Monday, May 29, 2017
Sunday, January 15, 2017
Growing up my Dad had his collection of Reader's Digest stored in the bathroom, along with the collection of coupon toilet paper that was purchased by pimping me out to go buy the limited 2 rolls with the coupon.
Before my first kindle ( I have 4, don't judge) I kept a book on the tank at all times. I also carried a book in my purse, car or gym bag. It's a sickness, I know.
I love the weight and smell of a real printed book. I love the portability of an e-book. Having a Kindle has not ended my purchasing of printed material.
In fact I was humiliated by my own cheapness at the Wilsonville Goodwill. I'd buy a book at Goodwill, than return it in a week, and so on and so forth. Until they changed their policy that books are not returnable. I was notified by a very kind woman who did a very good job of not giggling when she gave me a knowing yet sympathetic look.
G-Mama, Mama, aka Mother in law sent me the book "Fervent"
Monday, May 23, 2016
I feel good. I'm not in the same shape I was at 35, time seems to give less results for the same output. But I can still do everything I want to.
For my birthday this year I am giving myself a gift.
I'm giving myself permission.
Permission to have people in my life that I trust
Permission to remove people from my life that hurt me, mistreat me, ignore my feelings or in any way directly make me feel less than who I am.
Fortunately for me, there aren't very many people that fall into the category, I can think of 4 right now.
Permission to laugh as loud as I want.
Permission to wear what I want, even if I don't like my upper arms. (don't panic I'm not talking hot pants and crop tops )
Permission to live my life, with Riddick, as we see fit. No one else really needs to like it.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Friday, September 11, 2015
I wrote this 7 years ago. It seems so long ago. Before I met Robbie and learned what marriage and life can be. So grateful. This day is about remembering those fallen and sacrifices. This is just my little story.
9-11-01 is a date that none of us could forget, nor should we. It was like a wake up call in the most horrific painful way, for the whole country. For me it was a wake up call on a completely different level. I didn’t know it was a wake up call for another 8 years, and those 8 years will be something that I can never regain.
On September 11, 2001 my husband was spending a long weekend with another woman. His mistress. His first mistress, that I know about. Her name was Dora. Dora Elise Perez to be exact.
I just said that out loud as I typed it. Because for years and years I was afraid to say it out loud, to think it even. Because if I thought it, than I would be accusing the man I love of something horrible.
Dora was just the first, or at least he said she was the first, but that’s a different story for a different page. Dora was from Honduras. He flew her up here for a visit.
He said he was going fishing. Fishing at Billy Chinook. I even bought him a new anchor and float. He took his boat, but forgot the anchor. I felt something was up, something wasn’t right. So I did what any sane, hard working, healthy 29 year old would do…I tore everything out of my bedroom and painted the walls. Of course I picked a color, Columbine Pink, which was so close to the original you never would have known. I didn’t want to upset him after all.
I had painted all night long, into the early morning hours. I had taken the day off of work just to finish it. When I woke from my paint fume induced nap at 9 AM, the world was different. I watched the playback of that huge jet and all the destruction and I immediately called Tim. Wanting him to know we were ok. I left a message, upbeat that we were all fine and he didn’t need to worry.
He came home on September 14. Quiet, I thought it was because of what had happened in NYC. I even reassured him that I wasn’t hurt that he didn’t cut his fishing trip short, and believed in him.
I don’t know why I never left him. I can think of several very good reasons to leave him long before I ever suspected he was cheating. But I didn’t want to admit a failure. To broadcast to the world that I had chosen wrong. That a 20 year age difference might matter. That if he was cheater on his first wife, and than again on his second, that I being his third had no reason to be surprised that he was still…a cheater. All those reasons seem like the right ones. But there are more. I didn’t want to leave his kids, kids I loved, kids I would miss. I didn’t want to not be a wife. To be alone out in the world that scares me still. And who would want me? I was chubby, freckled and prone to crying jags. I can see now that the crying and the chubby were directly influenced by my misery, I can’t blame him for freckles, God gets that one.
But most stories of marriages that end in heartbreak don’t start out bad, and neither did ours. I can’t claim he was a bad husband all the time, he wasn’t. When he was good he protected me and cherished me until that moment in our marriage when he gave up but didn’t want to tell me. I know that moment too. I felt it. I didn’t know what it was, but it was like a change in the weather, everything got a little cooler. I wonder if I drove him to that point. If I was and just am too much of a person for one man to handle. He said once that he could always see this bright shining light in me, a light that was good, and pure, completely hokey. It’s what attracted him, this idea of someone being pure and loving and wanting to be with him. It made him want to be a better man, a better father, just better. But I think it burned him. That trying to be something he wasn’t because of an idea of what he thought I was, it’s too much for any of us to handle.
I’m not that person. I don’t have that light in me. That’s a burden that isn’t right to put on another. What he saw in me, what is in me, is an ability to love. An ability to feel. It’s a blessing and a curse in one. A gift that hurts me as much as it comforts others.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Mom was born October 13, 1945 and died September 28, 1988.
Today, I am 42 Years, 11 months and 7 days old.
The idea that in 8 days I will be as old as my Mom ever was is kinda freaking me out.
When she died, I was 16, and of course she seemed old even though I knew she wasn't.
But now I am her age, and unless I get hit by a truck or the rapture happens, I will grow older than she did.
Thinking of that is a huge dose of her reality versus what mine is.
She was dying when she was my age, and had been for a couple years. Me, I don't think I'm dying, not any faster than any other healthy person. I should be very grateful for my reality. I am a slow runner, but can run 5 miles and at worst have a sore big toe on my left food (true story).
Be thankful for all you have, grateful that you are healthy enough to know what you don't have, and humble enough to remember there are those that see the end of their life coming towards them way too soon.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
But today I'm talking of Christmas.
I did not understand, as a child of the 80's when on the news people would speak of not being able to afford a Christams tree. I lived and live in Oregon. When I was little, trees were as little as $5 or free. My parents, loving the Grand Nobles, spent more in the area of $15. But until my Dad explained to me that Christmas trees in other parts of our country were actually expensive did I grasp my fortune.
We would get our tree. And than the waiting and whining would start. My Mom would take what felt like forever but was probably no more than a day, do put on the lights. Plastic flower petaled ensconced plastic lights that she meticulously put on, making sure each branch was represented.
Once that was done, the decorating would begin. Supervised by Mom. Making sure we didn't put all the ornaments on the front and equally distributed the bling. There would also me the the cardboard Christmas village set up on white glittered batting to give the effect of snow.
We opened our presents from Mom and Dad on Christmas Eve, saving the Santa gifts for Christmas morning. Christmas Eve was the big haul. I don't actually remember believe in Santa. Maybe it was because I was deathly afraid of Santa. That carries forward to today. I still do not understand why we ask our kids to go and ask a perfect stranger in a stupid costume for presents for Jesus's birthday?? Why?
But of course I digress, because this wouldn't be my blog if I didn't get off track.
Now where was I...oh ya presents!
Now as an adult, and after reviewing all the financial records from my parents, I have no bloody idea how they afforded the Christmas gifts they gave us, as well as the rest of the year. It wasn't on credit cards, so I can only assume they sacrificed all y ear long. Which makes sense because I don't remember either of the parents ever buying themselves much if anything. They gave Steve and I their all. Looking back we were both dressed and afforded a lifestyle that only our more wealthy friends had, even though our parents, a truck driver and custodian worked dearly for it. I think that's why now I am willing to sacrifice so much for Iron Man and Pinky.
Aaaand now again back to my point. What was my point ??????
Oh ya it was Christmas memories. After the Christmas Eve dinner and present opening we would go to sleep. Hoping that on Christmas morning whatever Christmas wish we had, that hadn't been satisfied would be filled. And usually it was.
Than after Christmas morning presents we would load in the car and head to Centralia for the extended family celebration. Where food would abound and more presents would appear. Essentially it was a cousin fillled mad house.
For all of us cousins to be together, was and still is a case of beautiful chaos. Lots of love, tiny bit of rule and a whole lot of fun. Not so different from now. Except now, it seems we only see each other and funerals and weddings. Which frankly sucks!