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!
Sunday, November 16, 2014
What exactly does "one size fits most" really mean to clothing manufacturers...to me it means if you have boobs or an ass it will make you feel like a tuna boat.
Why if I wax my brows at night do I swear I grow em back by morning.
How did I ever miss "Gilmore Girls" when it was in primetime? I love it. Just like me I don't find a series until it's over, think "Firefly"
Mean girls? What's the purpose really? When you mean girls, you know who you are, snigger at someone in public or roll your eyes and look over at me, are you expecting because maybe we dress alike that I'm going to smile and agree with you? No you will get the patented Bacongal "eat shit and die" look. Graybelle named that look back in the late 80's, so I'm very good at it.
Oh and more about the above...mean girls. I think they exist for two reasons, separately or combined....you are mean because you are hungry and therefore bitchy or because your mom's let you be a mean girl. My mom, she told me I had two choices, be nice or be quiet. Ha!
Jalapeno spiced sweet potato chips...someone please make them, I'll buy them in bulk.
Why at the end of a 5k do people anchor it right at the finish line to take a selfie? Why? You know that chip that you ziptied to your shoe, well it times you and some of us really care about our time. I swear I'm steamrolling the next selfie taker. Look for news at 11.
Soooo if I get a bikini wax, do you actually have to see my junk?
Really? I like my junk it's pretty and all and useful but I think it's just for me and Riddick
Thursday, October 23, 2014
If you drive a Prius, good for you, but if you live in a 3500 sqf home and keep it at 72 degrees year round, your carbon footprint is not offset by the car you drive. Remember this as you look down your nose at other cars.
John Kitzhaber cut your losses and kick Cylvia to the curb. If you were a semi-retired Emergency room Doc from Bend she would not be sharing your bed. She's the type that survives life by her brain and body, me I use my brain and heart. She's cray cray
There, their and they're, know the difference. I'm a horrible speller but please, please don't mess those up.
Trust me, you don't mess with the Jews. I read my bible, I believe it. I'm not speaking of the debate over the West Bank. I'm talking of outside forces that threaten Israel. Even if you don't believe the bible, would you really pick a fight with a whole country that requires all citizens to serve in the military.
At 4:40 AM as I enter my van after getting coffee at 7-11 and you role up behind me all quiet like on your bicycle to ask for money. When I turn around and scream because you scared the hell out of me, it's not because you are Black. It's because you just rolled up on me all quiet on your bicycle. So don't make it a race thing.
I don't go to haunted houses. People are scary enough without me paying them to do it.
And remember as my Mom used to tell me...."No is a complete sentence"
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Don't get your shorts in a wad, I would never let another man touch me inappropriately.
Friday, Mama (aka G. Mama....Mama G. or half of the "prentals") had lunch and than got a pedicure.
Mama was the first person to introduce me to the joy and elation of a pedicure. I immediately loved it. And being that, as I've stated before on this blog, I may not be much of a runner, but my feet show the extent to which I attempt to be a runner.
We arrived and the nail salon was busy, busy, busy. A young gentlemen got us seated, a cup of water, and hot water added to soak our tootsies in. I admit I was hoping that he was just doing the prep work and someone else would take the tools to my hooves.
He sat down and started to slowly and meticulously trim my disgusting overgrown cuticles and dry skin and ill-shaped, home trimmed nails. The nice, twenty something man, masculine, gently chastised me for trimming my nails so short and leaving sharp ends. He's totally right, when I trim my toenails I'm usually doing something else, listening to music or Riddick and not at all paying attention to what I'm doing.
The bliss continued as we got to the massage part. His massage technique was very, very firm. I could feel the tender spot where I slammed my shin into the trailer hitch the weekend before. But the most glorious thing was the moment when he pressed his thumb into the arch of my foot......Oh mercy, holy buckets, it was not as good as sex, not even close, but it was very relaxing.
The whole experience was almost ruined when he actually popped my big toe. I hate having my toes popped, I mean who, besides Riddick and this salon dude, think it's pleasant to give the distinct impression that you are going to rip my toe off?
Other than that minor digression, it was a wonderful pedicure. And I bet when you saw this headline you though I went-a-whoring :-)