An Unplanned Night That Turned Out Fabulously May 17, 2008

Did you ever notice how the very best nights out aren’t planned at all? They’re the result of somebody’s “Let’s go do something” and may wind up anywhere. But maybe it’s because there aren’t any expectations other than a little unwinding that suddenly everyone’s having the time of their lives.

I really needed a few hours away with friends, especially after a long few weeks work wise and holing myself up by myself to do some much needed thinking. It’s good to spend time by yourself - and I’m really glad to have that opportunity, when I know a lot of people (women especially) don’t.

But I am - as we all know - a social creature. And sometimes just to sit and mingle and laugh with a bunch of people is exactly what the doctor ordered.

I got my hair cut Thursday. I am one of those women who typically drags her feet about getting her hair cut because I’m so afraid they’re going to screw it up. I have long curly hair that I love, as you’ve probably seen, and it’s not as common as you would think to find someone who knows how to cut hair like that and have it come out looking good.

Well, to make a long story short, I did. Someone actually who also has curly hair. So she layered the shit out of my hair and then, for fun, she straightened it with a flat iron. I felt like I was wearing a beautiful disguise.

So when my friend called and asked if I wanted to go out for a few hours after work, I said sure!

Now, I get off work at 10:30 at night. Bars here close a little before 2. Obviously, we aren’t talking about even the possibility of an all out bacchanalia.

We made it to the local hangout at 11 and had a drink. Not much going on there, and we had to go pick up my friend’s daughter at a friends’ at some point.

So we headed out of town, I called another friend, and off we went to meet her. In a bar in the town I just moved away from two months ago.

And wouldn’t you know it, they were having karaoke.

No, I didn’t sing, but my friend did. “It’s My Life” by Bon Jovi. I ran into a bunch of women friends I hadn’t seen in so, so long. Hug - hug. Air kiss - air kiss.

I don’t know how to explain it to you but it was just very cool. There was a gaggle of young ones doing a lot of the singing, and there was one young girl who seriously rocked. In fact, she and another girl sang a song that took me back to my daughter’s teen years - “Shoop”? And that made me very tickled.

At two we headed over to get the daughter in yet another town and met these two very cool women - the moms of the daughter’s friends. One of them said, offhandedly, “Yeah, my kids call me a hippie.” and I almost swooned.

I got home far too late for someone who knew her dogs would wake her early - but it was before four, so that’s good.

And of course, I have to work today and tomorrow. In fact, I have to train today, which I hate under normal circumstances. But it’s part of my job, and a part I take seriously.

Now I feel defensive, like “I didn’t do anything wrong.” The results of past conditioning and continued harranguing. I’m not the minister of a megachurch caught trying to boink a 13 year old girl like this guy, after all.

I saw some friends my kids had graduated with, in town for a wedding. And as I said, some women friends I really really like whom I haven’t seen in a long, long time. And of course the random faces that exist just to entertain me. No old boyfriends or ex-husbands on the horizon - no drama - everyone just having fun.

I love those unplanned things!

Things That I Really, Really Like May 16, 2008

This is kind of a silly post. But then, I am in kind of a silly mood. Just, you know, happy.

I was going to title this post “Things I Love” but then I would have to do the whole disclaimer thing about how, most of all of course, I love my children, my grandchildren, blah blah blah. Or be branded a bad mother and shallow person.

I do love those things - er, people - with a fiery passion and fierceness that would scare you, were you to run afoul of it.

But that’s not the point of this post. This is merely a “fluff” post, written to celebrate a lovely, contented and grateful mood I’m in.

Here is a list of things that I Really Like a Lot, that Make Me Happy:

My Washing Machine and My Clothesline: Because I can make my entire world look and smell and feel better simply by washing my bed linens, hanging them out to dry, and then snuggling into them at night.

My Puppies: No, they are not my children. But they are indeed, my roommates and friends. When I tell people that “we” are going to the park or for a walk or to Dollar General, they are the companions to whom I am referring. They are the “people” I spend most of my time with, outside of work. Not because I am a lonely loser, but because they are funny as hell, adore the shit out of me, and make me laugh consistently.

My New “Outdoor Living Space”: Which sounds a lot cooler than it is, aesthetically speaking. I dragged my old wicker loveseat around to the south end of my house, which faces very little. And I sit out there of a morning smoking cigarettes, drinking a great big travel cup of hot coffee, listening to the birds and feeling unseen, because of the big tree which has finally leafed out and which shields me.

My New Bathroom: with virgin vanity territory, that I can leave stuff out on, like my new flat iron, and go to work and not worry about it being in anyone’s way or “space” or looking untidy. I like everything about it, from the peel and stick tile floors that look like stone, to the cabinet doors I primed and painted and put hinges on and hung all by myself - and they work! To the hidden nook for my laundry basket. I like it a lot.

Reading Other People’s Blogs In The Morning: There are really some fascinating people around. It’s like, when I read the paper newspaper eons ago, I always went to the Op-Ed section and read the columns and editorials first. Because people, and their perspectives, are amazing. I can’t list one without listing a lot, and then surely I’d leave someone out. But it’s a treasure in my life.

That’s my short list today.

What are some things that you really like, that make you happy on an ordinary day?

My Idea for a “Shit List” May 15, 2008

My best friend, this morning, was sleeping in her bed. Her ex-husband, who is psychotic, came to her door because she didn’t answer any of the 10 threatening and insulting voicemail messages he had left her calling her a “tramp”, a “whore”, and a “loser”, and their daughter let him in the house.

She heard his voice and escaped into the bathroom, which he proceeded to enter, called her a few more names, and then whacked her across the face and knocked her right off the toilet onto the floor.

She got herself up, attempted to chase him out the door, while he is continually calling her names, and finally lost it, whipping a set of keys in her hand at his back.

He finally left, she called the cops, and discovered that if she presses charges they will both go to jail because “it was all said and done with” and then she threw the keys at him - making it a double assault.

Sigh. Deep heavy sigh.

She also can’t get a restraining order “until he does something”. I stood right there next to the officer telling her “not in ____ County, anyway”.

So what are we to do?

By the way, said psycho ex-husband hates my guts with a fiery passion because I have dared to tell him, to his face, to knock it off, leave, and that, oh, by the way, I think men who talk to their wives and hit them like he has for years should be buried up to their necks in the sand and a lawn mower run over their heads. You know - kind of as a public service.

I am also, in his book, a “whore”, a “tramp”, and a “loser”.

Which - whatever. I’ve had my ass beat by bigger men than him and should push ever come to shove and he make a threatening move toward me, I know without a doubt I could tear him limb from limb.

The point is - the nutty fucker drives by here day and night. (My friend is also who I bought my palace from and lives about - I don’t know - 30 secs walk away from me.) He calls her day and night repeatedly.

OK, so the law is set up so that “they” can’t do anything to him until he kills her, or somes close.

What about the rest of society?

I don’t know who said that evil exists - nay, even thrives, when good men do nothing.

And I absolutely believe it is my job, as a woman hell bent on leaving the world a better place for being here, that I have the right, even the obligation, to confront shit like this by standing up calmly and saying, “Alright, knock it off. Your behavior is not acceptable here, it will not be tolerated, so go away.”

And then someone told me, yeah, but if you do that, you just inflame the situation.

So I guess what we’re all supposed to do is just sit there and be called names by needle dick freaked out wife beating assholes?

Um. No.

There has to be a better alternative.

I really don’t care about being called a bitch or any derivative thereof. I am one, certainly, at times.

At one time I had the brilliant idea of publishing a “shit list”. You know, as in “Oh, I’m on her shit list today.” And just taking submissions from women and publishing them with men’s names, not with hearsay and mean spirited revenge stuff, but just with verifiable stuff like “doesn’t pay his child support”, “beats his wife”, “cheated on his wife” - and leaving that list in places like bars where women and men run into each other.

That way, should a man and woman meet and there be some interest generated, the woman could say, “Hold on,” look him up, and see what his past “references” are.

Yes, there would still be the morons like me who would say stuff like “Oh, he’s not like that with me” and “Oh, nobody understands him like me.” Which makes me laugh to think about, I am so predictable, and why I want to be alone because I know the kind of mental contortions I do.

But maybe - maybe? - it would have the effect of old fashioned shunning. Maybe those little pukes would all go somewhere where they could hang with like minded pukes and leave the rest of the world alone.

Maybe it would change the world.

Yes I know. I KNOW, Adam - who will invariably point out the flaws in my idea from a legal point of view. I love you Adam. I really do. You would never be on anybody’s shit list, except maybe - temporarily - on Britt’s sometimes.

I’m open to ideas for refinements.

I Know Britt Hates Ikea But… May 14, 2008

…I have discovered a new way to get myself out of a funk.

Play around with the Ikea Kitchen Planning Tool.

See, here’s the thing.

Because of my very own actions and behavior, I had gotten myself into a situation where I felt I was “out of control” of my own life again. The very antithesis of where I very much need to be right now, as we all know.

So last night, after work, I had some quiet time and I took care of some very pressing business (read: finished my son’s FAFSA so he can continue his brilliant career in college next year).

And then I immersed myself once again into the wild and wooly and wonderful world of daydreaming and planning about how to turn my little diamond in the rough home into a jewel that reflects who I am and how I want to live.

My daughter hates Ikea. I think the biggest reason is that she absolutely hates the shopping experience there. Not a warehouse type of girl, our Britter.

And I agree with her that the living room furniture is not at all to my taste.

But the kitchen stuff is.

See, this place is very small. Like - less than 12 feet wide. Which is fine. I’m into small spaces. They’re easier to clean, and it makes me feel cozy and safe. In my cave, which is a term everyone who knows me has heard me utter more than a cajillion times.

But I’m also very much into beauty, and more so the older I get.

It is important to me to have things that are pleasing to the eye surrounding me.

That’s why I’m such a nature freak, because not even the most incredibly talented designer or artist can begin to compare with how amazingly beautiful a lot of things in nature are. My friend Selma gets it.

If I could live outside year round, I would.

But since I can’t - and since this place basically needs gutting from the walls and floors out, I have the lovely challenge/opportunity to start all over.

Now, I live 186 miles from the nearest Ikea. (I know because it told me so on their website.) And I am too damn lazy and cheap to drive that far to get stuff.

But a clever woman such as muself can take their ideas and make them work with locally available stuff.

For instance, I absolutely love the look of their freestanding kitchens with open shelving, because it makes the space look larger and brighter and airier. And because I suppose something in my rebels at the traditional bank of oaken cabinets lining every wall. Bleh.

And I really like that you can click on the little inspiration pictures and get all kinds of cool storage and organizational tips and ideas.

Trust me - clever storage is mah thing lately. Such an exciting life I lead.

AND, with the cool little planner feature, if my darling daughter wanted to go download the kitchen planner tool, I could then send her files with the layout of my kitchen - which would then almost substitue for the fact that I can’t send her pictures of my home, being sans camera for the time being. Hint Hint.

You know, I bought my home for $500.

No, seriously, I did. You may all take a moment now to laugh uproariously.

So I obviously am not going to do a $10,000 kitchen upgrade.

But as I mentioned before, everything in the damn place is rotten and warped and yucky. So it all must go.

My darling son would prefer, of course, a $10,000 kitchen upgrade.

He, of the “has never had to earn that kind of money before” brand.

So, come on.

Come out of lurkdom, kids.

Help me out here.

Send the ideas my way.

They say the first thing you have to do is to be very clear on what you want the space to do.

I dearly love to cook.

My kitchen table, in my home, has always been the heart of my home.

Britt will remember, even after she grew up and moved out, coming over and sitting at my kitchen table for a cup of coffee or whatever for the most wonderful talks - something, thank God, we duplicate now every morning by phone during her commute to work. It is, by far, my favorite part of the day.

I dearly and passionately love to cook. And I love to have friends over after work - maybe not for a complete Thanksgiving meal - but we’ve shared a nachos extravaganza - or maybe just margaritas with a bag of chips and a jar of salsa.

My friend Joyce comes over sometimes for a cup of coffee and a muffin. (She brings the muffins, and lovely they are!)

I am all into reclaiming old stuff, using unconventional elements in new ways, and I am very very very into the “natural elements” look like wood countertops and burlap covered walls and raised stencilled trees on the walls.

So come on. Bring on the ideas, you creative geniuses, you.

It’ll be fun!

We’re talking about giving creative expression and a “look” to my life here!

I’m Not Dead May 13, 2008

Just a little blue and muddled.

Head working overtime, which in my case is not usually a good thing.

Honestly, I can “f” up a wet dream.

My “Happy Hermit” Stage May 12, 2008

It’s the strangest thing. I told someone yesterday that this is probably the most reclusive I’ve ever been in my whole life.

I, Miss Social Butterfly, am definitely going through a Happy Hermit period in my life.

It was a wonderful Mother’s Day yesterday. I had been a little apprehensive about it. I hadn’t really been sure what to expect, since it would be the first time I couldn’t physically get all of my kids together in one place. But between Britty’s blog, which made me cry - my son Jay calling me - and my son Creed being home and an email he wrote to me as a gift - it was priceless and tender and relaxed and sweet.

Other than that, I slept part of the day, for working third shift Saturday night. And I was on the computer looking up such diverse things as “roll out pantry” and “The Woman Who Can’t Forget”. For no reason other than I was interested and to me, Internet access is like having this huge unlimited library at my fingertips day and night.

And I watched both “The Princess Diaries” and “Mary Poppins” in their entirety, deciding both that I adore Julie Andrews and that Dick Van Dyke had to be the coolest dancer ever in the pre-Michael-Jackson-and-Usher era. Gene Kelly was cool yes - very cool. But there has never been a more malleable and expressive face than old Dick’s to go with it.

And I revelled in sprawling on my own little couch in my own little home - padding up and down the hallway to the bathroom or the bedroom in my bare feet. I looked in the mirror for a few times, thought to myself “Yeesh! Girl, you might want to do something with yourself” and then didn’t.

In the past, this “caving” or “holing up” has been a sign of depression in me. Usually a mourning ritual of some kind.

This time, I don’t feel depressed one whit.

Tired, a little. For hormonal and work-schedule reasons.

But other than that, it just feels so right and perfectly decadent and self-indulgent to sit and sip my hot hot cups of morning coffee and wake up slowly. To sit on my bed at night and wrestle with the puppies - to their delight and mine - for an hour before we go to sleep. To just be home and let my spirit fill up my surroundings.

Right now, I just don’t seem to have it in me to be there for a lot of people to a large degree.

I was thinking the other other night that it’s almost like being in labor, when you feel yourself slipping the bonds of the “normal world” and descending into someplace where you are pulled along, where you have to go.

I think I’m going through a cleaning-out-and-healing process at an accelerated rate. Probably cuz God knows I typically don’t allow myself time for that kind of shit. Get it while the gettin’s good, you know?

I know that the wordless insights and epiphanies are coming at an amazing rate - not big “Eureka!” things - just little stuff. Like little Tetris pieces falling gracefully and soundlessly into place.

I feel good. Really good. And when I don’t, I veg out on the couch or take a nap.

Is this normal?

It’s Selma’s Birthday!!! May 10, 2008

OK technically, Selma’s birthday is May 10. But she lives in Australia and, as she pointed out to me, that means she is FIFTEEN HOURS ahead of me! Which, by extension, means that to her American friends, she has TWO birthdays.

Her birthday at HOME and her birthday HERE.

Because, ahem, it IS all about me - as all of my friends have been carefully schooled to understand.

Why do I tell you this?

Because, honestly, other than my daughter, I truly believe that if you read one blog, it should be Selma’s. She really is a brilliantly gifted writer, and by reading her, she has inspired ME to get off my lazy butt and work on the craftsmanship of writing. To read what she writes is like unwrapping a priceless little gift for yourself every day. No. Really. She really is that good.

But she shines as a human being.

She is one of the most empathetic people I’ve ever met, and by that I don’t mean what you usually think of as empathetic.

I mean, honestly, that she truly feels what other people feel. Their pain, their joy, their triumph, their loss. And then she writes about it. She is more connected to the rest of humanity than any other person I’ve ever met - like you’d expect some kind of guru to be connected.

She’s going to kill me when she reads this. Hehehehehehehe. Which makes me giggle.

That empathy, I know, causes her pain sometimes. But at this point in her life, I think she has come to terms with it, with the fact that she is one of those precious people on this earth who truly feels more than most people. She takes the bliss with the mourning. She sees the extraordinary in the ordinary. She remembers everything.

And she will encourage you all day every day with an uncanny sense of knowing exactly what you need to hear to have courage, to feel justified, to feel heard.

We’ve never met in person, Selma and I. But we will someday. Somehow. And we will, as she put it once, paint the town purple together. And hold the most amazing conversations long into the night, stopping only to sleep when we can’t keep out eyes open and picking up the next day at the very next sentence of the discussion.

She introduced me to Writer’s Island which is a wonderful tool for people who write to practice their chops. Since I met her, I have always told myself I would go there weekly and take their prompts and work on it myself.

But I am lazy, and never have. Until now.

Because the prompt for this week is Faithful.

And faithful is what Selma is.

Not in the “old dog” way. But in the way of, if you’re her friend, you can count on her to really be your friend. She will stew over your troubles while you do, she will become giddy with your joys while you do.

And in between it all, she gets up every morning and carries on with her own life and her own duties and obligations, the very best way she knows how. With grace sometimes, with her teeth gritted sometimes. And sometimes, when it all becomes too much, she will crawl under the covers and take a break to reboot.

Honestly - please go over there and wish her a Happy Birthday. She is at the most wonderful time of her life, and I don’t think she even realizes it.

Happy, happy Birthday, my beloved friend.

Thank you so much for coming into my life and enriching it the way you do.

God sees.

And I am not at all sorry for embarrassing you by posting this. Because, at the core of it, I really am an incorrigible person.

Bwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

Splitting My Pants Was The Highlight of My Day May 8, 2008

Damn. I just gave away the punch line.

That’s OK, because it really is a funny story.

So anyway, yesterday was really and truly the worst work day I have had in a long long time. Like, bad in comic and epic proportions. From getting there almost late (because I realized I had a 1:30 meeting at 1:20 instead of my usual 2 pm start time), to a loooooonnnnnnnngggggg inservice meeting which then set my routine schedule back by two hours, to a meeting in which basically we all got our asses chewed for two hours because my boss had had it and handles that about as well as I do, to a sudden admission and two hours for ME to do it in, except that right as I got started I had another medical emergency come up which ate up an hour, two MY two aides both leaving at 9 pm instead of 10 pm, and the other two unable to help me because the entire place had gone pretty much nucking futs by then, so that took another hour away from me doing MY job.

So I got out of there a little after midnight, instead of at 10:30. And I get really cranky - and worried about my dogs at home alone - by that time.

So - yeah - I was getting grumpier and pissier by the minute. And then comes the supper hour - a 90 minute span in which it is, under normal circumstances, flat out balls to the wall. And today, obviously, it was ballsier and wallsier.

And then it happened.

See, I wear my scrubs two sizes too big deliberately, because somehow it is always me that ends up crawling under beds and doing stuff that requires a little extra agility and freedom of movement. And I’ve only gotten stuck UNDER a malfunctioning electric bed ONCE!

But if you’ve ever worn loose fitting thin cotton pants before, you know there is a requisite maneuver that ALWAYS has to precede such squatting and bending and assorted gymnastics. Because the crotch of the pants hangs about mid-thigh, it means that EVERY TIME you have to start the movement with this little hitch thing to pull them up a little.

Which is no problem because it’s pretty much automatic for me after years of this strategy.

Until today.

A sudden calling to squat, I forgot, and RRRRIIIIPPPPP.

In a crowded dining room full of a good two thirds of the people in the building at the present time.

“Nuh uh,” say I. I contort myself around to look at my crotch.

“Sonofabitch” I say then. Yep. Crotchless scrubs.

Now, beings as they are two sizes too big, no one can see that but me. But between the telltale RRRRIIIIPPPPP sound and me suddenly laughing hysterically, yeah, everyone knew about it in two point three.

Remember, I subscribe to the belief that if it’s funny, it musy be shared. No matter if it’s humiliating to me or anyone else - especially me. Funny trumps all. Guess who else believes the same thing? Hehehehehehehe

Because seriously - if you were having “the worst work day you’d had in a long time” - wouldn’t splitting the crotch right out of your pants be the absolute topper to an already ridiculous day?

Wouldn’t you take it as some kind of sign?

Maybe you had to be there?

Just Shut Up May 8, 2008

OK - originally I was going to title this post “Shut the F*ck Up” but it appears I still have some Victorian sense of sensibility that never shows itself when it should, and pops up in odd places where it’s not expected.

Reading other people’s blogs, and talking to people, I am struck today - honestly - by just how freaking awesome the world is - life is - for most of us most of the time. And how whiny and ungrateful we all are about it. Refusing to see the treasures, focusing on the piddly little stupid stuff.

And hey - I’m not getting on anyone’s case about this because I am as bad as anyone. In fact, eloquently more so, in most cases.

Seriously, people, what is it that we want?

There are mothers around the world who watch their children - literally - starve to death and pray for a miracle to arrive in the form of food.

There are other mothers who live with the it-becomes-almost-normal horror of bombs falling around their homes every day, shooting in the streets outside their doors.

And there are mothers diagnosed with devastating terminal illnesses, still getting out of bed every morning and making breakfast for their kids, knowing that what they are doing is creating “normal” memories they won’t be around to share with their kids.

Seriously - what in the hell do most of us bitch about anyway?

OK - I’ll start. Not having a car there for a while. Freaking wah. Windows leaking. Broken love affair.

When there are women whose men are not coming home from Iraq or Afghanistan and they struggle with what to tell their children - some of whom will never see their daddy’s face this side of eternity.

I guess what I’m saying is - to what degree have we become not just accustomed to bitching, but almost feel as if we have nothing valuable to contribute to a conversation unless we can chime in with a “Me too - let me tell you how my life sucks!”

Our planet is groaning and keening, our economy is in deep doo-doo, but still and all, the vast majority of us horsing around the blogosphere have the opportunity to breathe clean air, drink clean water, eat until we are full (and bitch about gaining weight) and a front row seat to colors and textures and smells and abundance that no human artist could pull together all at once.

Do we even see it? Do we ever get how amazing it all is?

The generally negative worldview is so pervasive that anyone not in lockstep is derisively called a “Pollyanna”. Or whatever the current term is.

God, how I want to be a Pollyanna!

I want to consciously choose to see the bright side of things consistently, to see the good in people instead of the flaws, the blessings around me instead of the inconveniences.

I can tell you from personal experience that “being broke” and even “going broke” is absolutely not the worst thing that can happen to a person.

Nor is having one’s little heart broke - even getting one’s little ass kicked.

Yes, those things suck. But what I want to train myself to do is to see those things for what they are - temporary landscape in an overall panorama of richness and treasures.

Seriously, there is not a woman on the planet that has more to be grateful for than me. My cup absolutely runneth over, and I knew the day I saw the second of my two grandchildren born that I could truly die that day - absolutely fulfilled.

I don’t want to miss the beauty around me, the gifts in my life. I don’t want to overlook them because I am so wrapped up in my own pity party bullshit.

I don’t want to focus on negativity anymore.

I’m still prone to fears and doubts. I’m 47 after all. I’ve accumulated my baggage.

I just don’t want to drag it around like a matched designer set anymore. I want to honor my past experiences, learn from them, and move the fuck on.

I want to laugh. I want to cry and mourn when it’s appropriate, and not get stuck there.

I don’t want to miss this wonderful time of my life.

Man - this sort of sounds like a Dennis Miller rant, doesn’t it?

A Day In Which Healing Comes By Leaps and Bounds May 7, 2008

Yesterday was the best day off I’ve had in a long long time, and I realized, sitting here on the couch last night sharing pizza with the puppies, just how good the last six weeks have been for me.

I got up when Britt called - the highlight of my day, as we all know. I drank my two big monster cups of coffee, and then packing my little backpack, I grabbed up the puppies, put them in the ghetto cruiser, and off we went.

Now remember, I went for over a month with no car, and before that I went for about a year and a half driving a car that was not my own, but someone else’s to give or take away at their pleasure. I hate that feeling.

So as I steered this big boat down the highway, it felt like big flaky layers of something were peeling away and flying out the open window.

I stopped in Wellsburg to see a friend for a few minutes, and then off we went to Pine Lake.

On a weekday morning, there were only a few random souls who would appear for a minute or two. So we had the place to ourselves, the puppies and me.

You’re supposed to leash your dogs - and I did, I really did. But Buddy, my little stray, gets so sad and morose when he’s on the leash. And he never gets more than six feet away from me anyway. So I eventually I let them both off, and we wandered down by the boat ramp.

There’s a dock there, and we went out to the end of it and sat there. Neither one of them, I think, have ever been around water like that. Leah, the puppy, was curious and sticking her nose out as far as she could go, while I wondered if I could grab her fast enough if she lost her balance - or if she would have to learn to swim very quickly.

A lone goose paddled away back and forth about 50 feet out - and then it was joined by two others for some kind of impromptu goose meeting in which they honked and paddled around each other.

I took us back up away from the water onto a grassy hill and laid back just listening and feeling the breeze and watching. The stray - my spooky one - would wander around in about a 20 foot radius. The puppy, my hotshot, would wander further away, and then I would see her come barrelling back with her little dachshund legs churning and her little ears flipped back, skidding up to me like “Jeez, Mom, I thought I lost you!”

We walked around looking at stuff - they followed me into the outhouse because certainly there was something fascinating in there that smelled like that.

We just hung out there all morning. And then we got back into the boat and drove back to town where I did some errands and we came home.

We took a nap together, and then for supper I ordered pizza, and we curled up on the couch, watched TV and listened to the thunderstorm - until I realized that the three windows on the north side of my “tipi” were all leaking. Note to self - putty tape and caulk until I can replace them.

Now, that all might sound very boring and weird to anyone else, but it gave me a lot of time to think in a very not-have-to way.

I realized that I have been so angry and defensive and on guard for so long. Far before this breakup - in fact I was swept into that relationship with my dukes up, never having taken the time to heal from my divorce five years ago, and the whirlwind stupid bad-boy relationship I got into a year later.

Being by myself has been scary at times, like the night of the oops with the tub surround adhesive, frustrating lots of times. And I’ve continued being royally pissed at the whole freaking world.

And I really don’t like myself that way. But I couldn’t seem to pull myself out of it.

No, I am not “cured” after six weeks and one bucolic day.

But truly, it helped a lot.

I really really need days of sunshine and puppies and holey jeans and flip flops and just time to wander around entirely by myself.

I’m very social by nature - but I’ve been so focused on everyone else’s thoughts at work and in my private life that I had completely lost sight of me. The best parts of me.

The part that really and honestly believes that the world, in itself, is a lovely place - the part that feels gratitude and delight just because.

Last night, when the windows were all leaking - and NOT the ones I put in, thank you very much, but the ones still on the “need to be replaced” list - I didn’t get angry, or cry frustrated tears. I put up towels and looked on the Internet. This morning I went outside and walked around and realized that taking the old ones out, and putting in some new putty tape and caulk before I put them back in would keep me dry until I can replace them. And it’s no big deal.

The man I had lived with came over to pick up the drill he had lent me, and we had a chance to sit down and really talk, honestly and openly, without recriminations and blame. I told him I had never been ready to be rushed into the relationship we had shared, and hadn’t even been me for that entire year and a half.

I feel very content today. Very centered and peaceful. I feel like a have a tool in my box again for when those moments hit - just get outside and hit the open road all by myself with the dogs for a few hours, and I can find balance again.

This probably all sounds so elemental to anyone else that a reader will think “Well, duh, everyone knows that.”

But I had truly forgotten. I’ve created enough drama around myself for the last five years that my instincts were completely off.

I really really need my space. I need to know I can do it by myself - and not in a gritted-teeth kind of way either. I mean, I can be happy all by myself.

That’s a good good thing to remember.