinking away, but more determined than before to get what I need. And what I need is not the interview with The Man Himself, but recognition as a professional. I may write for a tiny little website, but I demand the same treatment as someone who writes for a major player. And I require more than a brief, one-sentence brush-off. I want to know why, or why not, and whether or not the possibility exists down the road, on another project. I guess I expect to be treated the way I try to treat others. Besides, where would any of us be in life, if we always took no for an answer?

Now, what I'm stuck on, is how far I should push before I am pushed away? Will persistence pay off for me, as it has in other areas of my life, or will it get me brushed aside again, except with more deliberate action? Will they think of me as someone who is serious about her job, or as some pain in the ass from a small website who should be denied any future consideration? And this is where I'm at.

I'd appreciate any comments.

The long way down

2008-08-29T17:51:00.000-07:00

I was starting to slip down that deep, dark hole of emptiness recently. I didn't go all the way down, thank God, but I could have. Easily.

I lived there once, years ago, in that very dark place in the psyche where everything is bleak and hopeless and lonely. I was there for a whole year, unable to pull myself out, unable to help myself, praying that the darkness would lift or, in the worst moments, hoping it would just take me.

Depression is a horrible thing. There was a time in my life when I would get angry with my mother because she wouldn't "cheer up" and stop being depressed all the time. That was, of course, before my eyes were opened, very suddenly and clearly, to what true depression really felt like.

I suffered badly from post-partum depression after both my kids were born. The first time, I didn't recognize it for what it was. I thought I was just overtired. But I remember clearly feeling the urge to throw a chair through a window one night. And I remember the day I thought fleetingly about dying. That;s a mighty frightening thing for a person who loves life.

When my second daughter arrived, the swiftness of the emotional crash following the joy of her birth almost knocked the wind out of me. It arrived with a vengeance, ten times worse than after my first daughter was born. I hit the bottom of that downward spiral so hard that no one around me could recognize me. I couldn't recognize me.

I was desperate, and angry, and confused and sad and irrational. I pushed away my husband and my family. I cried all the time, I almost ruined my marriage, and my husband finally begged me to get help. So I did get help.

For the last six weeks or so, I've experienced pain that ranges at any given moment from barely tolerable to excruciating. The bulging disk that I've had for 20 years has shifted and now presses against a nerve that runs down my right leg, from butt to toes. I have tingling, burning and numbness at any given time of day or night. And I haven't slept right in a month.

And for a time, I stood at the edge of that dark nothing again, looking down. Doctors' appointments and spinal injections and nerve blocks and decompression treatments and cold laser therapy and narcotics all became a blur in a pain-filled haze.

But now I see hope again on the horizon. I saw the surgeon again yesterday. I was prepared to try to convince him to operate. I'd hardly slept the night before, going over my argument for him to operate, ready to beg him if it came to that.

I didn't need to. After a brief exam and a look at my MRI, he told me I'd need surgery. It was like a weight was lifted off my shoulders. Finally....finally...I'll be fixed. I'll be me again.

I can't wait to be me again.

The Gang Mentality

2008-07-31T14:26:00.000-07:00

So what does a person do when gang mentality sets in and the majority is of one thought, and you are of another?

A few years ago, an editor I worked with gave me my first break. I begged him and every other editor who's ear I could grab to let me write a story for the paper. They all said no.

He said yes. And I will always be grateful for that.

Years later, he made many enemies in our business due to his conspiracy theories, jabs, and yes, some outright slaps at some of his former colleagues. They don't like him, and they voice it on a regular basis, and sometimes in the most insulting ways.

He's not an innocent bystander. He has said and done some things I would never have expected from him, and has insulted people and alienated himself from many of those in our industry. He's hurt people's feelings and mocked them publicly on his website.

And yet, I got on with him just fine when we worked together. I see the things he's done, and yet I can't bring myself to join the opinion at large about him, whether he deserves it or not. He helped me find my voice.

So now I find myself in the minority. That doesn't bother me....it's not the first time, and I doubt it will be the last...but today I'd had enough. The rude remarks, the name-calling, the insults hurled in his direction while he's not present to give it back, was more than I could take today. I stood my ground - in the loudest fashion possible. And when the dust cleared, I heard the whispering...the hushed tones of opposition to my opinion.

And that's OK too. Expected, in fact.

Am I wrong? Is it stupid to continue to stand up for someone who helped me, but hurts others?

(sigh)

Summer in the city

2008-07-19T07:07:00.000-07:00

The city I grew up in is just a few miles outside of Boston. It was a mostly-impoverished and very overcrowded city, filled at the time primarily with Irish, Italians and Portuguese.

My parents emigrated to this country in the 60s from Ireland. They met and married here, and my brothers and I were the first of our families to be born in America. My father held two jobs while my mother stayed home with us.

Summer, particularly, was the best season of my childhood, and as I watch my own children making memories that they’ll look back on some day, I can’t help but look over my shoulder now and then, and stroll down that paved street that created the person I am today.

The city is wicked hot in the summer. Anyone who has moved from there to here can attest to it. And it isn’t just hot. Oh no. It’s so hot you can literally burn yourself touching anything metal that sat in the blistering sun all day, like the chains of a swing set, or the old metal slides we used to play on before the heavy-duty plastic ones replaced them. The heat rises in waves from the blacktop like that from cast-iron radiator, shimmering in the sun.

Like most overpopulated urban areas, we had a couple of public pools in our city. The closest one to us was in Foss Park, a small, green oasis in the metropolis that was East Somerville. My brothers and me and some of the other kids in our neighborhood walked there every morning and waited with the crowd for the gates to open to the pool. We’d swim all day and leave only when they closed the pool at sundown.

Sometimes, if we were lucky enough to have some change deep in a pocket, we’d stop on the way home at the local ice cream shop or a mom-and-pop grocery store and get a slush. Not just any slush, of course. The only slush worth having was Ritchie’s slush - in watermelon, lemon or my personal favorite, blue raspberry.

They gave out free lunches in the park when I was about 9 or 10, and getting one of those free lunches before they ran out was like winning the lottery. The line for them was usually about 20 or 30 deep, mostly moms and kids, and then we’d go sit on the grass in the shade of one of the massive oaks, and enjoy ham and cheese sandwiches, chocolate milk and a banana or an apple.

It was pure childhood joy.

The friends we keep

2008-07-15T05:14:00.000-07:00

In the last year or so, I've discovered why I was put on this earth. No, not to be a good mom, or a good wife. I was put here for two reasons: to write, and to listen.

Writing is my life. It always has been. And I've come to understand that I will likely always be poor because of it. LOL And that's OK. I like to keep life simple.

Listening is a gift (or curse) that I have had since I was little. People tell me things. When they need to unload, or share a secret, or to convey gossip, and sometimes to tell someone a deep, darkest secret.....yep, that's where I come in.

I don't always like being a listener, or a shoulder to cry on, because it can consume you sometimes, the problems people have, and become your own. It's hard for someone like me to detach myself emotionally from anything. But for some reason, people tell me things. Sometimes they're little things, bothersome things, and sometimes they're things that would make your hair curl. But the bottom line is, I was put here to listen, and to give comfort, and that's what I do.

Now, one of the things I've always liked about myself is that I allow people from all walks of life into my life. I believe all people are basically good (even when they do stupid things) and it's an honor to learn about people and their lives, and why they do the things they do.

But sometimes, I have to weed people out for the sake of my mental health. It's rare that I do this, but sometimes it's necessary.

Recently a woman came into my life and I really don't know what the fuck to make of her. I like her in general. She's fun and sweet and generous with others. But after last night, I can see very clearly that we have almost nothing in common. But even that, in the big picture, is not enough for me to cut off a friend, but her principles and mine are SO different it was almost scary.

I wonder sometimes why God brings certain people into my life. Sometimes I think it's to reward me, because they're so special, but sometimes I think it's to test me. To help someone who needs help. So I try to look past the crap and see the real person and try to understand how to help them. Most of us don't even realize we need help. This woman needs me for something.

We were playing a sort of game that women do sometimes (and likely men too) where you dream up that "what if" scenario. It's fun to fantasize, but in reality, my principles are what they are. She was not only surprised at my opinion on certain things, she was downright shocked that I could sound so old-fashioned. She made a remark in CAPS that burned itself into my mind and has pissed me off ever since she wrote it.

But why should I be pissed off? It's not what she said, not only that, it's that her beliefs on one particular, extremely important, subject are the polar opposite of mine, and while I held my tongue on my opinion of her remark, she blatantly expressed her shock at my stand. And she honestly believed that her way of thinking was the way everyone thinks.

Driving to work this morning, I had that familiar wrinkle between my eyebrows that I get when I'm deep in thought, or angry or confused about something. I thought about cutting her out of my life. She'd be too much. She'd suck me into her circle and make her issues my own.

But then I thought, this is a good person who was brought into my life for a reason. Maybe to test me, maybe to teach me. By cutting her out, I'll never know, and knowing is important. Learning is important. Maybe in her own twisted way, she'll have some positive impact on my life. I can't yet see what that might be, but we'll just have to see.

The First Kiss

2008-06-15T17:53:00.000-07:00

This past Friday was my oldest daughter's eighth grade dance. It was her first "dress up" dance, and she was a vision in a black sundress, with white flowers through the waist and on the hem. Her 5'7" frame was heightened to over an Amazonian 5'9" with her strappy black sandals. Her long strawberry blond hair was shining and wavy. She was beautiful, and just shy of 14.

She has a "friend" who is 6'5" and has been completely enamored of her for a year or so. He seems to be a sweet guy, and she likes him a lot, but as a mother, I worry she likes him too much. When she met him at the dance, he surprised us all (except for his mother, of course) with a wrist corsage of miniature white roses for her.

When I came home from dropping her off, my husband was home, getting ready for an event he had to go to over the weekend. I told him my mother flag was waving like crazy. I said I have a feeling something momentous was going to happen that evening. "Her first kiss?" he asked me. Yes, I said. I think so. I was both excited and nervous at the thought of it.

My own first kiss was one I never forgot...unfortunately. LOL It was with a boy I really liked, who was charming and slick and could talk a girl right out of her pants. He was insincere and smooth and I was immediately attracted to him, even at the tender age of 14.

It was after school one gorgeous afternoon, and he and his brother, and me and a few of my girlfriends were hanging out at a park in the center of our city, one with lots of trees and boulders and one of the few places like that in our area. He knew I liked him of course. He'd taken me aside and we sat on one of the big boulders, under the cover of trees, where no one could see us.

Then he asked me to go out with him. I wasn't allowed to date. Yes, I said. Then I saw him move in for the kiss, and before I knew it, his tongue was in my mouth and wagging around like the spin cycle in a washing machine. It was wet and sloppy and horrible. I had never had a deep kiss like that before, and my entire body was shaking uncontrollably. I was so embarrassed. But I couldn't will myself to stop shaking either. Finally, it was over. I was still trembling. And my cheeks were burning. The entire experience was just awful.

In fact, it's practically a miracle that kissing has actually been my favorite pastime since then. (wink) LOL

So, that evening, when I picked my daughter up from the dance, I asked her how it was, she said she had a good time, but was quieter than usual. She told me she was just tired when I questioned it. Don't pressure her, I told myself. She'll tell you when she's ready.

Well, the next day, I asked her straight out of the boy had kissed her. "Maybe," she said in her wise-ass way, giving me a smile. Then yes, she said, he did. Well, like a foolish mother that I am, I immediately went into peals of "Awwwwww! My baby's growing up!!'

She knows me, though. It didn't embarrass her. And I didn't ask her how it was. Let's leave a little bit for a later-in-life conversation.

I can only hope her first kiss was better than mine.

The weirdest thing!

2008-05-03T16:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my husband discovered that he'd lost his wedding band. He's one of those guys who doesn't wear it all the time, because sometimes his thick, manly hands swell up after a long day or sometimes he just forgets. No big. But yesterday he'd had it on all day....and then he didn't.

He was extremely upset last night and kept apologizing for losing something that important and I kept trying to calm him, telling him it wasn't his fault, stuff like that just happens sometimes. I told my mother about it on the phone this morning, and in her faithful way, she said say a prayer to St. Anthony and he'll be sure to find it. Yeah. OK. But I did.

And he found it. Tonight. He was on his way home from his sister's about an hour away, and just on a whim, with no real belief that he'd find it, he stopped at his work and went dumpster-diving. Yes, you heard me. He went through the trash bags in the dumpster behind his office.

He was almost all the way through, when there were two small bags left inside the dumpster, the kind you'd find in...let's say...a men's room. He held the bag up and he said it felt a bit heavy, and he thought there was a quarter in the bottom of it. Then he felt it with his fingers, and it was the fookin ring! Can you believe that?? What are the chances?

I haven't told him this yet, but not only did I pray to St. Anthony today, but I prayed to his mother to help him find it. And he did.

I am thinking I might have to change my way of thinking.

By the way, I have a new blog for those of you who might be interested in this sort of thing. If you click on my profile, you'll see a blog called "Into the Mist". On that blog, I am recording my dreams, like an online journal (well, exactly on online journal, no?) as well as how it's going for me as I try my hand at meditating. Hope you enjoy it.

Ann

Just a moment

2008-04-28T18:45:00.000-07:00

I'm in love with my husband.

Sure, there have been times in the last 20 years when we've wanted to throw in the towel and end it and just kick each other and call it a day.

And then there are times like tonight, when I'm tripping over my own emotions and can't stop weeping, when he says something that makes me thank God that he blessed me with this man as my partner.

I really love him. Thank you, God, for Jim.

Spirits among us?

2008-04-25T20:21:00.000-07:00

I don't believe in ghosts.

I was raised to believe that when a person dies, they go to one of three places...Heaven, Hell or Purgatory. I was taught that angels exist, but not that the spirits of the dead walk the earth or have their fun with the living. Dead, gone (hopefully to Heaven), end of story.

I watch these haunting shows on television where these so-called ghost-hunters go into castles or old inns or other historic landmarks and they ooh and ahh over cold spots or something brushing against them or touching them or an unexplained creak in a door, and I think...they can't be serious. Do they think their audience is really that naive?

My husband, however, does believe in ghosts. He believed that one lived in the house in which he grew up. His sister swears it as well. My younegst daughter told me this evening quite matter-of-factly and without any fear in her voice that she believes in ghosts. I told her it's OK to believe that, and that it's OK not to believe it too. Daddy believes in ghosts. Mommy doesn't.

But.

When my mother in law passed away last October, I could swear I felt her presence. I have chills right now just thinking about it, although I haven't felt her since. I've been getting chills a lot these past few days. No reason, really, but when I see something on TV or read about something in a book that defies "logic," I seem to get chills. I wonder what that means? The left side of my body, from my shoulder down my left arm to my fingertips, through the left side of my chest and down my left leg, I get very strong chills. It's the most bizarre thing. I don't feel afraid, and I don't feel any pain or anything that might indicate a medical emergency, and it only lasts a few seconds.

My friend Madelyn writes fictional stories about a character that is beginning to realize that she posesses these "abilities." She's what you call an empath, or a person who senses things about those around her....emotions, feelings...secrets. Things like that. As I read and finished the third book in her Bewitching Mystery series, I got those chills. It was so creepy. I realized that her character posessed certain qualities that rang true with me as well...her inner struggle with the rules of Catholicism, her desire to believe that there was more to this world that what we only see with our eyes. And she was afraid of what that might mean to the safe little existence she has always counted on.

No duh, sister.

I've been having feelings about things since I was a little girl. I laugh about it and call it my Celtic intuition, haha. Sometimes I think it's all in my mind. It's never dependable. Sometimes it's not there at all. It could just be women's intuition...something we all posess. I told my husband about these feelings long before we even married. Over the years, when we've been faced with a tough situation, he's asked me several times, what kind of feeling do you have about it?

The only thing I can really say is, when the feeling about something is strong, it can't be ignored.

Many years ago, when we were dating, my husband and I took a trip up to Rockport on sunny weekend summer day, and just as a lark, we decided to visit the gypsies who were there and have our cards read. We told each other that we wouldn't give up any clues to her, thinking she might take advantage of that and use it. We thought we were so clever.

The woman who saw us (together) had to be close to 90 years old. She was very serious...no smiles or courtesies, and she didn't ask us anything. Nothing. And she began my husband's reading. We stayed tight-lipped throughout. She told my husband things about his family that no one outside the family knew. Intimate things...things no one, particularly this elderly woman whom we'd never seen before that day, would know.

Then she moved on to me. She told me that I would never fit in to the typical "business" world, and that my future would involve something creative and that one day I'd be very successful at it. She told us that we would be going on a long journey soon but that something would make us return one day. (We were preparing to move to California once we were married, and several years later, following a major earthquake, we returned.)

The whole way home in the car, we were silent. We laughed nervously a few times, and wondered aloud how she could know these things. That same feeling of chills came over me then too.

I don't really deny the existence of things that I don't understand. I've never met a person who accepts the existence of everything. But as I've gotten older, and am coming into some sort of peace in my mind, I'm beginning to feel the existence of something else. I don't know yet what it is. It's as though now and then, I catch a tiny glimpse of a feeling of something out of the ordinary, something unusual and not necessarily negative, but just a glimmer of the possibility of something else.

Does that make any sense at all? LOL Not to me. But maybe one day it will. Maybe one day I will believe in ghosts. There's a place down the road that has "medium nights" once a month and tonight, the place is packed. Maybe I'll get in on it one of these days and see what's what.

If nothing else, I'm hoping it will be entertaining.

Is this just wishful thinking?

2008-04-15T05:31:00.000-07:00

OK, all you prophesizers and psychics, listen up! LOL

Last night I had a dream about myself. In the dream, I was in a room full of people, maybe a hundred or two. Possibly more. I didn't know any of them, and they didn't seem to know each other, or me, but we were all there for some sort of event.

There was an elderly man sitting near me, he looked like an older version of my father a little bit, maybe late 80s, and it looked like he had come to the event with a younger man, maybe a grandson or caretaker.

I remember leaning over to this man and telling him my name, and that I write a column, and I told him the name of the column.

He looked surprised at first, and then he burst into laughter. Suddenly, the room erupted into applause and shouts of support. People were patting me in the shoulder and the back and hugging me. They were all smiling and crowding around me and congratulating me. I remember feeling loved and appreciated. It was almost overwhelming.

That's it. Any thoughts?

Ann

Live and let live...please.

2008-03-29T20:03:00.000-07:00

(Sigh) Can someone please explain to me why people take joy in hurting each other?

A writer from the National Post (Canada) recently wrote a profile about The Man Himself in which he made a remark about his fans. It wasn't positive or negative in my opinion, just a remark that reflected an aspect of his success as an actor.

Apparently, some fans took it negatively, and the writer immediately wrote a blurb explaining that Gerry does love his fans. It wasn't something that was really necessary at all, but I thought it was a very classy and courteous thing to do.

Years ago, I would have been the first person to say "fans" were crazy, lonely women who had nothing better to do with their time than fantasize over a complete stranger, whom they had a snowball's chance in hell of ever meeting. I would have, and probably have for that matter, used the words stalker or weirdo when talking about any person's fans. Fan is short for fanatic, after all, isn't it?

But now I know better, because to my own surprise, I've become a fan of Gerard Butler myself, and have been for the last two years. He's not the greatest actor out there. But he has potential. His acting is getting better with each film he makes. Anyone with half a brain can see that. And sure, admittedly, it was his striking looks that originally brought me to the website. But that's not the only reason I stay.

I stay because being a part of this special group of women has meant more to me in the last two years than anything next to my family. It has opened me up to things I never thought I'd be a part of. I have made friends there whom I'll have for life. I've traveled and laughed and shared in camaraderie that I never experienced before, and I'm a better person for it. We support each other and we talk about our lives, and we laugh and we gab and we are happy just knowing that no matter what time of the day or night it is, someone is there. I've had some of them to my home, and they've met my family. We've gone out to dinner and movies and shopping.

More importantly, I think, my husband once told me that since joining this website, I laugh more. I'm happier. And he's happy to see that.

But back to the story. The blurb was a very nice gesture on the writer's part (Bob Thompson is his name). I write for a newspaper myself, and honestly, I don't know anyone who would even have gone to the trouble.

The problem is, tonight I went to re-read the blurb, and there were comments beneath it, some so hurtful I could feel the heat rushing to my face as I read them. They said, in a nutshell, that Gerry's fans are "nutjobs", "batshaft", whatever the fuck that mean, "crazy", "stalker types", fat...oh, and let's not forget that some of us look like "tired streetwalkers." (sigh)

You know, it shouldn't surprise me any more that people can be so hateful and hurtful to each other, and yet it does. I wish it didn't bother me so much. Many of the other ladies have said that it's silly to let it bother me, and to ignore it, and these people just don't know what they're missing. We have fun and that's all that matters. And they're right. But for the life of me, I can't understand why people choose to be cruel.

I'll never understand it.

The night Winston saved my life (part one)

2008-03-21T07:11:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about high school lately. I put myself in a lot of dangerous, foolish situations back then, situations that could have gone another way very easily. I often think I must have had an angel on my shoulder a lot of the time, keeping me safe. I certainly wasn't keeping myself safe.

I'll tell you a story of one such incident, but I'm at work, so I might have to tell it in two parts, so bear with me.

I was 17, a senior that year, and I was invincible. My friend, Alicia, was a good person with a big heart and a bad reputation (which was undeserved), but she sought out trouble. If there was trouble to be had, she'd find it, and I'd go along for the ride.

I was dating The Greek at the time, and he lived in Cambridge, one city over. You could take a bus and then walk a really long way to his house, or you could take a train and walk across a baseball field in half the time. One particular summer night, Alicia, her friend Reynalda (I think that was her name), and I decided to take the train.

Despite being a warm summer night, the train station was completely deserted. The three of us were the only people on the platform, and we laughed and gossiped as we stood waiting for the train. Finally it arrived, and we got on, once again alone in the car. We weren't scared, although we did remark at how odd it was that there weren't more people around. But that changed quickly.

The train pulled in to a stop, I don't remember which, and eight or nine young black men entered the car we were in. They immediately surrounded the three of us, asking where we were from, where we were going, what school we went to, and if we had any cigarettes. They laughed as one of them grabbed Alicia's purse and took her pack of smokes from it as she pulled it back from his grasp. "Fat Newports!" they shouted, passing her smokes around between them. They squeezed in closer to us, asking if we had boyfriends. One of them asked if we had deep throats.

I was scared now. So was Alicia, although she was trying to be cool and laugh with them. I thought Reynalda looked as though she might throw up, she was as pale as a ghost. My knuckles were white as I held on to the bar, hoping they'd get off the train soon...or hoping they'd let us off when our stop came.

No pain

2008-03-09T17:16:00.000-07:00

I've had a bad back since I was 19. It was the day of my older brother's wedding, and I was dancing in the shower, when I felt a small pull in my lower back. I didn't give it a second thought, and I danced all night at the wedding. The next day...well, actually the next 7 days...I was laid out flat in my bed, hardly able to move, with incredible pain.

Since that time, it's bothered me on occasion, but nothing like that first time. Until a few years ago, that is. About three years ago, while doing laundry, I threw some clothes into the dryer and felt that pull in the lower back again. This time, it didn't go away. I felt it get worse in seconds, and told my family I was going to lie down for a bit. What I didn't tell them was that the pain was so excruciating, that it literally knocked the wind out of me. I felt like I was drowning. That episode lasted about 7 more days. My husband had to practically carry me to the bathroom. I never felt pain like that before, not even in childbirth. But again, I gradually got better.

This past January, it happened again, this time sending me to the emergency room. I was in tears. My daughter wanted to call an ambulance, but instead, we called my babysitter's daughter and she took me. The doctor's always say the same thing...chiropractor, pain medication, rest, ice pack, etc. etc. I have a herniated disk, but not bad enough for surgery.

Now, I barely have a single day when I'm not in pain in some form or fashion, and I'm scared. I'm only 38 years old, and already I have to watch everything I do. I can't run and play with the kids like I used to. I have to be aware of every turn and every step and every hug my youngest daughter gives me, and to remind her not to squeeze me too hard. Every load of laundry makes me think...is this the one? Will this be the task that puts me into the bed again, and lose time at work again? Each time my husband and I make love, I worry....will this be the time? If I move to fast or do it too hard, will I feel that familiar pull again? Will this pain ever stop? Will I ever feel great again?

I had an MRI done a few days ago, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but I hope whatever the neurologist sees, he will tell me it's time for surgery. I hate feeling like this every day. I feel 20 years older than I am. I can't play with the kids, or do the housework, or sdo my job without pain. I hope he says I need surgery.

Questions

2008-02-22T20:37:00.000-08:00

It's cold and quiet tonight. I can hear the sleet pinging against the window next to me on my left. I have the window open just a crack to let some cold night air into the bedroom. And I write from a laptop on a wooden folding dinner tray. LOL I like my little worspace. It's uncluttered. LOL

My husband is there in the bed to my right, breathing restlessly. I have the television volume on very low, and Animal Planet is on. The low lamp-light on my nightstand is on next to me.

There are things coming up soon and I'm unsure which way to go, or which way these events might bring me. The big magazine that I talked about a while back has been in touch with me and the editor-in-chief is taking me to lunch next week. It's the "in" I've been waiting for for almost three years, and I'm pulling ideas together to talk to her about, and to show her how passionate I am about what I do.

What I do is create.

But....then there's the movie studio, being built right here in the very town in which I live. It's a huge project, and I'm very excited about it, but it will take several years to be completed. I've already sent them a resume. But there's no guarantee they'll want me. In fact, there's no guarantee the magazine will want me either, but at least I can pitch myself.

So what do I do? Shall I pursue the possibility of working at a magazine that I've been chasing for several years? Is the time right? Will they pay me what I will ask? Are the kids still too young for me to be so far away? Who will drive them to soccer practice and CCD and skating? Who will go to the school events?

Hubby would gladly help, I have no doubt, but he has so much on his plate already. Is it fair to ask more of him? Or is it fair for me to keep on making such meager pay and putting so much financial responsibility on him? Should I stay where I am, close to home, close to the kids, until they're older? Or should I take a chance if it presents itself?

Sigh.

The future is uncertain for me at the moment. And I haven't touched my book in months, which I regret. I just haven't been into it at all these days.

We'll have to see what, if anything, next week brings. After that, one day at a time.

Too funny not to share

2008-02-09T17:29:00.000-08:00

I have to tell you a funny story. We took the kids ice skating today at a nearby indoor rink, and both the girls were off with friends and my husband and I sat in the bleachers watching them.

Eventually, my oldest daughter, the 13-year-old, comes over to us with this scowl on her face.

"What's wrong?" I asked her.

"Mom, my friend said every time she looks over here, you and dad are making out!"

Priceless.

A letter in the mail

2008-02-04T14:55:00.000-08:00

I knew it was coming, of course. I'd been expecting it for a very long time, yet hoping at the same time to hold it at bay just a little longer. I pushed if off my mental radar, because each time I thought of it, a tight little knot formed in my stomache.

But today, it hit me in the face with a dopeslap of reality. It came in the mail addressed to the "parents/guardians of (enter oldest daughter's name here)." And it was from the local high school she'll be attending in the fall. It was a letter of welcome, and telling me to mark a certain date on the calendar to go to the high school and find out the curriculum.

She's talked about high school all year, mocking me by telling me how many more months and weeks it would be until she was in high school. I'd chuckle and laugh it off, and then hide in the bathroom until the feeling of dread passed.

This weekend was hard in my house. It seems that so many things happened at the same time to point out to me in loudest possible form that she was growing up and will one day be gone.

She's in love for the first time, and with a total loser. No, I wouldn't say that about any boy she liked, but I've seen this one, and he's a loser. LOL But I guess she doesn't think so. I never thought all the losers I liked were really losers, and yet most of them were.

I know. Love is blind. We always think with our hearts and not always our minds.

Since the day my daughters came into this world, I've dreaded these years ahead, the teen years, that will likely be the most emotional of their lives. I hope I can handle it. My mother didn't handle it very well with me, but I plan on doing a better job of it.

Let's hope I can.

Signs

2008-01-09T11:58:00.000-08:00

I always wonder about signs. Not the kind that tell you to stop or yield or go slow (not technically, anyway) but the kind that tell you "Pay attention to this...this means something."

I believe in them, of course, to a degree. And I tend not to ignore them. I never considered myself the superstitious sort, but my Celtic blood is full of intuition and refuses to be ignored.

Today was a cold, cloudy winday day where I live, and just as I was about to look at the clock for the umteenth time, the sun came through the window behind me.

I have a dozen or so photos on my wall here in my little cubicle, and the sun is shining directly on four of them: My older brother and me as children in Ireland (him on a donkey and me standing next to the donkey), a wedding photo with my husband and me smiling into the camera, toasting our nuptials with champagne; a black and white of my husband and my youngest daughter at my brother-in-law's wedding; and a photo of my oldest daughter, taken a few years ago. She's so beautiful with her hair red in the setting sunlight, and her freckles standing out against her fair skin. I have a beautiful family.

Now I also have many other photos around these, not touched by the light from the window at all, regardless of their clsoe proximity to the other four. To the untrained observer, this would mean nothing. To me, it means something along the lines of staying close to my family, appreciating them more, loving them more.

The sun has moved since I've been writing this. Only the fourth photo has its light on it now. My oldest daughter. My teenager. God help me. LOL

Ringing in a new one

2008-01-08T15:56:00.001-08:00

How many times can I say I can't believe it's 2008 already without making someone sick?? LOL

I feel good about this year ahead. I feel like good things are in store. Don't know what, but I'm looking forward to the adventure in finding out. We shall see.

Things have been good lately. Ups and downs, of course, but mostly ups. Things at home are good. Work has been going along smoothly, although changes in leadership are happening once more as we speak. We'll see how that goes. Always keeping an eye on the horizon anyway.

I wish I had more time to write, of course. Yes, I know. I could be working on the book right now instead of doing this. LOL Well. I'm waiting for my husband to come home and waiting for the dryer to buzz, ad waiting for my youngest daughter to actually pay attention to what I'm telling her. Waiting, waiting, waiting. I'm chock full of excuses, aren't I? LOL

Ah well. I've decided this year to allow myself to let go. I'm going to ease back off the clutch just enough to see what's happening around me, and to smell the flowers and to let things happen.

I feel aware tonight.

So close....

2007-12-12T15:25:00.000-08:00

Now, I might make a lot of mistakes here, because I'm in a hurry, and I don't have my glasses on. So please forgive any typos. Thanks.

This past Sunday night was the premiere of The Man HImself's newest movie, "P.S. I Love You", with Hillary Swank, Jeffrey Dean Morgan and a list of great talent. The premiere was at Graumann's Theater in Hollywood, and a few of the girls I know from GB.Net were going to it.

One friend, specifically, somehow knows people and sent me an e-mail saying that at the afterparty (how was she going to the afterparty??), if she got close enough to The Man Himself, she would call me and hand him the phone. Cool, I said. Call no matter what time it is. I certainly wasn't expecting a call. I mean, it can't be that easy to get near the man, right?

So I'm lying in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, thinking "What if I DO get a call? What will I say? Would he really even speak to me?" Finally, I must have fallen into a restless sleep.

The cell phone was by my head on teh nightstand, and it rang at exactly 12:37 a.m. It rang twice, in fact. I wasn;t completely awake and I fumbled around looking for it with my hand. "Hello?" I said. Nothing from the other end. "Hello? I said again. But nothing. So I hung up and turned over to go back to sleep.

My husband was wide awake next to me. "Was that your friend?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, trying to get comfortable. I was so tired.

"Don't you think you shoudl call her back?" he asked.

"No," I said. "She'll call back if it's important." I didn't even open my eyes. I felt him move in the bed and then his hand was on my shoulder, shaking me.

"Ann, wake up. Come on, wake up. If you don't call her abck, you'll regret it!" WTF?? I jsut wanted to go back to sleep.

"Okay," I said finally and dialed her number. She picked up on the first ring. But she kept saying hello, she didn't hear me, and the line went dead. I called back again and the line went dead after one ring. I was awake most of the night after that.

Next day, I found out that she had dialed my number while she was with a group at the afterparty talking to Gerry, and she dialed my number and tried to hand him the phone, saying this call was for him, telling him I was on the other end. But she said he wasn;t listening and he just said ok, ok, ok. As she passed the phone to him, it fell on teh floor and closed, cutting me off. It fookin figures, doesn't it??

I won't bother going into why she didnt try to call me back, it really doesn;t matter. The fact is I was THIS CLOSE to hearing the man's voice on my phone, talking to me, and it just didn't happen.

I swear if I didnt have bad luck, I'd have none. LOL

One chapter ends

2007-10-14T18:03:00.001-07:00

Kathie died Friday. It was a gorgeous autumn day, with blue skies and sunshine. I don't know what the weather had been like in Las Vegas that day, but I hope it was just as nice.

Thursday night, we'd had a big storm. I awoke around midnight to rain against the window panes, and thunder booming overhead. My husband was awake next to me, and he put a hand on my hip, as I watched lightening flash, lighting up the sky outside our windows. I don't know if he was in need of comfort or if he thought I was. We both love storms, the bigger the better. I know, it's easy to enjoy them from the comfort of your own warm bed. You're right. It is.

We'd had bad weather the whole week. It had been dreary and drizzly for days. That bg storm brought an end to it, and brought the sun's warmth in its wake.

My husband had called me several times at work that morning. He'd been doing that more lately, I think for reassurance, knowing his mother's time with us was shortening each day. He called me around lunch time, as I was settling in to a salad. Kathie had died.

Even though we knew this day was coming, it was still a shock, which surprised me. I had no sooner put down the phone, my salad now forgotten, and I completely broke down. I went into the back room at work and cried like a baby.

I came home then, and washed dishes, made a pot of coffee, swept the floor. And then I cried some more. I didn't just cry, I wailed...loud and long.

I'll finish this later. That's enough for now.

For Kathie

2007-09-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

I wanted to talk about my mother in law today, who is nearing the end of her life. She suffered a stroke three years ago and another, more serious one, about a month and a half ago. As bad as the first was, the second left her paralyzed, unable to speak, and according to her doctors, it will soon take her life.

Kathie and I didn't like each other in the beginning. She was polite to me, and I was polite in return. But there was no instant feeling of warmth and fuzziness upon our meeting, nor anytime after that. In fact, it took an earthquake, an act of God, to bring us together in friendship.

I don't think there was one particular thing that made us become friends, but the earthquake put us in a position of mutual respect, somehow. We saw each other in a different light suddenly. I had always thought she was spoiled and placated, and I know she thought I was a bit lazy and, of course, maybe not good enough for her oldest son.

But we did become friends. We enjoyed each other's company and had a lot of laughs together. We'd go out to dinner and shopping when we all lived in California. I was very protective of her when we went out. I don't think she knew that.

Kathie suffered all her life from morbid obesity. People would often stare at her when we went to the mall or into a restaurant to eat. She knew it too, but pretended not to notice. If I caught someone looking at her, I would stare straight at them until they looked away in embarrassment. She once told me that a child asked her if she had a baby in her belly, and that child's parent make the child apologize. She'd made a joke of it, of course, but I knew she was sad over it.

I always felt that her weight would be the death of her, by heart attack or diabetes, or even maybe from a car accident (she fell asleep at the wheel several times). But I never thought it would be a stroke. I don't know why.

I remember the day she had the first stroke clearly. They had just moved from San Diego to Las Vegas and she wasn't thrilled about it. But she was in a great mood when she called, because her husband had just accidentally fallen into the pool, completely dressed, and came out sopping wet. She was laughing and I could see her in my mind. She loved to laugh.

We got a call that evening from my father in law, saying that she was sitting on the bed, and he heard her say she didn't feel right. He said he saw her slip down off the side of the bed onto the floor.

She'd been bedridden for the better part of three years since then. But she could speak, and she could move. And she was working on standing with the help of some contraption that had rehab set up in the house. She'd call us now and then just to cry and tell us how much she loved us.

Her laugh is gone now. She's trapped in a broken shell of a body that no longer responds to her. She's in pain all the time, I'm told, although I don't know how one would be able to tell that. I hope God takes her home soon.

I'll miss my friend.

The dream and the lion

2007-09-14T20:34:00.000-07:00

I've decided I absolutely must start keeping a dream journal. I've said it a hundred times, but it always seemed like just another thing to keep track of. So I keep putting it off. But then there are times, like in the early hours of this morning, that I dream so vividly, it leaves me feeling as though someone is giving me these little gifts.

I almost always have incredibly real dreams if I eat just before I go to bed. Some are good, some not so much. Last night, I had a huge bowl of ice cream before turning in. Yes, I know, unhealthy on so many levels. LOL And this morning (I knew it was morning because I awoke before 3:30 to use the bathroom) I dreamed with so much detail that it stayed with me all day.

In the dream, I slayed a lion. We were at a sort of safari park, the kind you can drive through, like the one at Six Flags in New Jersey. In the park, there was a huge playhouse that kids could go into and climb through and then exit by sliding down a slide on the side of it. I watched kids coming down the slide, when I saw a full-grown male lion approach the slide, where the kids were exiting.

I screamed, over and over, but as in many dreams we have, no one could hear me except me. The lion approached one brown-haired girl, who froze in terror. I could see tears fall down her cheeks, but in her state of fear, not a sound came from her mouth. There was something wrong with the lion too. His face was white. I knew there was something wrong with him. He was sick. (I have no idea how I knew this.) And I knew he would slaughter this child if no one did anything.

The girl then turned toward me and the other parents and then the lion did as well. And then I moved. I grabbed a steel pole from somewhere and sprinted toward the lion, like a pole jumper. The lion ran toward me, roaring as he came. I was afraid, but not enough to freeze up. I knew he would kill me in a heartbeat.

****Just a small warning here that this part is a bit graphic. But this is how it happened in the dream.****

The lion was about 10 feet from me when he leapt at me, roaring, and I shoved the pole into his mouth and as deep into him as I could make it go. It was about 6 feet long, and it went in up to about five feet. (Yes, impossible, but it was a dream.) He fell instantly to the ground. But he didn't die right away. Someone handed me another pole, and as the lion started to rise up again from the ground, making gurgling noises this time, I slammed the pole down into it's side, killing it. There was no blood at all. And in the dream, I was glad I was able to save these kids.

When I woke up, I was shaking. I'm still not sure what to feel about it. But it was so clear. I have to start writing all of these down, because I've had some whoppers.

Why? Just because!

2007-09-09T13:04:00.000-07:00

Someone once asked me why I write so much in the Messages to Gerry section over on .Net. I got very defensive at the time she asked, because I felt as though she was trying to make me feel as if I were doing something wrong. I was writing to another man, after all. But it's not that at all. In fact, I don't believe I ever looked at it that way, even from the beginning.

I started writing there because I wanted to tell him how much I enjoyed his movie. It was the first one of his movies I'd ever seen, and it brought me to .Net. I wanted to let him know I enjoyed his work, etc. etc. and the usual gushy, thankful stuff. I told him how much my kids loved it, too.

But I kept writing, adding to the number of messages I had posted. Not because I expected any kind of reply, or was looking for any, or thought for even a moment that The Man Himself would even give anything I wrote a second thought (if he even gave them a first), but simply because it was practice. I could write as though I was writing to someone I knew, telling them about my weekend, describing events in my life, things I saw, things I experienced, putting as much detail into it as possible. And I also know no one would be able to comment on it, as it is a no-comment section.

That was what I wanted. I wanted to practice writing, giving as much detail and description as I possibly could, let people be able to read it (as it is a public forum) and no one could tell me, "That sucked, Ann." LOL But also, on the slightest offchance that he actually did read them, I wanted to write something that he would find entertaining, or moving, or funny, or something that would make him think, or imagine, or feel something. I wanted to write something that he, and anyone else reading it, would think at the end, "That was cool."

But then something happened that was totally unexpected. People began to write to me, telling me how much they enjoyed what I said, that they felt as if they were actually there, in the moment, seeing what I was seeing, because of the way I described it. And for me, THAT was cool.

And each time I write in the messages section, I tell myself, this will be the last time. I tell myself, this is foolish. Why bother? He doesn't care. He'll never see it. He'll never tell you he read it and enjoyed it, so what's the point? Why do I continue to work so hard to create something that someone will like, when the person that it's written to will never reply? Why still do it if I'll never know if he's even glanced at them?

The answer is...because someone reads them. And someone likes them. And maybe someday, if I ever meet him, maybe he'll tell me that he's enjoyed every single one of them.

If not, at least I know someone has.

Is the Honeymoon Over?

2007-08-14T16:36:00.000-07:00

It seems so long since I've written here. The reason is because I'm so busy with my work blog, the one that pays me overtime, that between that and a new little project I'm working on, there is no time left in the day.

I'm planning to go to NYC again this November with my girls from GB.Net. The Birthday Bash charity event is on MY birthday this year, so I wasn't planning on going, but then I decided, what the hell. I deserve it. It's one night for ME. So I'm taking it, baby! LOL

The thing is, however, I need money for the dinner, the hotel, the train and other miscellaneous expenses. So I've been killing myself doing the other blog these past two weeks to make that money. I tell my husband I'm shaking my money maker when he asks what I'm doing. Yes, I have been pimped. LOL

Another thing lately as well, on a personal level. I've been finding myself becoming a bit disenchanted with The Man Himself lately. I'm afraid only those in the know will know whom I'm referring to. It seems, little by little, I am growing farther away.

See, the thing is, I always try to believe that people are basically good. I'm not foolish or ignorant, mind you. But I like to give people the benefit of the doubt right from the get go. Sometimes, I'm disappointed. Other times, not. But more often than not, the person turns out too good to be true.

It's been said a thousand times that The Man Himself is kind, gentle, caring, generous, wonderful, good hearted, and any other flattering adjective a person can think of. When I first learned about him over a year ago, I thought...I don't believe it. No one's THAT good. But over time, I found myself wanting to believe all of those things were true. People who've actually met him and spent time with him said they're true, so they must be. I wanted all of those things to be true.

I still want them to be true. But lately I've been thinking what if one day I meet him by chance, and I find those things are not true? How can they possibly all be true? Is there really a person in the world who is THAT good? THAT sweet? THAT wonderful? The pessimist in me is rearing her ugly head, whispering to me that it's just not possible. That I, along with many others, have created some kind of uber human who defies all logic.

I had to laugh at that last sentence. Sounds a bit Sci-Fi, doesn't it? And I don't really have any grandiose images of what the Man Himself must really be like. Please. He's a man, he's fallible, he's no doubt a pain in the ass now and then like any other man. LOL

I don't know what brought on these feelings in me lately. Maybe something inside me is telling me what I first thought. It's just not possible. No one is that good. The shine is beginning to fade, I think. I will never leave the club, of course. I have a lot of friends there whom I really enjoy. But I think the honeymoon might be over for me.

I hope not. And his smile still makes me smile.

Calling the past

2007-07-10T17:42:00.000-07:00

I wrote this blog today for work, but realized how much it meant to me, and wanted to post it here for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy.

I was describing today's incredible fog to friends of mine out of state this afternoon. I told them that it had settled over Plymouth like a thick blanket, covering everything in its path. You could see the clouds moving through the streets and visibility near water was almost zero.

I told them how much I loved the fog during the daytime (though not at night) and how I rolled down my windows and put my arm out and let the cool air and the mist rush in around me. I forgot to tell them that I could taste salt on my lips, and my skin was damp from it. It felt mysterious and mystical. I felt as if I were on the edge of another time.

One friend, taking my Irish heritage into account, said my Celtic ancestors were calling to me, and something about poetic something reaching out to me. She went on to say my love of the fog over fields and moors was tied to my people in Ireland. She's right too. I don't doubt it for one second.

One thing I've always hoped to do in my lifetime is return to Ireland, where my people come from, where my parents and grandparents and generations back worked the land and survived whatever way they could. I come from farmers on both sides, I'm told. And I have a dream of one day going back there, to a little house where I can write my stories by a warm fireplace.

Romantic, isn't it? I know. But it's a dream, one of many, to hopefully be realized one day, if fate or destiny or the luck of the Irish shines on me.

I had a dream last night that my book sold. It was a good dream. It felt good. Better get cracking. A hundred handwritten pages just ain't gonna cut it.

Something's coming

2007-06-12T16:45:00.000-07:00

Again, I have a feeling something's coming.

All day today, I've had that feeling...the one I get where I'm a bundle of nerves, I can't stay focused, I'm jumpy, my temper is short and I just feel...something.

Our COO resigned today at my company. Normally, I might not think a heck of a lot of that, because I am so far down on the totem pole, the man doesn't even know me. I don't think he does, anyway. But what makes his resignation raise a mental flag with me (not necessarily a red one, but a flag nonetheless) is that it follows a short string of resignations in the last couple of months. At least five that I can think of immediately. I don't know if this feeling is even work related.

It might just be the fact that June is a busy month for me, family-wise. Lots of events and get-togethers coming up, including my 15th anniversary! Yay us! My daughter's birthday is coming, Fathers Day...I'm sure there's more, but I can't remember what.

But I'm impatient, and I'm snapping at everyone. Something's coming.

From Boys to Men

2007-06-02T16:58:00.000-07:00

Last night was my 17-year-old nephew's graduation from high school. He's the oldest child on either side of our family and is off to Suffolk Law in the fall. I couldn't be any more fookin proud of him. I wondered how his mother felt about her oldest leaving the nest and going off to college, and after that, a life in politics. That's his plan at least, but after last night at the restaurant, watching him shaking hands and hugging people, I have no doubt that one day he'll be where he wants to be. Maybe even all the way to the White House.

Anyway, he also has a younger brother, 16, who still has a few years more at home, so I thought at least their mother can take some comfort in that. I didnt see him at the ceremony until my husband pointed him out. The reason I didnt see him, even though he was only a few yards from me, is because he was in full Army dress greens. My husband must have seen my open mouth because he said, "Uh, did I forget to tell you something?"

Seeing this young man, whom I held as a baby, approach me with the confidence of a 20-year-old, with a clear intention of a military career, made my heart swell with pride, and at the same time ache with fear. Both boys, brothers only a year and a half apart, would be gone into the world in the next year. One to college, the other likely to war.

And for a moment when I was sure no one was looking, I was overcome with emotion. The tears welled up as if these were MY children. I tried to look busy, rummaging in my purse for some imaginary something, tying to gain my composure.

I'm going to stop here because I intend to write about this for my next column at work, after next week's which is already written. I'm hoping I can capture the feeling and detail better after tossing it around in my mind for a few days.

Later.

So Far, So Good

2007-05-12T21:32:00.000-07:00

It's Mother's Day. It's still the middle of the night and I haven't gone to bed yet, but the house is quiet and I thought it's been a while since I last posted.

I've been a mother for almost 13 years. I think for the first five, I still couldn't believe I was someone's mother. Who in their right mind would see fit to give me children?? LOL Well, someone did. And I will be grateful for the rest of my life for it.

Parents always wonder if we're doing our job right. We second guess practically every single decision we make. Could we have made something better? Something easier? Could we have protected them better? Set them on a different path than the one they are beginning to follow? Do we dare ever pat ourselves on the back for a job well done? Not enough, I think. It's the small things that shape their path, in my opinion. How they react in certain situations can go one of two ways, as with all things in life.

Three times in the last month or so, our oldest child, who is a confident, well-liked girl, has chosen to take the path of what is right as opposed to what is easy. By that, I mean her "friends" ridiculed her on three occasions in very immature and mean ways when she wouldn't give in to peer pressure and do whatever everyone else was doing. And each time, instead of bringing herself to the same immature level, she handled herself in such a way that would make any parent proud.

A few days ago, she decided to take matters into her own hands, when her friends refused to take action, and even though the situation was (thank Christ) a prank as far as we know, if it hadn't been, her small action might possibly have saved lives. The fact that she chose to be a leader instead of a follower, at the risk of being taunted by her peers, was something that I doubt very much that I would have been capable of at her age. I am proud. More then I can ever put into words.

My husband once pointed out to me that our children are the only ones in life who will ever love their parents unconditionally. He didn't say those words, but I knew what he meant. And he's right. The love we give and accept from our spouse is something in itself, but the love of a child is just......something else.

So in Love

2007-04-29T17:02:00.000-07:00

There have been times in the last 20 years, many in fact, when I have wanted to choke my husband. There have been more than a few times where I would easily have punched him in the jaw if I were another type of person. And there have been a few rare moments, scary moments, when I felt that we would never last, that our days together were surely numbered.

But then there are moments like this morning, and they're not rare, to be honest, where we're lying in our bed, our bare, warm skin pressed tightly to each other's, our legs intertwined and our arms around each other, where his head in resting on my chest and I can smell his shampoo and feel his soft hair against my chin, and my hand is running down his back, and his large hands are stroking my own skin, and I feel.....whole.

And we whisper things to each other in the dawn, and remind the other of how much we love, and how much we want, and how much we mean to each other.

It's moments like this morning that makes the other stuff seem so...unimportant. Those quiet moments when we are alone and we are one, even without lovemaking, mean more than so many other moments spent angry, or hurt, or sad or indifferent. They are the moments when we both know we are loved.

And now that I've gotten that out of my system, you may return to your regularly scheduled program. LOL

Yes, even I have my moments of mush. Sue me. LOL

A Break in the Clouds

2007-04-18T16:43:00.000-07:00

I'm better tonight. No sense in being angry forever. It's a waste of energy. I'm still hurt that I was denied a potentially great opportunity, but I'm trying to maintain the belief that another will come along.

It's just that finding a name for yourself is so hard in this business. When the chance comes along, you have to grab them...or just hope for another to come along later. I hate that. What if one doesn't come along later? Of course, that's negative thinking, but it's hard to avoid that tiny voice that creeps into your mind, telling you it will never happen.

But of course, a writer can't think that way. In fact, anyone trying to get anywhere in life can't think that way. Not continually.

So I won't. What's done is done and I have to keep trying. So I will. But it still sucks.

One Chance

2007-04-14T15:54:00.000-07:00

I'm sad today. I have been for a few days and I can't seem to shake it. I'm on the verge of tears even now, full of anger, depression, bitterness, frustration.

I had started the week with a feeling something good was going to happen. And it did. A magazine that I had been wanting to write for for over a year, one that had completely ignored my clips and resumes and e-mails in the past, e-mailed me this week saying they wanted me. They liked my new column and they wanted me to do a freelance gig and write a feature story for their holiday edition. This was a huge deal for me. This is a huge magazine in New England. I was over the moon.

In good faith, I made my current employer aware of it, as it is policy for them to know about any freelance work. Knowing, as an employee in good standing, and that my boss knew that I needed the excellent money they were going to pay me (plus expenses, no less), I felt they surely wouldn't have a problem with it.

They did. I was told that this magazine is a competitor of our newspaper (which was news to me) and that they would not give me the okay to do it. I couldn't do it under a pen name because I would still be writing for the competition, and that is not allowed. I certainly can't afford to quit my full time job for one writing gig, even though it may be the beginning of a larger and better future for me....or it may be just one story. I can't take that chance. I have a family to think of. And even though I have considered the fact that if ONE big magazine likes me, chances are another one might also, that optimism didn't last.

So I am in a dark place these last few days, full of resentment. That black cloud is hanging over my head tonight and I have already pissed off my husband enough that he isn't speaking to me. I resent my employer for denying me this chance....a chance to be something better, a chance that I have no idea if or when it may come again. I am feeling resentful and unappreciated and angry. I hope this goes away soon. I hate feeling this way. It's not me.

I can only keep on trying. And I will.

It's Witchcraft

2007-03-29T05:07:00.000-07:00

Well, I've done it now!

Recently, I wrote a feature story for work for our yearly business section. No big deal. My topic was the "NEW New Age Movement" and how popular alternative medicine and healing and the like was becoming. It was a good spread, if I do say so myself. LOL And for such a large section, it was one of 50 stories, and the section came out yesterday.

Well, I received an e-mail shortly after luch at work. The man introduced himself, said he had read the article, and thought it was "interesting." Translation: he had a bone to pick about it. Without going into too much detail, he said he wanted to meet with me, and discuss true spirituality versus making money. He also added that he is a fourth generation "traditional" witch, whatever the fook that means, and that he did readings at the only true witchcraft shop in town.

I read the e-mail to a couple of my co-workers, who promptly began singing "I put a spell on you..." from Hocus Pocus, and my husband said "Great, there will be a pentagram on the front lawn in the morning! HAHAHA." Everyone had a good laugh about it, myself included.

But in the back of my mind, I was concerned. I don't believe in witchcraft, although I would never begrudge another peron their beliefs. But still, something was niggling in my brain, or my spine, and wouldn't go away.

I thought about how to reply, or if I should reply at all. I decided to err on the side of professionalism and respond. I thanked him for his e-mail. I told him I appreciated his generous offer to discuss spitituality vs. making money with me. Then I explained to him, as I explained to the other people in the story that I interviewed, that it was not an in-depth or investigative piece, but a light feature story for a section that was focused on local business and business owners. And I thanked him again for his interest and pressed "send."

I haven't heard back from him. As I said, I don't believe in witchcraft, but I do come from a long line of superstitious people. Even though I would never admit it out loud, and I am the first to poo-poo such things, I would never completely rule anything out. Even a witch.

"This is Sparta!"

2007-03-10T19:17:00.000-08:00

Fans of Scottish actor Gerard Butler, such as myself, as well as Sci-Fi fans all over the Internet, have been waiting with baited breath for months for the release of Frank Miller's graphic novel, "300," about the historic Battle of Thermopolae, in which 300 Spartan warriors did bloody battle with a million Persians, led by man-god-giant, Xerxes, hell-bent on taking over the world.

My husband and I, along with a more than a half-dozen or so other members of GerardButler.Net and their significant others, stood in line at the IMAX theater at Jordan's in Natick, Mass., last night for an hour, thanking our lucky stars that we had preordered tickets. There were signs posted everywhere stating that all of the evenings FIVE shows were completely sold out.

Around us were several hundred or so of Warner Bros.' target audience - young males between 18 and 25. And they were pumped. While we waited for the theater to open its doors, we were entertained with shouts of "Tonight we dine in hell!" or "This...is.....SPARTA!!!"

Let me add here that I'm finding it very difficult today to put into words what I thought of the movie and how it made me feel, so bear with me while I do the best I can.

I had never seen anything like it before. The entire look and feel of the film was different from anything I've ever experienced. I was worried that I would be repulsed by the gore and violence, but I wasn't. Not in the least. A couple of times, admittedly, I let out an involuntary "ewww" but it was otherwise almost like a painting brought to life, with splatters hitting the canvas from out of nowhere. It was very cool to see.

During the battle scenes, my heart wasnt just pounding....it was slamming in my chest. The slow-motion effects came at exactly the perfect moments, the story never slowed down, it was a high-speed train ride all the way to the end. And when the character of the deformed man who had been following the Spartans finally went over to the dark side, as he was seduced by the whores at Xerxes' tent, I turned to my husband and said, "Fookin men. Everything's got to be about the whang." LOL

I recognized some of the cast, but only knew David Wenham, of whom I'm not really a fan. And although I thought he was very good in his role, I thought he was using some strange, old-manish tone in his voice that I know he didn't have in Lord of the Rings (in which I liked him very much). I thought he was forcing some attempt at something he wasn't, although I have to admit, the scene at the end was so astounding and lifting, I was completely caught up in the rush of the call to attack and probably would have followed him myself.

I wish I knew the name of the actor who played the Captain off the top of my head, but it escapes me at the moment, but his performace was awesome! When his son died, and he went into a blind fury, it was truly something to see. He was incredible.

Lena Headey was a strong, sexy Queen Gorgo. She was a perfect compliment to Gerry's Leonidas (and my husband liked her a LOT! LOL) . And yes, I loved the scene where she killed the politician. Sorry, but he deserved it. Spartan girl power at its finest.

The much anticipated love scene between Leonidis (who had a great ass, by the way) and Gorgo, in my humble opinion, was beautiful, but way to short and not at all graphic enough. What can I say? That's just me. Tomato, tomahto.

I also just want to throw out some very well-deserved kudos to director Zack Snyder. I'm not a huge moviegoer; I can't afford to be. I haven't seen Sin City or Dawn of the Dead. But "300" is a movie that will stay with me. I'll see it over and over and as often as I possibly can. It's just that good.

Gerry Butler was every inch the king he was channeling. And I'm not just talking about the rock-hard bod, either, although it was impressive (sigh). I haven't seen every single movie Gerry's ever made, but I've seen enough of them to know that this man is the real deal. He works his ass off to be better every time he gets in front of that camera. He puts every fiber of his being into every role he takes on. I look forward to what's next for him.

The Actor's Life

2007-03-03T21:49:00.000-08:00

A lot has been going on this week for my favorite actor, Gerard Butler. His new movie, "300," in which he stars, is premiering next weekend, and he's currently doing the rounds - Leno, Ferguson, WonderCon, HBO, and interview after interview after interview.

A lot of his fans have travelled to California to see him wherever they can this week. Some have gone for the red carpet premiere, which will be this coming Monday night, and some have gone to the tapings of the late night shows to catch a glimpse, if they can, of The Man Himself.

I just finished watching a video on YouTube where Gerry's trying to leave NBC Studios, and he is swarmed by a group of fans who had been standing there for what seemed ages just to see him. And then they did. He was surrounded, hugged, kissed, begged for photos and autographs and a few moments of his time.

As I watched the video, at first I thought it was terrible, that this was one of the reasons fans have a bad rap. The screaming, giddy, demanding shouts and calls, the hands reaching out for him... I cringed as the video went on, shaking my head at this behavior.

And then I thought, what if that were me standing there with those women, hoping beyond hope to catch a single glimpse of Gerry? What if that were ME standing there, knowing this might be my only chance to see him in the flesh...ever? Would I scream his name? Push through the crowd hoping to make eye contact with him? Would I turn into the stereotypical "fangirl" suddenly, taking on the mob mentality, begging him for attention? Knowing I would likely never see him in person again?

That's easy. No. Sure, I would call out his name, hope he'd turn and see me, throw out a distant whoo hoo, and then that would be it (unless of course he approached ME! LOL). I wouldn't even ask for an autograph. I'm just not an autograph person.

I'm so glad Gerry was able to handle it well. He seemed to genuinely try to take a moment for everyone who waited for him. He posed for photos, gave hugs and kisses, signed autographs and made his exit.

I could never have that life. I feel bad for him when I see this. But, as I'm sure he must also, I try to keep in mind where the fans are coming from.

As a fan myself, it's not such a stretch. LOL

A Close Call

2007-02-27T16:42:00.000-08:00

I'll have to make this quick, as "American Idol" will be on soon, and my kids will pile themselves onto my bed, as this is a family thing. LOL What can I say? We enjoy it together. Awwwwww.

Anyway, yesteday, we had snow. Living in New England, you might wonder why I say that as if it's unusual. The fact is, we've gotten almost no snow to speak of here in Southeastern Massachusetts this year. Or last year. I haven't had to pick up a shovel in two winters. Weird.

As I was leaving for work, my husband called to suggest I bring the camera, because I am always complaining that I miss this or that great picture because I don't have the camera. We don't own a digital camera (yet), and the one we have is a beautiful Canon Rebel 35 mm that we paid a small fortune for 10 years or so ago. Anyway, I don't like to bring it in the car because it's heavy and I always have to bring it with me when I get out of the car.

But I brought the camera anyway. On my way home from work, I drove by the beach where I usually like to take pictures. It was a cloudy, windy, cold afternoon, and I didn't feel like taking a picture from the same old angle I usually do. The water was a surprising shade of teal under the gray sky, and I decided to see if I could sneak onto one of the properties up higher on the cliff to get a shot downward toward the beach.

I parked my van in front of an empty lot next to a big, expensive house that looked empty for the moment. The snow from the morning was slush now, and I was cursing the fact that I had worn sneakers that morning instead of boots. I slipped a few times as I walked across the lot, the camera in my hand swinging wildly.

I got about halfway across the lot, when it struck me that there was no fence or wall at the edge of the cliff. I took another couple of steps and suddenly felt my internal red flag go up. I was about 50 feet from the edge, thinking that a photo would be no good, as all I could see were the sky and water. And then I saw it.

Soaring about 10 or 12 feet above the edge was a bird. I didn't have my glasses on, so I couldn't tell what kind of bird. But it was big and brown, so I thought it was either a big hawk or even an eagle. It didn't see me approach; I was coming from behind. It seemed to hover in place forever. It was floating on the wind coming up over the cliff, soaring in place. It was incredible to see.

I tried to take a photo from where I was standing, but I couldn't get the long lense to focus on it. I moved a foot or two closer and tried again. Still, I couldn't get more than a dark blur through the lens. I looked at the bird, and then looked toward the ledge. Another few feet; it still had no idea I was there. I was getting close to the edge. My red flag was waving like crazy.

And then I froze. I thought, I have no idea where this snow ends and the edge of the cliff is exactly. I could step into a hole in the ground, or trip, or slip on the snow and go right over the edge in the blink of an eye. No one would even know. I actually could see myself falling, hardly making a sound, hitting the rocks below, the camera following me down. No one would have seen me from the road, I was too far in. And that got me moving....in the opposite direction.

That one mental image scared the shit out of me. I berated myself all the way home for being so stupid and careless.

Thank God for red flags.

Positive Reinforcement

2007-02-24T19:24:00.000-08:00

In my last entry, I talked about how I need a lot of positive reinforcement when it comes to writing. "Good job," or "nice work," goes a long, long way with me. It's like patting a dog's head or giving it a treat. Yes, in this situation, I am the dog. LOL But I think many writers are like that. I took a class a few weeks ago at the New England Press Association convention that comes to Boston every year, and the instructor's first sentence was, "All writers are insecure."

No shit.

Last night, my mother called me to tell me she received the copy of this week's column that I sent her and my father. They don't have a computer, and never will, so I cut out a copy of my column and stick it in the mail every other week. I'm happy to do it, really.

So last night, for the second time, she said she was so surprised at how well I write and that I had an undiscovered talent. As she said those words, again, I felt my hand tighten around the phone and my jaw clench tight. She went on to wonder, out loud, why she never knew I could write. Then she said, "Didn't you write some poem in high school?"

Some poem? Some poem.

"Mom," I said, "I wrote the graduating class poem. The one that was published in the yearbook. Don't you remember?"

"Oh," she said, sounding confused...or uninterested. Probably both. "But I still didn't know you could write."

"Don't you remember way back when I was in first grade, I wrote that story about the school blowing up?" I asked her.

"What?" she asked. "What school? Blowing up?" Christ, I thought, where the hell had she been my whole childhood?

"MY school, mom. Remember? The teachers and the principal made a big deal over how imaginitive it was? I actually probably scared them without realizing it."

"Oh, right. I think I remember that," she said, as if I were speaking another language.

"Mom, don't you remember also when I was in high school, I won that big spring writing festival contest?"

"You did?" she asked. "I don't remember that at all."

No shit.

"Well," I said. "Anyway, mom, I've been writing most of my life (whichyoushouldalreadyfookinknowbutdont). I like writing. Hopefully, people will keep on reading it."

"Good for you," she said. "You're very good at it."

One Small Step

2007-02-23T09:11:00.000-08:00

So, as some of you know, I have my own column now at work, called "Soccer Mom Chronicles." It's not exactly a humor column or an opinion column. I'm not exactly sure what category it would fall under, to be quite honest. It's found between Schools and Villages in the paper, but under Home & Family on the website (www.plymouth.wickedlocal.com).

When discussing what it would be with the editor, my vision of it was writing about Plymouth, or kids, or events, etc., from MY point of view. I wanted to use the first person. After years of having to use third person in my stories, I wanted to be able to talk about me, me, me. I wanted to be able to say "I." That's really not asking a lot, is it? LOL

When my first column came out, the first thing I noticed was a glaring typo in the very first sentence. Someone had edited out a word I had in there, and then forgot to change the word next to it so it would make sense. I was pissed. I couldn't get past that. I like to edit my own work, (and I know this sounds arrogant) because I know I'll do it right. I've been editing for almost 5 years. Yes, I'm a bit lazy on the Internet and even on this blog, but for something going in the newspaper or on our official website, I edit the hell out of everything.

And then I started to get e-mails. Six in all, inlcuding the one from the editor-in-chief. People liked my column. I was fookin thrilled. I printed out each one, and slipped a paperclip onto them and placed them neatly in a folder. Yes, I'm anal like that. LOL

The second column was funny, and I thought it was even better than the first one. But I didn't hear a peep on that one. Nothing. I should mention here that I thrive on positive reinforcement. I think it's because I got very little of it as a child, that I NEED it as an adult. "Good job, Ann," is like music to my ears. Sad but true. So, with no e-mails or comments on the second column, I naturally thought it must have sucked, and now all future columns would suck, and ultimately, the column would be yanked because everyone hated it.

This week was the third column. I stayed away from what I thought was funny, and instead, wrote about some beautiful places that I visited here in Plymouth. I was very descriptive, and included sights, sounds, feelings, everything. And people liked it.

Now, you might not understand this, if you're not in the newspaper business, but I have always felt that a real step of recognition in this industry is if someone calls Speak out about you. Speak out is an anonymous forum that people call to bitch and moan and complain, normally, and it all gets printed in the paper. Sometimes, they have something nice to say, but it's rare, trust me.

Yet, this week, the editorial assistant came to my desk with a printed-out copy of a Speak out call someone had made about ME! They loved my column! They grew up in this town and knew the places I talked about and they were so happy to hear something positive for once about this town, instead of constant complaints! Keep it up, they said!

They liked me! They really liked me! LOL

Yes, I know. It doesn't take much to please some people. But I am pleased. One more small step on the way.

A New Day, A New Blog

2007-02-18T15:05:00.000-08:00

Well, hello again! Did you miss me? LOL

My old blog is lost somewhere in cyberspace, so here is its sister to replace it. It's a wonder I'm able to navigate a computer at all. But we can only go forward in life, so I might as well suck it up and try to keep up with technology as much as I can. I'll keep this short and sweet for tonight, until I'm sure things are in order here, and then pass on my link to those lovely souls who had enjoyed my last blog.

For those of you who don't know me, a simple introduction is in order. My name is Ann. I'm 37 years old and I'm a writer. I've been a writer since I was 6 years old, and only in the last five years have I begun to pursue my dreams as if my butt were on fire. LOL That's not an exaggeration. I feel lately as if I must hurry, that's I've wasted too much time dreaming about what I want and not enough time at all trying to get it.

And on that note....away we go!