What a year, eh? Highs like Obama winning the election and more states legalizing gay marriage; Horrible lows like Hurricane Sandy and Newtown, CT. It's kind of hard to say anything good about 2012 after Newtown. I kind of feel the same about my personal 2012...a real roller coaster ride of emotions.
You know that when you get on a roller coaster ride and you hear that tick tick tick of the chain that soon you'll be plummeting to the bottom of the rails at warp speed. That was me, trudging along working way too many hours and putting up with way too much bullshit. I knew the bottom was going to fall out at some point. I finally did the right thing and got out. I've got a job now that isn't trying to kill me or my relationships. And, as you know, I got legally married to the girl of my dreams this year. The coaster made it all the way back to the top. But roller coasters always have at least two plunges, right?
I've been on hellacious roller coasters before. In 2004 we built a house and moved in with big plans and dreams in our heads. My gal wanted a baby, so we started fertility testing. Ultrasounds revealed some growths on her ovaries. It was cancer. Fertility testing actually saved her life, but it didn't save her ovaries or uterus. There was relief because it could have been worse; grief because it was still a loss. Her dream of having a child was gone.
In 2005 we lost Bryan and my partner's mother within a week of each other. Gut wrenching. This was our personal Newtown.
You wonder how you'll get through it. How you'll even find the strength to get out of bed sometimes. But life goes on for the living. You find ways.
In August of that year my gal saw an ad in the newspaper for White German Shepherd pups. She nonchalantly commented that she had always wanted one. We already had a dog, one she had bottle fed as a pup because he was the runt of his litter. But he was getting up in years and I thought - if something happened to him that year - well, I didn't think she'd recover. I didn't know if I'd recover. We were hanging on by threads as it was. There was part of me that thought a puppy would be unfair to bring into that old dog's life, and another part of me that didn't want a puppy in my grieving life either. But my gal's birthday was coming up and my friends talked me into at least going to take a look at them. They really didn't have to push too hard.
I went after work one night and drove out in the country to this run-down farm house with several scrap cars in the backyard. Two huge Black and Tan German Shepherds were chained up to their dog houses and barked at me, but in a friendly way. A gaggle of white pups made a bee-line under one of the cars when they realized I was standing there. Well, all of them except for one little fluffball that wagged her tail and came running up to me without an ounce of fear. I was hooked. Any doubts melted away. I took her right then and there and headed for home. She curled up in the seat and fell asleep less than a mile from the farmhouse. So much for separation anxiety. I'll never forget my gal's face when she saw her - she lit up like a Christmas tree. I hadn't seen much of that in the last few years. On the other hand, the old dog was not at all pleased. He sniffed her and then growled like an old man with a grudge. This was not going to be easy.
We named her Maggie Mae, in homage to my gal's mom Margaret. She was the smartest and happiest and bravest and fiestiest pup I've ever seen. She wasn't afraid of the mean old grump who growled and snapped at her - she just kept going back at him until she won him over with her charm and wit. She'd stick her little butt in his face and while he was sniffing she'd steal his ball or toy or bone before he realized what was happening. She'd jump on his back and bite his tail, knowing that he couldn't get his fat old body turned round fast enough to do anything about it. But you know what? It made him young again. That gray-bearded old dog started to smile and play like he used to. Maggie picked up all of our spirits.
Anyone who loves dogs will tell you that their dog is the best dog in the world, so saying that about Maggie seems cliche. I've had lots of dogs in my life and I've loved them all, but none compare to Mags. None. We have two other White Shepherds now and I love them to pieces, but Mags is still the best. (Who says parents don't have favorites?) There are so many stories to tell about Maggie but not enough time or space here to do her justice. I suppose I could write a book, but then that's already been done, hasn't it? I don't know...Here I am, self-proclaimed master of the written word, and I can't find a way to adequately describe what makes her so special. I guess if I had to narrow it down to one thing I'd say it was her smile. Yes, dogs smile.
And now back to that roller coaster ride...
Maggie passed away this year. She was smiling and chasing tennis balls one day, and the next day could hardly get up off the floor. We found out she had cancer and it had spread like wildfire. Within a week she was gone. I know it's not the same as Newtown. I know it's not the same as our personal Newtown. But it hurts bad.
In 2012 we got married. Our family expressed their love and acceptance. I got a sane job. Obama won re-election and marriage equality took more leaps forward. But we lost Maggie. Newtown lost children. How do you reconcile all that?
For auld lang syne my dear,
For auld lang syne
We'll take a cup of kindness yet
For the sake of auld lang syne.
In honor of Maggie:
http://web.photodex.com/view/28wcm28
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Saturday, December 08, 2012
Marriage and Acceptance
I've been thinking about what to write first in my effort to catch up here, and everything I thought of seemed to be a Debbie Downer (make that ‘Debi with an i’ just to be consistent). I'm really not all doom and gloom; it just seems that I tend to write more often about the trials of my life. I guess when things are good there's no need to lament. I was preparing to write of another bleak time in history, but then it happened...something that brought me to tears of joy, so I must share. First a little history (which, by the way, allows me to share other happy moments):
I met the love of my life twelve years ago. Neither of us was looking for love; it just happened. I think that’s how I knew it was real, because I wasn’t searching for it. It just whacked me on the head and sent me flying. It was a semi long-distance relationship at first, but within 9 months we were living together in Euphoria. We bought matching gold and silver rings and inside our little rented house the two of us promised to love and cherish each other forever. At the time that’s all the ceremony we needed and we really didn’t expect we could ever have anything more. Both of our families were still reeling over the fact that we were gay (gasp!) and that we were in love (yuck!) and that we were living together and sleeping together (horror!). Having a ceremony with friends and relatives wasn’t really in the cards.
With time came our family’s acceptance of our relationship. But ‘acceptance’ is a relative term. I know there are members of the family that love us unconditionally and could care less that we’re not one man and one woman. They get that we love each other, and they love us, and that’s all that matters. Others outwardly appeared to accept our relationship, but at what level? For example, my mom has said on more than one occasion, “I don’t understand it, but you’re my daughter and I love you.” Is that acceptance? I’m not so sure. It’s hard to tell what’s really in someone’s heart, you know?
Anyway, the years go by and we watch family and friends get married left and right, and it begins to irritate me. We should be able to stand in front of our family and friends and show them our commitment to each other. We should be able to have that perfect white wedding with lace and flowers and organ music and whatever…We should be able to have a big reception bash with a toast from the best man and maid of honor, and have a first dance and shove cake in each other’s face. We should be able to do all that. But Marriage is between a man and a woman don’t you know…
So I tried to talk my partner into a commitment ceremony to do all those things we should be able to do, even though it wouldn’t be ‘accepted’ by the state because political groups and religious right ringers decided it shouldn’t be. But being the realist that she is, she saw no point in doing something that means nothing. I get that, but I still wanted to do it, because I wanted family and friends to get it (us). I wanted true acceptance and this was how I thought I’d get it.
Then New York legalized same sex marriage, and was the only state in which you didn’t have to be residents to do so. BINGO! My love asked me to marry her. We started to plan. I called my best friend, she called hers. Mine said yes, she’d be my maid of honor. Hers said no, it was against her beliefs. Really? Wow, what a shot to the chin. You’ve been BEST friends with someone for over twenty years and then you find out you’re not really ‘accepted’ after all. That’s what was in her heart. Then…you have a brother (who has been married 3 times by the way) that says it’s against his beliefs as well. He loves you and wants you to be happy, but… That’s what was in his heart.
We decided to hold off on the wedding – not because of them, screw them – but because we wanted to save up for that perfect white wedding and big bash reception. Then happenstance; we were going to a dog show in Massachusetts, which meant traveling through the state of New York. How could we possibly travel through the state and not get hitched? So we did; kind of a spur of the moment thing. We really only told a handful of people, and off we went. We got LEGALLY MARRIED in the State of New York by a Clerk in a courthouse in front of two witnesses (people that love us unconditionally and could care less that we’re not one man and one woman). We didn’t wear lace; we wore shorts. She forgot her gold and silver ring and I couldn’t get mine off my finger, so we bought $8 rings at a tourist trap and placed them on each other’s pinkies. I wrote vows and cried through all of them. She sang Amanda Marshall’s “Marry Me” and I cried through all of it. And you know what? It was perfect.
A month later we traveled down state to my wife’s (I love saying that) Dad and Stepmom’s house for the annual Thanksgiving family shindig. As usual it was a packed house; young and old, babies and teenagers and elders. We had the big dinner and then some started asking to see the wedding video. Everyone piled into the living room. I was more than a bit nervous to tell you the truth. There we were on a big screen TV, holding hands and kissing after the clerk announced we were partners for life. How many of them were going to be accepting of that? When the video was over some applauded, some “awwwed”, some smiled, some came and hugged us and said congratulations. At least no one gasped or stormed out of the room, so I thought it went pretty well. We started to show more video of our trip, but I noticed that the crowd started quietly thinning out. Okay, it was your typical boring vacation video, but in the back of my head I was thinking that they were leaving because they really didn’t accept what they just saw and wanted to get the hell out of the room to gag or puke or pray.
And then…when we left the living room we were greeted by bubbles floating in the air and two rows of family clapping and shouting “Congratulations!” – Our very own reception line. And after we made it through the line, there sat a tiered wedding cake with flowers in our favorite colors, and champagne, and wedding cards from everyone. We were floored. Flabbergasted. Overwhelmed with emotion. My wife did something she rarely does – she cried. And of course I cried. We somehow managed to choke out a toast and tried to tell everyone how much it meant to us. My Father-in-law and Mother-in-law hugged me and told me that they had always considered me a part of the family and that they loved me. My Brother-in-law (the one that said it was against his beliefs) hugged his sister and with tears streaming down his face told her that he loved her and that he was happy for us. Our surprise wedding reception was perfect.
So I finally got what I wanted. I married the love of my life. We had a wedding and a reception and some cake shoved in the face. We were able to stand in front of our family and friends and show them our commitment to each other. We got to see what was in their hearts. We were accepted.
I met the love of my life twelve years ago. Neither of us was looking for love; it just happened. I think that’s how I knew it was real, because I wasn’t searching for it. It just whacked me on the head and sent me flying. It was a semi long-distance relationship at first, but within 9 months we were living together in Euphoria. We bought matching gold and silver rings and inside our little rented house the two of us promised to love and cherish each other forever. At the time that’s all the ceremony we needed and we really didn’t expect we could ever have anything more. Both of our families were still reeling over the fact that we were gay (gasp!) and that we were in love (yuck!) and that we were living together and sleeping together (horror!). Having a ceremony with friends and relatives wasn’t really in the cards.
With time came our family’s acceptance of our relationship. But ‘acceptance’ is a relative term. I know there are members of the family that love us unconditionally and could care less that we’re not one man and one woman. They get that we love each other, and they love us, and that’s all that matters. Others outwardly appeared to accept our relationship, but at what level? For example, my mom has said on more than one occasion, “I don’t understand it, but you’re my daughter and I love you.” Is that acceptance? I’m not so sure. It’s hard to tell what’s really in someone’s heart, you know?
Anyway, the years go by and we watch family and friends get married left and right, and it begins to irritate me. We should be able to stand in front of our family and friends and show them our commitment to each other. We should be able to have that perfect white wedding with lace and flowers and organ music and whatever…We should be able to have a big reception bash with a toast from the best man and maid of honor, and have a first dance and shove cake in each other’s face. We should be able to do all that. But Marriage is between a man and a woman don’t you know…
So I tried to talk my partner into a commitment ceremony to do all those things we should be able to do, even though it wouldn’t be ‘accepted’ by the state because political groups and religious right ringers decided it shouldn’t be. But being the realist that she is, she saw no point in doing something that means nothing. I get that, but I still wanted to do it, because I wanted family and friends to get it (us). I wanted true acceptance and this was how I thought I’d get it.
Then New York legalized same sex marriage, and was the only state in which you didn’t have to be residents to do so. BINGO! My love asked me to marry her. We started to plan. I called my best friend, she called hers. Mine said yes, she’d be my maid of honor. Hers said no, it was against her beliefs. Really? Wow, what a shot to the chin. You’ve been BEST friends with someone for over twenty years and then you find out you’re not really ‘accepted’ after all. That’s what was in her heart. Then…you have a brother (who has been married 3 times by the way) that says it’s against his beliefs as well. He loves you and wants you to be happy, but… That’s what was in his heart.
We decided to hold off on the wedding – not because of them, screw them – but because we wanted to save up for that perfect white wedding and big bash reception. Then happenstance; we were going to a dog show in Massachusetts, which meant traveling through the state of New York. How could we possibly travel through the state and not get hitched? So we did; kind of a spur of the moment thing. We really only told a handful of people, and off we went. We got LEGALLY MARRIED in the State of New York by a Clerk in a courthouse in front of two witnesses (people that love us unconditionally and could care less that we’re not one man and one woman). We didn’t wear lace; we wore shorts. She forgot her gold and silver ring and I couldn’t get mine off my finger, so we bought $8 rings at a tourist trap and placed them on each other’s pinkies. I wrote vows and cried through all of them. She sang Amanda Marshall’s “Marry Me” and I cried through all of it. And you know what? It was perfect.
A month later we traveled down state to my wife’s (I love saying that) Dad and Stepmom’s house for the annual Thanksgiving family shindig. As usual it was a packed house; young and old, babies and teenagers and elders. We had the big dinner and then some started asking to see the wedding video. Everyone piled into the living room. I was more than a bit nervous to tell you the truth. There we were on a big screen TV, holding hands and kissing after the clerk announced we were partners for life. How many of them were going to be accepting of that? When the video was over some applauded, some “awwwed”, some smiled, some came and hugged us and said congratulations. At least no one gasped or stormed out of the room, so I thought it went pretty well. We started to show more video of our trip, but I noticed that the crowd started quietly thinning out. Okay, it was your typical boring vacation video, but in the back of my head I was thinking that they were leaving because they really didn’t accept what they just saw and wanted to get the hell out of the room to gag or puke or pray.
And then…when we left the living room we were greeted by bubbles floating in the air and two rows of family clapping and shouting “Congratulations!” – Our very own reception line. And after we made it through the line, there sat a tiered wedding cake with flowers in our favorite colors, and champagne, and wedding cards from everyone. We were floored. Flabbergasted. Overwhelmed with emotion. My wife did something she rarely does – she cried. And of course I cried. We somehow managed to choke out a toast and tried to tell everyone how much it meant to us. My Father-in-law and Mother-in-law hugged me and told me that they had always considered me a part of the family and that they loved me. My Brother-in-law (the one that said it was against his beliefs) hugged his sister and with tears streaming down his face told her that he loved her and that he was happy for us. Our surprise wedding reception was perfect.
So I finally got what I wanted. I married the love of my life. We had a wedding and a reception and some cake shoved in the face. We were able to stand in front of our family and friends and show them our commitment to each other. We got to see what was in their hearts. We were accepted.
Monday, October 15, 2012
So why haven't I been here for seven years?
So why haven't I been here for seven years? Reader's Digest version:
School.
Work.
School.
Work.
Work.
Work.
Stupidity.
Not necessarily in that order.
The good news in all of this is that I did get my degree. Summa cum laude, no less. But maybe it would have been better to strive for a C and spend more time with family rather than having a piece of rope to hang around my neck at graduation. Eh, who am I kidding...I'm too much of a perfectionist (insert OCD) to let that happen. Same with work I guess...always have to give 200 percent. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I didn't give that same amount of effort. I neglected the woman I love, lifetime friendships, and my own identity.
Why? I don't really know the answer. All I can come up with is: Take advantage of those who love you so you can prove something to those who don't. I guess that's just longhand for stupidity.
So to quote the Indigo Girls, I spent four years prostrate to the higher mind, got my paper And I was free. Well, I was free of school anyway. No more working full time and studying full time and getting four hours of sleep at night at most. Ahhhh what a relief.
Ha! I went from the frying pan into the fire...Took a job (a "promotion") that I thought was a good idea. It wasn't. 12-14 hour days, sometimes more. Living out of a suitcase. More stress than I've ever dealt with. There I went again, Miss OCD, trying to prove something, trying to be perfect, not wanting to let anyone down. And once again, neglecting the woman I love, lifetime friendships, and my own identity.
Stupid.
It took quite a bit of gentle prodding from my gal and another big loss in my life to finally wake up. Seven years. Call me Rip Van Winkle I guess. But I've got another chance to get it right now. I've changed jobs. I'm home 95% of the time. Treated like a professional. No stress. No shit. I'm spending quality time with my gal, trying to make up/catch up if I can. I'm hanging with friends. I'm writing. And I plan on being OCD about it.
School.
Work.
School.
Work.
Work.
Work.
Stupidity.
Not necessarily in that order.
The good news in all of this is that I did get my degree. Summa cum laude, no less. But maybe it would have been better to strive for a C and spend more time with family rather than having a piece of rope to hang around my neck at graduation. Eh, who am I kidding...I'm too much of a perfectionist (insert OCD) to let that happen. Same with work I guess...always have to give 200 percent. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I didn't give that same amount of effort. I neglected the woman I love, lifetime friendships, and my own identity.
Why? I don't really know the answer. All I can come up with is: Take advantage of those who love you so you can prove something to those who don't. I guess that's just longhand for stupidity.
So to quote the Indigo Girls, I spent four years prostrate to the higher mind, got my paper And I was free. Well, I was free of school anyway. No more working full time and studying full time and getting four hours of sleep at night at most. Ahhhh what a relief.
Ha! I went from the frying pan into the fire...Took a job (a "promotion") that I thought was a good idea. It wasn't. 12-14 hour days, sometimes more. Living out of a suitcase. More stress than I've ever dealt with. There I went again, Miss OCD, trying to prove something, trying to be perfect, not wanting to let anyone down. And once again, neglecting the woman I love, lifetime friendships, and my own identity.
Stupid.
It took quite a bit of gentle prodding from my gal and another big loss in my life to finally wake up. Seven years. Call me Rip Van Winkle I guess. But I've got another chance to get it right now. I've changed jobs. I'm home 95% of the time. Treated like a professional. No stress. No shit. I'm spending quality time with my gal, trying to make up/catch up if I can. I'm hanging with friends. I'm writing. And I plan on being OCD about it.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Wow.
Wow. It's been almost seven years since I've been here. Seven years? Really? Time flies...even when you're not having fun.
I started this blog for reasons previously stated. I needed a way to vent. A way to explore my feelings. Write what I couldn't say out loud. It was good - I got it out, I took a little mental journey and got back on the road. Trouble was the road lead me far, far from home and far, far away from this blog and from the thing I love doing the most: writing.
I'm back.
I've got lots of catching up to do.
I started this blog for reasons previously stated. I needed a way to vent. A way to explore my feelings. Write what I couldn't say out loud. It was good - I got it out, I took a little mental journey and got back on the road. Trouble was the road lead me far, far from home and far, far away from this blog and from the thing I love doing the most: writing.
I'm back.
I've got lots of catching up to do.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Bryan
I want to write about my son Bryan. In fact, I think I have to write about him. Just bare with me, cuz it's going to be hard.
On a side note, I now realize one of the advantages to a blog over a handwritten journal...you can't smudge the ink with your tears.
Bryan was born with a semi-rare syndrome that left him developmentally delayed and physically challenged. The name of his syndrome and the specific anamolies are irrelevent to this blog...he was my son; he was a wonderful, precious child who taught me so much about life; about patience and acceptance and kindness and love. I know that I am a better human being because of him.
When Bryan was born, he was whisked away to a PICU due to breathing difficulties. Once past that, there were feeding difficulties and I became familiar with the term, 'failure to thrive.' One ignorant, pathetic excuse for a doctor tried to tell us that we should institutionalize Bryan - that he wouldn't make it to his first birthday - but he was a tough little guy, and after 33 days we brought him home from the hospital, and love was his food; love was his medicine; and he grew stronger and stronger. We found doctors that believed in him and in quality of life, although it meant quite a few surgeries and many trips to hospitals and doctor's offices.
There were several scary moments throughout Bryan's life when I thought I was going to lose him, but I wasn't at all prepared when it really did happen, or how it happened, when it happened, or why.
I suppose you never really are prepared for death. Take my dad, for instance. I was with him when the doctor told him he had cancer and there was no hope - that he should get his affairs in order. I was the one that called hospice and made the arrangements for him to be at home to die; I was there when he went in and out of coherence; I was there when he started to bleed out and I knew he wouldn't make it till morning; I was there when he took his last breath; and still, I wasn't prepared.
But Bryan wasn't supposed to go yet. Things were just looking up for him...he was relatively healthy; we had recently built a house and made it accessible for him; he was in a better school; he seemed happy and content. And then it all came tumbling down, so fast. So fast. He was 17.
I realize that he outlived many with his condition; I've read enough on it to know. And besides that dickwad that said he wouldn't make it to his first birthday, I had another physician tell me Bryan's life expectancy was a mere seven years. Bryan proved them wrong; he proved a lot of people wrong. He was a fighter; he was strong-willed and stubborn (apple doesn't fall far from the tree there). And that's why I wasn't prepared when it happened. That's why I'm having such a hard time accepting it - because when he left this world he didn't leave it kicking and screaming...he just...went. Sometimes I think God called him home so he went willingly; other times when my faith is lacking, I think he just gave up.
I will never forget looking at him through the rearview mirror and watching him leave me...never. I saw the light leave his eyes. I think my heart stopped as well at that moment. I pulled over as soon as I could and his nurse and I performed CPR, but I knew he was gone. The paramedics said they got a rythm back and they rushed him to the hospital, but I knew. Even though everyone in that ER knew me personally and would do everything they could to save him, I knew they couldn't. I didn't understand it, and I wasn't prepared for it, but I knew. They say a mother always knows...
What I don't know is why. Sometimes I think I know - afterall, everything happens for a reason; it's all part of God's plan. Other times...I am just lost, stumbling around in the dark for an answer I know I will never find, at least not in this life.
On a side note, I now realize one of the advantages to a blog over a handwritten journal...you can't smudge the ink with your tears.
Bryan was born with a semi-rare syndrome that left him developmentally delayed and physically challenged. The name of his syndrome and the specific anamolies are irrelevent to this blog...he was my son; he was a wonderful, precious child who taught me so much about life; about patience and acceptance and kindness and love. I know that I am a better human being because of him.
When Bryan was born, he was whisked away to a PICU due to breathing difficulties. Once past that, there were feeding difficulties and I became familiar with the term, 'failure to thrive.' One ignorant, pathetic excuse for a doctor tried to tell us that we should institutionalize Bryan - that he wouldn't make it to his first birthday - but he was a tough little guy, and after 33 days we brought him home from the hospital, and love was his food; love was his medicine; and he grew stronger and stronger. We found doctors that believed in him and in quality of life, although it meant quite a few surgeries and many trips to hospitals and doctor's offices.
There were several scary moments throughout Bryan's life when I thought I was going to lose him, but I wasn't at all prepared when it really did happen, or how it happened, when it happened, or why.
I suppose you never really are prepared for death. Take my dad, for instance. I was with him when the doctor told him he had cancer and there was no hope - that he should get his affairs in order. I was the one that called hospice and made the arrangements for him to be at home to die; I was there when he went in and out of coherence; I was there when he started to bleed out and I knew he wouldn't make it till morning; I was there when he took his last breath; and still, I wasn't prepared.
But Bryan wasn't supposed to go yet. Things were just looking up for him...he was relatively healthy; we had recently built a house and made it accessible for him; he was in a better school; he seemed happy and content. And then it all came tumbling down, so fast. So fast. He was 17.
I realize that he outlived many with his condition; I've read enough on it to know. And besides that dickwad that said he wouldn't make it to his first birthday, I had another physician tell me Bryan's life expectancy was a mere seven years. Bryan proved them wrong; he proved a lot of people wrong. He was a fighter; he was strong-willed and stubborn (apple doesn't fall far from the tree there). And that's why I wasn't prepared when it happened. That's why I'm having such a hard time accepting it - because when he left this world he didn't leave it kicking and screaming...he just...went. Sometimes I think God called him home so he went willingly; other times when my faith is lacking, I think he just gave up.
I will never forget looking at him through the rearview mirror and watching him leave me...never. I saw the light leave his eyes. I think my heart stopped as well at that moment. I pulled over as soon as I could and his nurse and I performed CPR, but I knew he was gone. The paramedics said they got a rythm back and they rushed him to the hospital, but I knew. Even though everyone in that ER knew me personally and would do everything they could to save him, I knew they couldn't. I didn't understand it, and I wasn't prepared for it, but I knew. They say a mother always knows...
What I don't know is why. Sometimes I think I know - afterall, everything happens for a reason; it's all part of God's plan. Other times...I am just lost, stumbling around in the dark for an answer I know I will never find, at least not in this life.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Happy Birthday to me
Today is my birthday. I'm 22...on each side. :-) My age doesn't bother me - at least not yet, anyway. I'm thankful for the maturity and the knowledge that time has given me.
I woke up to a lovely rendition of "Happy Birthday to You" from my partner this morning, along with a tender kiss on the cheek before she headed out the door to work (late, I might add). As usual, there were several cards, even one in my car (that's probably why she was late). Some were sappy and some were funny, just like she can be.
I went to have my eyes checked today...been noticing a bit of blurriness now and again, especially since I've been doing so much reading for school. My prescription changed a little, not that significant, but my doc put a little extra umph on the reading part of my bifocals (yes, bifocals - got over that vanity several years ago).
When I got to work, my wierdy-wierdo (that's a term of endearment) best friend had left her goofy arrangement of "Happy Birthday" on my voicemail - I was sorry I missed her call. She always, and I mean always, makes me laugh. My mom called, too and my brother sent me an e-mail.
I came home early from work - another hormone related migraine (this is the sucky part of getting old), but I still have a school paper to finish, so I've been working on that while wearing sunglasses. I needed a break, so came here.
Tonight me and the Mrs will have a quiet celebration together. We talked about going out to dinner, but I probably won't feel like it with this head of mine. That's quite alright, anyway - she is the best and only company I need.
Toodles for now,
I woke up to a lovely rendition of "Happy Birthday to You" from my partner this morning, along with a tender kiss on the cheek before she headed out the door to work (late, I might add). As usual, there were several cards, even one in my car (that's probably why she was late). Some were sappy and some were funny, just like she can be.
I went to have my eyes checked today...been noticing a bit of blurriness now and again, especially since I've been doing so much reading for school. My prescription changed a little, not that significant, but my doc put a little extra umph on the reading part of my bifocals (yes, bifocals - got over that vanity several years ago).
When I got to work, my wierdy-wierdo (that's a term of endearment) best friend had left her goofy arrangement of "Happy Birthday" on my voicemail - I was sorry I missed her call. She always, and I mean always, makes me laugh. My mom called, too and my brother sent me an e-mail.
I came home early from work - another hormone related migraine (this is the sucky part of getting old), but I still have a school paper to finish, so I've been working on that while wearing sunglasses. I needed a break, so came here.
Tonight me and the Mrs will have a quiet celebration together. We talked about going out to dinner, but I probably won't feel like it with this head of mine. That's quite alright, anyway - she is the best and only company I need.
Toodles for now,
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Still no urn
My son Bryan died this past March. Okay, so I know the first thing anyone reading this will think is why the hell haven't I gotten an urn yet?
It's not totally my fault. Someone that works with my partner volunteered to make an urn for us and at the time, it seemed like a good idea. But as of yet, no urn. Tell me, how do you ask someone, "Hey, how's that urn coming along?" Not an easy subject for anyone.
But at some point, we did give up hope of getting a handmade urn - and even realizing this, have neglected to get one on our own. Here comes the psychoanalysis: Getting one would put some sort of finality to things...and apparently, I'm not ready to do that. Secondly, I just can't seem to find an urn that is suitable for my son. Of course, could I ever? What wood/metal/ceramic/porcelin thing could ever be good enough for my son's remains?
So half of my son's ashes (the other half are at his dad's, in an urn I helped his dad pick out and purchase and put the ashes in, believe it or not) sit in his room in an ugly brown plastic box compliments of the Crematory.
I' m sure some reading will think that's despicable and I wouldn't disagree. But oh, how the psyche can do terrible things to your head sometimes.
As a matter of fact, my latest renewed search for an urn came out of another psyche mind-game over this coming Christmas and everything that goes with it: shopping, getting a tree, decorating, celebrating, merriment in general.
Bah Humbug.
Christmas shopping used to be about shopping for Bryan. Getting a tree was a family tradition; Bryan was always there to see me pick out one that ended up being waaay too big for the living room. Watching his fascination over the lights and ornaments was the true joy of decorating. Without Bryan, what possible celebration; what merriment?
"Ah," the psyche said, "Get Bryan an urn for Christmas! It will be like old times! You'll be shopping for him!"
But just moments later, the psyche replied, "No, no, no. Can't do that. Too much! Too much! Runaway! Runaway!"
And so I created a blog.
It's not totally my fault. Someone that works with my partner volunteered to make an urn for us and at the time, it seemed like a good idea. But as of yet, no urn. Tell me, how do you ask someone, "Hey, how's that urn coming along?" Not an easy subject for anyone.
But at some point, we did give up hope of getting a handmade urn - and even realizing this, have neglected to get one on our own. Here comes the psychoanalysis: Getting one would put some sort of finality to things...and apparently, I'm not ready to do that. Secondly, I just can't seem to find an urn that is suitable for my son. Of course, could I ever? What wood/metal/ceramic/porcelin thing could ever be good enough for my son's remains?
So half of my son's ashes (the other half are at his dad's, in an urn I helped his dad pick out and purchase and put the ashes in, believe it or not) sit in his room in an ugly brown plastic box compliments of the Crematory.
I' m sure some reading will think that's despicable and I wouldn't disagree. But oh, how the psyche can do terrible things to your head sometimes.
As a matter of fact, my latest renewed search for an urn came out of another psyche mind-game over this coming Christmas and everything that goes with it: shopping, getting a tree, decorating, celebrating, merriment in general.
Bah Humbug.
Christmas shopping used to be about shopping for Bryan. Getting a tree was a family tradition; Bryan was always there to see me pick out one that ended up being waaay too big for the living room. Watching his fascination over the lights and ornaments was the true joy of decorating. Without Bryan, what possible celebration; what merriment?
"Ah," the psyche said, "Get Bryan an urn for Christmas! It will be like old times! You'll be shopping for him!"
But just moments later, the psyche replied, "No, no, no. Can't do that. Too much! Too much! Runaway! Runaway!"
And so I created a blog.
Friday, December 09, 2005
First things first...About the "i" thing...
My legal, given name is Cynthia. Hate it. Want to tick me off, then call me that. My immediate family calls me Sis; always have, always will, and that's fine. Even my thirty-something nephew still calls me Aunt Sis. When I was a kid, the only time I got called Cynthia was when I was in trouble for something - usually with my parents. There was a name progression, based on the level of trouble. "Sis" on a Trouble Scale of 1 - 5, didn't even register. "Cindi" meant they were a tad bit irritated. "Cynthia" meant turn around and pay attention or else. "Cynthia Sue!" meant my ass was grass. Maybe therein lies the trouble with my hatred for the name; I don't know. I just know I don't like it.
In my rebellious teens, in an effort to be different (although I didn't realize how different I was yet), I started spelling my name "Cindi" with an "i" instead of a "y". Much confusion ensued. Teachers and friends got it wrong all the time, but I really couldn't blame them, now could I? Still, I'd get miffed if they continued to spell it wrong after three or four courteous corrections. And this continued into adulthood - right up to today. When people have to write my name in front of me, I always politely say, "That's Cindi with an "i" at the end." (Wish I had a quarter for everytime I've said that.) Still, they muck it up. In letters and cards, I sign them "Cindi," yet, if I get a return letter or card from that person, nine times outta ten it's addressed to "Cindy." Ugh. My e-mail addy at work has my legal name, and is the standard "Cynthia.blahblah@blahblah.org" but my signature line is a bold "Cindi BlahBlah." Can't mistake it, yet...you got it...return e-mail comes back with "Dear Cindy."
Every once in awhile, someone thinks they've got it all figured out, and sends me something with "Cyndi" on it. Now I suppose that could be considered the correct shortening of "Cynthia," but if these nitwits were paying any attention at all they would see there are no freaking y's in my name. So that' s why my blog is titled "It's Cindi with an i Dammitt."
PS. When my son was born, we named him Bryan. Not the standard "Brian" with an "i", but "Bryan" with a "y". I'm a pain in the ass, aren't I?
PSS. My closest friends, including my partner, call me Cin. I used to think it was a term of endearment...now I'm wondering if they are just trying to avoid the whole i vs. y thing.
In my rebellious teens, in an effort to be different (although I didn't realize how different I was yet), I started spelling my name "Cindi" with an "i" instead of a "y". Much confusion ensued. Teachers and friends got it wrong all the time, but I really couldn't blame them, now could I? Still, I'd get miffed if they continued to spell it wrong after three or four courteous corrections. And this continued into adulthood - right up to today. When people have to write my name in front of me, I always politely say, "That's Cindi with an "i" at the end." (Wish I had a quarter for everytime I've said that.) Still, they muck it up. In letters and cards, I sign them "Cindi," yet, if I get a return letter or card from that person, nine times outta ten it's addressed to "Cindy." Ugh. My e-mail addy at work has my legal name, and is the standard "Cynthia.blahblah@blahblah.org" but my signature line is a bold "Cindi BlahBlah." Can't mistake it, yet...you got it...return e-mail comes back with "Dear Cindy."
Every once in awhile, someone thinks they've got it all figured out, and sends me something with "Cyndi" on it. Now I suppose that could be considered the correct shortening of "Cynthia," but if these nitwits were paying any attention at all they would see there are no freaking y's in my name. So that' s why my blog is titled "It's Cindi with an i Dammitt."
PS. When my son was born, we named him Bryan. Not the standard "Brian" with an "i", but "Bryan" with a "y". I'm a pain in the ass, aren't I?
PSS. My closest friends, including my partner, call me Cin. I used to think it was a term of endearment...now I'm wondering if they are just trying to avoid the whole i vs. y thing.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
What am I doing here
So I got on the internet tonight to look for an urn for my son's ashes - and ended up creating a blog.
Not to worry. I promise not to make you feel sorry for me or put you into a deep depression. I just need a place where I can do a little venting, a little questioning, a little psychoanalysis on myself, k?
It should be interesting...I'm a once-married, fortysomething lesbian with a partner, a full time job, an old dog and a puppy - and I just went back to school to get a degree. Sounds like fun, eh?
Stay tuned.
Not to worry. I promise not to make you feel sorry for me or put you into a deep depression. I just need a place where I can do a little venting, a little questioning, a little psychoanalysis on myself, k?
It should be interesting...I'm a once-married, fortysomething lesbian with a partner, a full time job, an old dog and a puppy - and I just went back to school to get a degree. Sounds like fun, eh?
Stay tuned.
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