The Fall.

It's that time of year when the leaves are starting to turn and there is a definite chill in the air. It is Fall, and it actually feels like it, in more ways than one.

I have always loved Fall. Ever since I was 14 and fell in love for the first time, getting my first kiss, my first held hand, my first promise ring. My first high school football game, cuddled under a scratchy, musty blanket on the bleacher with a boy who made my heart pound out of my chest. Removing my retainer surreptitiously in order to kiss with tongue and not plastic. Wearing a borrowed letter jacket that smelled vaguely of smoke and teenage boy. It was so magical and powerful and new to me that I have forever associated this time of year with ... well... magic and power and newness.

But for the past [too many years to count], Fall has disappointed me. The excitement of the first cold front, the joy at pulling out the sweaters, the freedom of open windows, has been tinged with sadness and a feeling of being, well, anything but new. Year after year has gone by without the stomach butterflies I remember so well (although I can bring on simulated butterflies just by remembering the smell of my h.s. sweetheart's parents' van. mmm-hmm.)

The feeling associated with that most-special Fall of 23 years ago was hope. Blind, naive, stupid hope. The kind of hope you have before you've had your heart shredded for the first time. The kind of goofy joy you can only experience once, because after your heart has been shredded, you guard the pieces much more closely. You dole them out carefully, ever-prepared to come back around with a broom and dustpan and collect whatever might be left over from the next broken heart. And through the years, the pieces you are willing to hand out grow smaller. Consciously or not, you begin to only hand out the pieces you deem not as important, the ones you feel you can live without when they don't come back whole. Your capacity to trust is diminished, the spark of belief you used to have in the whole basic concept of love grows dim. You become convinced you will never be able to recapture that feeling of hope, that hope is for the young, for the innocent, for the careless.

But then, when you're least expecting it, when you have literally given up the silly dream of butterflies and blind hope, when you have accepted that your life will be a certain way and that's okay ------ you start to fall.

...to be continued...

Rekindling my Colorado spirit

I have been in a weird emotional place lately. I think it's because it is summertime, which for the past 20 years has been my least favorite season, and now that I'm here and there's not mind-numbing heat, I'm able to focus on and remember the years in which it was actually my favorite time of the year. I've talked about Spring Canyon before, but I hadn't really thought about it in a long time. Like, since I've moved here, really. Which is insane. That place and those people had such a profound effect on me, changing who I was and how I thought about myself. I honestly don't know if I would have survived high school if not for my yearly escape to the mountains.

So imagine my surprise when I was driving toward the mountains last week, on my way home from visiting the nephews in south Denver, feeling kind of moody and a little bit lonely; wondering when this place would feel like home; and then SHAZAAM, the realization that um, I have felt at home here before, and I'll bet if I looked around a little bit, I could even reconnect with some of the dear people I knew so well 20 (gulp) years ago. In other words, HELLO, Spring Canyon is only a couple of hours away!!! And a handful of the people I befriended there were from Denver, so I'll bet I could get on google and dig up at least some of them. It's so bizarre to me how that epiphany, a) took so long to happen, and b) made me instantly think of Denver differently; not as a giant, foreign city to conquer, but as somewhere where I had very happy memories when I was much, much younger.

So, note to self: begin excavation Spring Canyon. Before the summer is gone. I'd love to drive up there for a weekend and see if anyone I know still works there. I would love it even more if my dear friend Kelly, the only person I am still close to who understands and remembers that time, could explore it with me. KJ, that is a not-so-subtle nudge to get up here :)

I'm thinking a roadtrip is in order... I don't know about you, but I definitely need to reconnect with that other Lisa, the one who could laugh with her whole body, love with her whole soul, and truly escape the troubles of everyday life, if only for a few weeks a year. I live here now - I'm thinking I should work on making that carefree, optimistic attitude more of an everyday thing.

my life as a spy and the freckled redhead

It was summertime in Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas. Probably 1979-80, I don't remember exactly. I was a bookworm and my favorite book at the time was Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh. I so admired Harriet. I wanted to be Harriet. So I became Harriet. with the help of my friend Diane Dunovan (sp). That sticky Kansas summer was spent hiding under the bushes planted outside almost every duplex on base - bushes my mom referred to as "funeral bushes". I have no idea what they were actually called, but they made good hiding places, that is a fact. Each duplex in my neighborhood had several concrete steps up to a tiny concrete porch leading into a rickety 3-bedroom home that might or might not have a basement. They were all exactly the same, except for the basement factor. We had one and oh how we loved it. But that's another story...

Diane was a gawky like me, pale like me, more freckled than me, bespectacled like me, and had light, carrot-colored red hair--unlike me. (I just realized I have had redheaded friends my whole life; Kirsten, Diane, Kelly and now Kirby -- hmmm.....) Diane was as nerdy and bookwormy as me, and maybe even a little bit more shy. We were also in girl scouts together. Again, another story for another time... In any event, she would pretty much do whatever I wanted to do. And this summer, I wanted to spy. So we both bought spiral-bound notebooks and began creeping around our neighborhood for hours at a time, "spying" on people. We would hide under the bushes and listen. In all honestly, I don't remember a thing we "found out" about anyone, as it was more about the covert ops than about anything we might have overheard. I can still smell the evergreen bush, feel the gritty dirt under my knees as I knelt, poised to run if discovered, notebook in one hand and pen in the other. I wish I knew where those notebooks are now; my mom no doubt has them somewhere in her attic, but it might be decades before they're unearthed... anyway, kneeling under the evergreens, trying to be still, trying not to giggle at Diane's funny faces; my heart pounding in my chest, wondering how much trouble we would get into if we got found out--those were the days of summer. I don't remember if we ever were discovered, I just remember the adrenaline rush that kept us going throughout that long, hot, Kansas summer. Me and Diane.

The summer before 5th grade, Diane's family moved away to Ft. Riley, KS. It was the way of the military; you met people and befriended them in two or four-year increments, then one of you moved on and most likely you lost touch. I really hated to see Diane go, though; she was quirky and could make me laugh at almost anything. I remember going to visit her in Ft. Riley for a few days late in the summer, and it already wasn't the same. She had a new baby brother and she was having a hard time adjusting. While awkward at first, we warmed up to each other over the next few days, and we spent the nights in sleeping bags on the giant screened-in front porch of her parent's house. Talking and giggling until we fell into sweaty sleep, then reluctantly rising with the sun. We would talk about everything -- moving, school, boys. I remember one night we pretended to be each other's boyfriend and took turns holding hands and kissing on the lips -- such innocent pretending, such high hopes. We would try to be serious, as we imagined a boy and girl would be in such a situation, but without fail we would dissolve into a pile of giggles. Someday we would know, for real. And we would sure as shit talk to each about it.

And then school started and another year passed, and the next summer my family moved back to San Antonio. And Diane and I lost touch for good. I wrote her a few letters, but she never responded, so eventually I just stopped. We would get Christmas cards from her family every year, and one year, while I was in 8th or 9th grade, the card came and said that Diane was very ill. Maybe terminally ill. With some unpronounceable illness neither my mom nor myself can remember now. Her mom explained in the card that that was why Diane had lost touch; she didn't want to explain to anyone what was happening to her. We were so, so young. She must have been so, so scared. I like to think I tried writing to her again after that, but I truly don't remember. My feelings had been hurt when she hadn't responded years earlier, and even knowing the reason why didn't make it stop hurting. In fact, it made it worse. That was the last time we heard from her family.

In the craziness that was puberty and first love and teenage angst and dad-wars, the high-school years passed and I didn't really think about Diane that much -- and with each passing year, the memories faded. But I've never stopped wondering what happened to her. I have googled her, but no luck. I also don't remember exactly how she spelled her last name, so that's also a hindrance. I think she's probably gone. And that makes me really sad.

She was the quirky, redheaded girl who pretended to be my boyfriend; who listened to my silly, girlish hopes and dreams; who even crept around underneath the bushes all summer, dutifully taking notes on every screaming toddler that rolled by on a Big Wheel. Ah, the glamorous life on an army base.

I hope Diane had the chance to have a real boyfriend, as I did. I hope she knew how much I cared for her. I wonder if she ever thought of me in those later years. I wonder if she might still be alive. I wonder, but I may never know.

And that's the thing about life that really eats at me; so many people pass through our lives, people who are huge or small influences on us at one time or another, and then they can just be gone, just like that, and no matter how hard you look, you can't find them again. I hate losing people.

I hate losing Diane Dunavon.

dance like there's no tomorrow.

We stood in the private upstairs room of the cozy Indian restaurant downtown, surrounded by a few friends, a handful of acquaintances, and a room full of strangers. Everyone was breathless and celebratory, especially the birthday girl. Her red hair shone under the dim lights and her tinkling laugh made everyone around her smile. The music was silly and loud, and I stood next to my friends and the tall boy with whom I'd come. He and I were friends, but friends with potential. We had had one date once, which seemed to go well, but then nothing ever came of it -- except for more platonic happy hours and lots of laughs. So be it, he was funny and I liked funny guys. Sometimes we would get tipsy and flirt, which was always fun.

I remember that the festive air combined with my all-black attire, my red lipstick, and my slight wine buzz made me feel a little bit brave, a little bit hopeful. Significant eye contact had occurred with FTG (funny tall guy) and I was feeling fine. Suddenly, the birthday girl appeared in front of me, giving me a big hug, and grabbed my hand, leading me toward the mostly empty dance floor. I shyly pulled her to the side and tried to sit down at the edge of the floor, but she would have none of it. She giggled and pulled me again, and I panicked. She was shiny and bright and thin, full of joy and charisma; suddenly I felt lackluster, heavy, and terribly self conscious. My mind was spinning and I was keenly aware of funny guy behind us, urging me to go silly dance with her. It was then that I was struck with a vivid mental image of myself as I imagined others would see me--pale, puffy, perhaps with a shiny nose, fading lipstick, flat hair, shaking my body next to my thin, pretty redhead friend. I couldn't. do. it.

I shook my head and pulled my arm back, perhaps a little too hard, which surprised her. I sat myself stubbornly at the edge of the floor, FTG beside me, and just like that, I knew. I could tell from the change in his energy that I had blown it. I felt something in him cool toward me. I understood in that moment that it was never going to happen with us, because I didn't believe I was pretty enough, funny enough, fearless enough; because I was in fact too insecure to dance uninhibited at a party where I knew mostly no one. My friend had shrugged and danced away, pulling more girlfriends into her circle, but I remained seated, stiffly, with a fake smile pasted on my face. FTG got up and walked over to the bar, walked away from me.

We still went out with friends a few more times over the next couple of years, but any remaining spark had been effectively doused that night at the birthday party, as I hugged myself next to the dance floor and wished more than anything that I was thin and bubbly, or at least that I felt thin and bubbly.

I decided recently that I'm done with that girl. Not with my red-haired friend, although we lost touch not long after that party, but with that version of myself. I'm working on seeing myself as I want others to see me, not as I fear they do. Maybe I can do it this time, in a state full of mostly strangers; I'll keep you posted...

A lot of cool cats

As promised, here is the list of all my pets and little tidbits that made them special...

1. BeeBeeBahBah the cat. Calico, I think. I named her when I was less than 3 years old, thus the name. I only vaguely remember this cat hanging out with me in the basement when we lived in Tennessee -- I would play in my cardboard playhouse and she would warily watch me.
2. Zipper the cat. Grey and black-striped tabby. I **think** Zipper was related to BeeBeeBahBah. Not positive, though. I just remember Zipper never let me pet her, she was mainly an "outside" cat. We gave her to my Grandfather at some point so she could live out the rest of her years on his ranch, eating mice and such, since she didn't really like people. Or at least, small people.
3. Icky the cat. White with black and brown spots. Named for his predisposition for farting. And I may have been young, but cat farts. Dude. Icky. He also got into catfights a lot and we would have to patch him up in the morning. Pretty sure he got run over by a car on Bronzeglo Drive.
4. Muffin the cat. Orange. Got run over by a car on Bronzeglo Drive.
5. Sam the cat. Orange. Replacement for Muffin. Also got run over by a car on Bronzeglo Drive.
6. Fluffy the cat. Alley cat with siamese markings. Got knocked up and then ran away, never to be seen again.
6. Smoky Joe the cat. All I can remember is that he was gray. But not a shiny gray like Jess, more of a dull gray.
7. Powder Puff the cat. White with black and brown spots. Got her from a kitten farm in Kansas. She was a very talky cat, very chatty. Had three litters of kittens in the basement in KS, including one very traumatic miscarriage. Lived a long life and then succumbed to some kind of bronchial infection.
8. Patty the cat. Orange. PP's "brother" from the kitten farm. Thought he was a girl, thus the name; found out a few weeks later that he wasn't -- but the name stuck. When we moved back to Texas, he got run over by a car on Bronzeglo Drive. I won't go into the morbid story of his death because it still makes me sad.
9. Misty the cat -- a gray/tan tabby with enough siamese in her to make her eyes crossed and her meow super-ass-loud. Adopted from a shelter, along with her 5 newborn kittens, three of which we ended up keeping. So begins the reign of the Misty Clan.
10. Melissa of the Misty Clan -- looked more like a siamese, but with random white spots here and there, just to let you know she wasn't a purebred. Very mellow cat. For some reason, my dad always referred to her as "The Silver Cat", which, ?????. Not silver.
11. Socks of the Misty Clan -- Black, rotund cat with a white chin and white feet. She was deceptively cute-looking, but mean as hell. Heh. She did this thing where if you held your hand above her head she would stand up on two legs and meet your hand. She could stand like that for an alarmingly long time.
12. Hallie-Bones of the Misty Clan -- Black with a white stripe on his nose and a white chest. This was my first boy kitty love. He adored me and slept with me every night until I left for college. I tried to take him with me after the first semester because he was so distraught, but I hadn't even backed out of the driveway before he peed in the backseat of my car. He lived the longest of any in the Misty Clan, and eventually replaced me with my Dad. Other thing to note: in his older years, he got toe cancer and had to have two toes removed. Toe. Cancer. WTF?
13. TC (for TomCat) (Not Toe Cancer) the cat-- long-haired white and black. Perhaps the sweetest-natured cat EVAH. Chose my parents' house out of all the houses in the neighborhood -- personally I think other strays over the years had put an invisible cat mark on the house saying "Will Feed Strays." He lived a short life, but he was very sweet and cuddly, like a stuffed animal.
14. ChaCha the cat. Long-haired tan/black tabby. Another stray, adopted after I'd left for college. She was my brother's cat and ended up moving in with him after he finished college. Lived a long life.
15. Samantha the cat -- Himalayan. She was my mom's cat, the offspring of two of my Grandmother's Himalayan cats. Nicole and I never really warmed up to her for some reason. She had one kitten once. One. And it died after a few days. Perhaps I harbored resentment over this? Who knows. She and TC were boyfriend/girlfriend until TC died (although he was not the father of her kitten--that little slut)
16. Meggie the cat-- long-haired calico. This was the first cat that I got on my own. Got her my sophomore year in college with my roommate Kelly. She provided hours of entertainment as she was a feisty, outspoken cat. Very talky. Not shy. When Jess came along, she rose to the occasion and grudgingly mothered him until he outgrew her by more than 10 pounds and liked to sit on her, just to torture her. She lived 16 happy years. Now her ashes sit in the window by the LoveSac where Piper unknowingly hangs out -- so HAHA to Piper who doesn't even realize that she lounges next to her arch enemy.
17. Jess the cat-- shiny gray cat with a white chin and white chest. He's my handsome boyfriend cat, the namesake of this blog. He came along in 1996, the year my Grandmother died. The ex wanted to keep him, but I wasn't convinced at first. Thank GOD we kept him, because it's been 11 years and we're still going strong (me and the cat. NOT me and the ex). The coolest. cat. evah.
18. Piper the cat -- long-haired black/gray tabby. Another stray, found in a drain pipe. Very skitzy cat, but very sweet and soft like a rabbit. Can be talky sometimes, but mostly lays low and picks her moments to cuddle. LOVES Jess. You can see the adoration shining in her eyes whenever he's around. As much as she loves Jess, she hated Meggie. Lesson learned: don't get two chick cats at once. A boy-girl combo tends to work out much better.

Observation in retrospect: Bronzeglo Drive is a very dangerous place for cats.

Ahh, was that as fascinating for you as I suspected?? There was lots more I could write about them, but halfway through I realized the only people who might read to the end are my mom and my sister, so hey. There you go. If Nicole participates, I imagine our lists will look a lot alike, but I'd be interested to see her memories of each cat and how they differ from mine.

Meow and good night.

Welcome to my imaginary world.

I knew I wanted to be a writer soon after I discovered the wonder of reading. I read my first “thick” book, on my own, in 2nd grade. It was called Otis Spofford, by Beverly Cleary. Of course all her other books followed: the Beezus and Ramona series, the Mouse and the Motorcycle, Henry Huggins. Then I moved on to Lord of the Rings, the Chronicles of Narnia, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Roald Dahl, and eventually, Judy Blume. I giddily looked forward to those book clubs from which you could order books in elementary school (do they still do that, btw??). Reading opened up a whole new world for me, an exciting world where I could escape from the everyday monotony of being a kid in the 70s. On a military base. In Kansas. With a little brother who drove me up the wall and beyond.

I read so much that it was messing with my pronunciation. I knew what words meant, in context, but I’d never heard them spoken, so I’d pronounce them all wonky, much to my parents’ amusement. Example: I can’t tell you how utterly crushed I was to find out that a book I had read about a magical island (it was something about a dragon and an island and I’ve been searching Amazon but can’t find it) was just an “eye-land” and not an “izz-land”, which in my head was a magical, mystical place. I was devastated. The book was ruined for me. There was another time when I breezily referred to heredity at the dinner table and couldn’t understand why my mom was snorting – I had pronounced it “herra-ditty”.

I got my own bedroom for the first time when I was in 4th grade. My dad let me move into his office in the basement, the one he built when we moved into the tiny duplex on base. I slept on a fold-out couch with a “sump pump” in the corner, but I didn’t even care because I COULD READ ALL DAY LONG AND NO ONE WOULD INTERRUPT ME. Also, since I now slept in the basement with no windows, I could sleep late on the weekends without the light waking me up. Yes, my habits started early. Shut up.

My summers in Kansas were spent reading novel after novel in the basement and then riding my bike to the library with my BFF Meredith once or twice a week to load up on new books. I probably read 4-5 books a week, seriously. I always gravitated to fiction, and that is where I remain to this day. I know lots of people who diligently read self-help books or how-to books or educational books – but I’ve never been able to get that into anything but fiction because reading anything else reminds me of required reading in college. Which I hated. It’s the rebellious streak in me, I suppose. I can’t get into most nonfiction, no matter how hard I try. I just don’t enjoy it and it takes me for. ev. ah. to finish. And if I’m going to tax my tired eyes at night with more reading (beyond the computer all day long) I’m going to read something fun, something that helps me escape. The one exception to the nonfiction rule is the memoir – for some reason I love reading about other people’s fucked up childhoods. Go figure.

I enjoy books way more than movies. I’ve never been one of those people who has seen every cool movie that comes out – I usually catch it later on TV or HBO and don’t feel I’ve missed that much. The book was probably better anyway. Movies are an escape, don’t get me wrong, but an escape that only lasts a couple of hours. A book can get you into your imagination for days, even weeks at a time. I’ve never understood people who don’t enjoy reading. I just don’t get it. You can go anywhere in the world and beyond! You can experience everything! How utterly freeing! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve finished a good book and felt such a sense of loss that the funk hangs on for a couple of days, as I’m depressed to no longer be a part of that world. Until I find the next one…and there is always another world to explore, another story to tell.

All of this to say, I have always known I wanted to write. I wrote my first “book” when I was in 5th grade, and it was a very detailed science fiction story that I can still picture very clearly in my head. I’m quite confident my mom has it somewhere in the attic… I went through the bad poetry phase in high school, and then got more serious in college. I used to think I wasn’t old enough to write a novel because I hadn’t done enough. Today I realize I’m 36 and damn, I probably have stuff to say, stories to tell. So what have I done about it? Well, almost two years ago I started this blog thingie...

...to be continued...

Reluctant

The following is the first in a series of writing exercises I'm going to be working on. I got this book with ideas of how to inspire yourself to get started, to get your juices flowing, so to speak, and this is the first thing that came bubbling out of my psyche.

************************************
The summer of my discontent began innocently enough, although annoyingly. Summer actually started back in spring, the first time it hit 90. As the temperatures rose, so did the tension and stress levels, it seemed. People at work were edgier, wound tighter, less likely to go out to eat than to huddle at their desk and furtively read blogs while “working” through lunch. It seemed the world became more sluggish, as the burning sun sapped the strength and energy out of everything. Work even slowed down, at such an alarming rate that layoffs were necessary, and yours truly was one of the casualties. Spending so much energy trying not to take it personally is exhausting. Takes the fire right out of you.

Unemployment is a lonely affair. Suddenly, the people who have been part of your daily life for years are ...not. It is like on top of losing one’s self respect and dignity, one also lose a family of sorts. One day you’re “in”, the next day you’re “out” -- with zero time to absorb the transition. And it's somewhat awkward when you do meet up with your work friends; is it okay for them to talk about work? Do you really want to hear that they're sooooo busy right now, that the company that laid you off because business was slow is now doing fabulously? or would you rather hear that the company is tanking? It's all so complicated, and you don't even know yourself.

Those close to you assume that being unemployed means you have tons of free time to skip and play and stay out till all hours of the night; to go to the park all day long, writing lazily on a laptop while floating down the river on a raft. They imagine all the time they’d have to work out, to really get in shape, or to learn to cook or get organized; they ponder all the wine they would drink. Even better, all the unlimited time to travel, unfettered by deadlines for once in their life. Oh, the possibilities seem so limitless and unattainable, to those who have never been laid off.

But they’re missing a huge chunk squarely from the center of the puzzle. They’re not seeing the part of you that is wounded, the gap where your heart was, your soul, whatever that part was that believed in your worth and motivated you to get up every morning and do something productive. Being laid off is like being forced to open the door to a burning room – the unbearable heat sucks you in, singing your pride and killing your sense of humor. And it is a slow, painful death. How long one can pretend is a personal matter. I started tanking after a couple of months, gradually withdrawing into my own little bland, colorless world. Who in their right mind would want to join me here? Here sucks right now.

Here's the thing. Traveling costs money; wine costs money; partying costs money. And writing on your laptop at a funky coffee house all afternoon? Costs money. Basically, leaving the house AT ALL costs you something. Your social life is slowly disintegrating because, think about it – when was the last time you had a friendly gathering and didn’t drink wine? Or order pizza? Or make margaritas? See a movie? Everything. Costs. Money. And it’s awkward for those who have it as well as those who don’t.

What this summer has become is hours of fitful sleep, at all the wrong times. A constant knawing in the pit of my stomach, worrying about the next job lead – or lack thereof. While job searching, you lose your ability to trust pretty quickly. Positive feedback or even promises are empty until the ink is dry – and it's pretty fucking humid in Texas. The process will always take much longer than they tell you it will. In the meantime, you burrow further into your cocoon.

Only this time, way deep inside my fuzzy cocoon, I’m doing something: I’m writing.

**********************************************

Still no definitive job news. Trust me, I'll shout it from the rooftops when and if I hear something fabulous.

Why Colorado?

It occurred to me that the 80 frillion strangers faithfully reading my blog every day might not know why I'm so drawn to Colorado. Obviously, my nephews are there, but me and Colorado go way back. Me and Colorado are old friends.

It all started back in the late 70s, when my family went to Spring Canyon for our summer vacation. Spring Canyon was/is a retreat-type place run by OCF -- Officer's Christian Fellowship. It was/is a beautiful, rustic, friendly and affordable vacation spot for those in the military and their families. For two summers, we went there, and I fell in love. Those two weeks, one each summer, affected me greatly and I truly believe that's where my wanderlust began. Being an army brat anyway, I already wasn't afraid of living in different places, but CO might be somewhere I would choose to go on my own someday. Tucked into the Rocky Mountains and neighboring a small town appropriately called Buena Vista, Spring Canyon was the most beautiful place I had ever seen. I also made several friends I would connect with again in later years.

Here's the deal: Spring Canyon is kept clean and orderly by a volunteer staff of teenagers from all over the world. In exchange for free room and board, they would rotate several groups of 16-20 teens throughout the summer, teens who got the "camp" experience without the yucky tents and stuff :) The food was home-cooked, and part of the support staff's job was to help in the kitchen and serve meals. We had a few hours of downtime each day where we could do our own thing, and even one day off a week where we didn't have to work at all.

Ok, I already gave it away with the "we" -- as soon as I was old enough, 15, I applied and was accepted as a staff member during the summer between my freshman and sophomore year of high school. Knowing I had this to look forward to helped me make it through some rough boyfriend moments that year in school. I couldn't wait to go and experience my first real bout with independence in a "safe" venue. As expected,I loved it. I was there for a 5-week stint, which was the longest I'd ever been away from family. I missed them, but also discovered how good it is to miss something sometimes, so you appreciate it more when you return. I made lifelong friends that summer and even had a mini (very mini) romance with one of the guests. This was against the rules and scandalous, but hey -- what did they expect with a bunch of teenagers and pretty mountains? It was very innocent, but it was enough to make my boyfriend back home jealous and actually shape up for a month or so before deteriorating back to asshole-status. But I digress.

The second summer I went was for 6 weeks. I was 16, a little older and wiser, and embraced the whole experience with joy and no fear of the unknown. This was the summer I truly came into my own. I found I wasn't that "shy" after all -- the label I'd always had in school was not true, much to my surprise. I felt popular for the first time in my post-elementary-school life, but we were such a close-knit group that there were no "outsiders", unlike "real life". Spring Canyon was an amazing, life-altering escape from reality, which was something I really needed. It was a little pocket in time where I could laugh til I cried and be myself and feel spiritual, stuff I was too tied in knots to do at home during the rest of the year. And the second summer, I had a summer romance. His name was Marshall and he was the first soccer player I would be involved with (in an ongoing stream of soccer players...heh). We were 16, beautiful, filled with the magic of the place, surrounded by people we liked and respected, and we fell in love. I still had my boyfriend back home, but what a difference it made to finally have a comparison. Marshall made Chris's faults all the more hideous, and I came back that summer not quite as susceptible to his bullshit. Marshall and I wrote tons of letters that year and called each other once a week, taking turns. He lived in North Carolina. We finnagled and prayed and crossed our fingers and toes, and somehow ended up on the same staff for our third summer.

The third summer. I was gone a full 7 weeks this time, because I went up early and stayed late with my friend Kelly at her home in Co. Springs. In between was the joy, the drama, the heartbreak, the strength, and more dear friends. Every year it was harder to go home to my blah life in San Antonio and my disappointing boyfriend. Things in Texas just weren't as shiny as in Colorado. My friends in CO "got" me. I didn't think most of my friends in TX "got" me. Of course Marshall and I had a disastrous and dramatic breakup within our first couple days together, but I learned how to concede with grace that summer. It was painful, yes, but my heart had already been ripped into bloody shreds by my h.s. sweetheart, so it was not unbearable. Even when Marshall paired off with another girl on staff, Becky, I couldn't be mad at her because she was so awesome and I loved her so much. Plus, I knew they didn't have the same spark we had the previous summer. The point is, I didn't freak out and it didn't ruin my trip, like it might have two years prior. I had grown, as a person and as a friend. I left my third summer at Spring Canyon to return to TX for my senior year, which is a whole novel in itself.

Every summer in CO, I became more convinced that I felt more myself there, that I felt more at home, more comfy, more at peace. I could hear myself think there. And the mountains made me feel closer to all that is good in the world. I continued flirting with Colorado during college, when I would go home with my friend Kelly for Spring Breaks. Yes, the one from Spring Canyon, who lived in Co. Springs. She ended up being my roommate in college for a couple of years.

When I met who would become my husband (then ex-husband), I was very clear with him that I had no intention of staying in TX forever. That I was biding my time until I could move back to CO. He would laugh and roll his eyes and pat me on the head, like "silly lisa, whatever you say..." It wasn't until we were married that I realized he had no intention of ever leaving Texas.

In fact, I had a job opportunity AT Spring Canyon right after I graduated from college -- but I chose to stay in Texas because my ex and I were supposed to get engaged. I chose him over my true love. Live and learn.

When my sis and her family moved to Denver last summer, it was bittersweet. I was sad they wouldn't be nearby anymore, but at the same time, I was excited they'd be in one of my favorite places on earth. And in the back of my mind, I was thinking "hmmm....." I would tell people "well if something were to happen with my job, who knows...". Well, people, that something happened and I have a promising job lead in Denver -- and THAT'S Why Colorado.

As afraid as I am to uproot the life I've built here in Austin, all my dear friends, my career contacts, my sense of "home", I am just as excited to start fresh somewhere else. And not just any somewhere...but Colorado.

So. We shall see.

from the archives

I wrote this 8 years ago, at a completely different time in my life. I was in therapy at that time, working through a lot of things, including the end of my marriage. I found this tonight and decided to post it, with just a very few edits to protect those I love. Funny how much things have changed, yet how much they also stay the same.

Awakenings
January 23, 1998

I knew this before, without voicing it so precisely. I may have even mentioned it to people as an example. But a moment ago, as I was flipping through my Daytimer looking at the month ahead, I saw where I had marked the anniversary of my Grandmother’s death. Instantly, I was there. Two years ago, but still fresh when I close my eyes.

What I realized just now is that I do know the precise moment my marriage was over, the instant in which my decision was made. My ex was driving me to San Antonio for the weekend funeral, though he hadn’t been with me earlier that week when I was at the hospital waiting and waiting for life. He was trying to chit-chat and act “normal”, and even asked if I wanted to stop at the outlet mall. It was dark outside, and I remember watching him as he spoke. Watching a stranger. He had now switched the topic to my family and was inventing all the possible crazy scenarios that might occur with all of us in the same room together. Just for fun. He was cracking himself up talking about what if one of my uncles finally let loose on my dad. He went on and on, and I watched him silently, and suddenly I felt so hard the love for him die out. Just vanish. My heart went numb as my mind realized that I didn’t love this man, this man didn’t understand me or know who I was, nor did he realize it, much less give a damn. I realized I could not, would not spend the rest of my life with this person that I despised at that moment. I felt disgust for him, as well as sorrow. This was all an instant, one he was unaware of, and one that I tucked away somewhere until now, when I can look at all of it with clarity.

If I knew then what I know to be true now, as they say, I would have listened to my heart and my body and acknowledged my decision. It was my self that wasn’t ready to give up. Although ironically, that is when I did give up. I stopped caring, I stopped trying, I stopped thinking of a future with him. I began to realize over the next few months how fucking stifled I was, and how had I become so not me? So began the next year and a half of the ending of our marriage. The attacks I made on him, then the guilt. The blame he put on me, and more guilt. Always guilt. It was my fault, I didn’t try hard enough, I had grown cold, I needed help, I was fucked up, but not him. I lived like this for months and months, getting more and more numb and withdrawn, protecting myself with more and more weight. No one would touch me, not my body or my soul. I wouldn’t have it.

We stopped touching, in any way, approximately a year after my Grandmother’s death, in fact, about this time a year ago. It had tapered almost to nothing anyway; he was actually forced to take the initiative because I didn’t care anymore. I went through it, but was not really there. He repulsed me. Finally I said enough. When he wouldn’t honor that, I gave him the ultimatum--couple’s therapy or divorce. I was not going to feel stalked in my own home, and I was aware that it was so wrong, so absurd that I didn’t want him THAT MUCH. I knew that couple’s therapy would be the end, but I was finally ready. And surely, it took only a month before we were separated, then a week before starting the divorce. Time started moving for me again. There was grief, but also hints of joy that I at first tried to stifle out of guilt. How could I feel joyous about getting divorced? But I did. My sense of freedom widened, as did my group of support, my friends. I began to live again. Time started flying by me as my soul picked up speed. As I changed, as my spirit was freed, so was my body. My body went through an amazing transformation all by itself, just following the fashion of my new perspective, my new hope and joy. I feel the transformation culminated in my trip to Europe. On that trip I lived as the person I now am; I felt no dead weight from my past. I lived completely in the moment without analyzing anything, and felt free and happy and alive, all at the same time. I noticed details like never before. I felt the wind, smelled the city, listened to traffic mingled with foreign tongues. I felt myself feeling. I absorbed the experiences like a sponge, and I am still full, almost overflowing. This is living.

I believe that is a gift my Grandmother gave to me, somehow. The Sunday before her surgery, my birthday actually, she was saying her good-byes to all of us, even though we didn’t know that until later. She knew. She was ready. She wasn’t afraid. I remember so clearly her smooth face, her dark, wet eyes, her smile and little laugh. She hugged me good-bye, then pulled back, her hands still on my shoulders, and just looked at me with brimming eyes and her lips pressed into a smile. She just looked at me, and said softly “Good-bye, honey.” I said something to the effect of everything would be fine, I’d see her Tuesday before her surgery. But she knew. She gave me a birthday card, and it said “My Love Always, Grandmother”. That was very significant, in retrospect. For 26 years I’d gotten her birthday cards signed simply “Love, Grandmother”. Later, after she died, as the family was going through her desk looking for insurance papers, they discovered, rubber-banded together, a stack of birthday cards for everyone else’s birthday for the whole year. Signed and stamped. She knew.

I always think of her when I doubt myself or what I’m doing. I truly feel she would be proud of me. She lived a full, adventurous life in a time when it wasn’t proper to do so, and I know she would have understood bolting from a cage. She made mistakes and learned from them and then made more mistakes, but she lived her life. And I know she was with me too on my trip last year, seeing Europe from my eyes, experiencing my joy, so happy and happy for me. I could feel her.

I finally feel peace about her unexpected (for us) death. There is a reason and a purpose for everything, and I think I know what my lesson was. Do not waste a single day being sad. Live fully. Take care of yourself no matter what others say. Be an independent woman. I feel her strength through me also as I battle my other demons that affect me still. She would tell me to keep going, keep digging, keep fighting, until I find resolution and peace. So I will.

Day by day. Lessons, every day, if you know where to look and how to see.

Interesting I should discover this jewel from my past right when I'm on the brink of drastically uprooting and changing my safe little life... yay, Grandmother! She still sees...

Theme of the Week - Trust Your Instincts

So tonight I am going to relish the fact that I do not have to get up early tomorrow and try to make a 9am meeting. In fact, I’m so relishing this fact that I've decided to take over this week's theme. Several of my friends have been doing this and I think it's an interesting way to learn more about people you think you know pretty well ;)

So, this week's theme will be "Trust Your Instincts." You know what I mean -- that time you had a really bad feeling in the pit of your stomach and everyone thought you were paranoid and then - boom - you were right? I know of several such occurrences in my own small world lately, so I thought it might be appropriate. I will of course begin -- feel free to join in if you like!

I am going to talk of one of the times I've had NO DOUBT that my instincts were talking to me, as they didn't leave it up for discussion. I was on my Freedom Trip 1997 with Tam and we were in the last leg of our trip, Paris for New Year's Eve. That whole night is a story unto itself, and a pretty good one, but for now I'm going to recount the incident I will never forget.

Picture this -- two radiant, joyous ladies in their late 20s, on their own in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. We were on top of the world by this point in our trip, and our New Year's was turning out to be every bit as fantastic as everything else that had happened to us in the past two weeks. We were in an upscale Parisian apartment owned by a French man named … omigosh, I cannot think of his name right now. I can see his face and hear his laugh, but his name escapes me. Wow. Getting old sucks. (Tam, maybe you remember? Seems it started with an R…?). Anyway, he was also in his late 20s, and had family money. He was very hospitable and didn’t find it odd at all that his friends had brought along two American girls they met on the Champs at midnight. I knew he had family money within 5 minutes of meeting him for three reasons: 1) he didn’t work but talked of all his travels 2) his apartment was un believable, and 3) he was pouring toasts with champagne made at his family’s vineyard. Yeah. So anyway, we spent maybe an hour there with a smallish group of French people, all about our age, all beautiful, all who spoke English almost perfectly. We felt very welcome. We decided at some point to go to another party. Somehow on the way out of the building, Tam and I got separated. Well, it’s not a mystery – the elevators in Europe only hold about 0.75 of an adult, so we simply didn’t squish into the same one. I found myself in front of the building in the middle of the night with a gorgeous couple. They had been pretty quiet, but suddenly they were speaking to each other rapidly in French and telling me to get in the car, they’d drive me to the party. Maybe if they hadn’t been switching from French to English so I couldn’t understand what they were saying, my radar wouldn’t have gone off. Maybe if I’d finished my glass of champagne – but I had not. So as they tried to shuffle me into their tiny car, I pulled back. They laughed and told me I was being silly. I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for Tam and the rest of the group to appear – it seemed to take forever. They were cajoling me, peer pressuring me to get in their car, going from coaxing me gently to gruffly telling me to get in the car.

Never in my life had I had such a strong feeling of danger curdle in my stomach. Every warning bell in my body was going off. Even if I’d wanted to get in the car, I don’t think my body would have allowed it. I turned around and went back into the building, right into the arms of Tamara and the others. As I was breathlessly trying to explain what happened, the couple got in their car, muttering in French, slammed the doors, and drove off into the night.

The rest of us got in cars, together, and went to the other party. (I should note that although we didn’t know the others much better than the strange couple, I had no dangerous vibes from them – we could both tell they were okay. And we were right.). And here’s the spooky thing about it all – we stayed at the other party for hours, and that couple? Never showed up.

I have no idea what would have happened if I’d allowed them to whisk me away into the Paris night. But something inside of me told me that would be a huge mistake, and I listened – and I am safe. That night went on to be the BEST New Year’s Eve I have ever spent anywhere. We made friends we were sure we’d keep for life. And we did, for a while. But then time happened and life happened and here it is more than 8 years later.

But I’m ever so grateful I trusted my instincts that night. And they have rarely let me down since.

So, what about you? Let’s hear it!

Turning point

I am going to go with Dipu's theme of the week, which is to describe a major turning point in my life. There have been many, but I have two closely related huge ones. The first was choosing to move to Austin to support my then-husband financially while he went back to college to get his degree.

This was undoubtedly the best choice I have ever made, and I made it for all the wrong reasons. Rather, the wrong reasons for a (healthy) marriage. But as it turned out, the healthy-for-me reasons. It was 1994, and I had been married just about 4 months when my ex decided he wanted to finish college. We were living in Bryan/College Station, Texas, where he had grown up and where I had gone to college. It was two years after I'd graduated and I was SO ready to leave. However, one of the sacrifices I'd made when I married him was agreeing to stay there because he liked living in a smallish town -- even though I've always been a city girl at heart (Red Flag Alert). So when he decided one day he wanted to go to St. Edwards, a private college in Austin, I felt a glimmer of hope: this could be my big escape! He saw it as a temporary move until he graduated, then we'd move back to BCS. Um, no. But being the "good wife" that I was, I kept my mouth shut, thinking to myself that he would get to Austin and realize how cool it was and I'd be free, free, free of small-town America Forevah!! (Red Flag Alert).

I had three job interviews in Austin and three job offers. I was a Technical Writer then. Of the three jobs, I was only torn between two of them -- one at a start-up that paid significantly more than the other one, which was at National Instruments. Though NI would pay less, I had really good vibes there. It was larger, more established, and they had a whole department of tech writers. Whereas the higher paying gig had none, and I would be the sole writer. I went with my gut and made the 2nd Turning Point decision: I chose NI. Ex was actually ok with this, because he felt safer with me working for a more established company, plus the insurance rocked. So we moved. He went to school, I went to work.

NI was life-changing for me in many ways. It was where I met all my dearest friends in Austin -- to this day we are all close. It was where I finally felt important, professional, like I belonged. I felt like a grownup. Even though I'd been a tech writer in College Station, it had just felt like an extension of college to me. This was the "real" world.

Through my new co-workers, all of us at about the same life stage, I discovered Austin and all it had to offer. I started growing. I opened my mind to new ideas that I'd never had. Ideas like, maybe there WAS a good life other than being married. Maybe the reason I felt so disconnected from my husband and uncomfortable in my marriage was because I wasn't supposed to be there. As I grew, we grew further apart. He hated that I was becoming independent. That I was forming my own opinions. I'd always just nodded along with whatever he thought, but I was finding out that he was not always right, nor did I agree with him on a bunch of major issues. He didn't like my new friends, he felt threatened. He didn't like who I was becoming, which was a Red Flag because I was becoming ME. Finally. And he didn't like the real ME. But luckily, I did.

The rest is history. I continued to grow, right out of the confines of the marriage, and almost 8 years ago we divorced. I am still here in Austin, still writing but in a different field, still surrounded by my best friends, people that understand me and respect me and have known me through the whole process. He finished school and moved to a small town with his new wife, barely a year after we split, where he still lives with his wife and two children. And people, let me say that I am SO GLAD I'm not there with him. Whenever I think that it could have been me, I physically shudder. It's not that I don't ever want to settle down or have kids; I just didn't want any of that with him. And that's okay -- we are both happier the way things are now. And yes, it did take a long time for both of us to realize that.

So, in summary: if I hadn't moved to Austin and taken the job at NI, who knows where I would be, or with whom. And I would rather be single and childless forever than married to the wrong man.

Things usually work out the way they're supposed to, thank the heavens and all that is holy.

Desensitization

I have a dear friend who lives in Dallas -- we'll call her KJ. We met at a camp in Colorado the summer before my sophomore year in HS -- 1985??? yikes -- and have been friends ever since. We were roommates in college for two years. We are Forever Friends.

We don't see each other as often now as we used to, maybe once or twice a year, but we speak frequently and always know what's going on in the other's life. Right now, KJ is not having a good time. I spoke to her a couple of weeks ago and she sounded happier than I've ever known her to be. She was in love. She had met The One. He was everything she'd ever hoped for -- he loved her, got along with her dogs and her roommate, was earnestly working on an MBA (i.e. had ambition and would get a good job), was eager to meet her family, etc etc -- it sounded too good to be true. You can probably tell where this is going.

Then a week ago, she called me again, not so happy; it seems Mr. Wonderful had left the state abruptly. In a rental car she had rented for him (on her credit card) and after trying to withdraw the money in her savings account (she had trustingly loaned him her ATM card). Thankfully her bank called her when he tried to access her savings, and she put a hold on the account. The next few days were a nightmarish blur, where it slowly sank in that this guy was a professional con artist -- with a police record to prove it -- and that this whole relationship had been a ruse to take advantage of her. She called him, left him messages, text messages, emails, and of course, he never responded. He was gone. Not only had he taken her rental car, he had taken her dignity.

The legal ramifications of this mess are still being sorted out, with the help of her lawyer. But worse than the financial betrayal is the bigger, unforgivable betrayal. She is having a very hard time reconciling what has happened and who she now knows him to be with who he was just a week or so ago. I ache for her. I feel helpless. I can only imagine how she feels, the humiliation of having to tell her story over and over again to police detectives, lawyers, her parents, her friends -- adding insult to injury. She is beating herself up -- she should have known, should have seen that it was too perfect, should have caught on that he was studying her and learning how to be the person she most wanted him to be. She should have known better than go give him her bank card. But the fact is, she is heartbroken. This person who pretended to love her, take care of her, who listened to all her secrets and fears and desires for months, this person cons women for a living. He never cared for her at all. This is the hardest part. She will be ok, but it will take a while.

I have just been on the sidelines, observing, listening, supporting. There is nothing I can do, really. She's already done what I would suggest -- hired a lawyer and taken steps to protect herself. The odd thing about this whole situation is the eerie feeling of deja vu that I keep getting. This is straight out of a Law & Order episode, or a Lifetime movie. It seems unreal. To outsiders, it seems obvious that he was too good to be true -- but that's not helping KJ now as she struggles to heal. While I hurt for her, I can't help but think of it like it's a tv show. I hear myself saying things, like "the detectives can track him with your credit card", "if he tries to sell the car, the VIN number will come up as stolen" -- and I'm thinking, where is this coming from?? It's coming from NBC, people. And it makes me feel icky.

This reminds me of another time, when me and my then-boyfriend were driving at night and almost hit a man who almost stepped in front of our car; then we watched in the rear view mirror as he did step in front of the next car, got hit, flew up in the air, and fell like a rag doll. We pulled over and joined the growing crowd around the scene. I was shaking and felt like I was outside of my body. The man looked homeless. He was lying in a pool of blood, motionless. One of the people who stopped was a paramedic, and was helping until the ambulance got there. We hung around in case they needed statements from witnesses. Throughout all of this, I felt completely numb. I stared over at the college-aged guy who had hit him with his jeep. What I will never forget is that boy's face -- he looked as numb as I felt, with a tinge of disbelief and grief. I remember thinking, this boy will never be the same. Please don't let the man die. I don't know what happened though, because although we scoured the news and papers for days, nothing was ever said about the accident. I still think about that, and my comment to my bf as we drove away -- "I felt like I was watching television."

So how are all the crime/medical dramas on tv really affecting us? It's scary to me that as I watched a man get hit by a car, I wanted to rewind it. I felt so disconnected emotionally. And now it's happening again with my friend.

I can totally understand why people worry about violence on tv affecting kids. It worries me too. But right now, I need to focus on being there for my friend and not turning her into a character on a police drama. Then I can think more about this phenomena of numbness that seems to pervade our society. I can't be the only one, right??

a babysitter story

My siblings and I had a lot of babysitters growing up. My parents went out a lot, in retrospect; once a week was "Bible-study night", where we always had a sitter except on the nights it was at our house, which we hated even worse b/c then we were stuck in the back of the house and couldn't even go down the HALL. Also, my dad was an officer in the Army and I guess they attended a lot of events. Also, my mom would often get a babysitter for us during the day so she could go shopping. I never knew what was worse — to be dragged along on her endless shopping trips or to be left with some inept teenager. Or mean old woman (Mrs. Morris — ahh that is a post in itself… remind me if I forget…). But then, for a few years, there was Carol.

She was my Favorite Babysitter Evah. I must have been 5 or 6 when she started babysitting us regularly. We lived in San Antonio, pre-Kansas. I guess she was 18 or 19, but it's hard to judge when you're that little. In any event, she was nice, fair, firm, but loving. I remember being very sad when we had to move away to Kansas and leave Carol behind. As a parting gift, she took me to the mall and told me I could "pick out one thing, ANYthing, and she would buy it for me". O.M.G. Do you know how spectacular that is for a 2nd grader??? It was soooo generous and soooo amazing and sooo exciting! ANYthing? I couldn't believe it. What would I get? After what seemed like hours, but probably wasn't, and after much agonizing, I chose perhaps the ugliest stuffed dog on the face of the Earth. I remember she kept asking me, "Are you SURE? You're SURE? Ok. You're SURE?" I insisted that I was. And how I loved that ugly stuffed dog. You may be wondering how any stuffed dog could be ugly; well I'll tell you. It was white with black ears; it was made cheaply, like a carnival stuffed animal – filled with those little Styrofoam beads, so not even very soft. And the kicker? It had a rubber face. Like a doll's face, only a dog. It was even pink, like a doll face. And its tongue stuck out. I don't know if my description can possibly convey the disturbing nature of this dog, but anyway — that was my Carol dog and I cherished it. (Sidenote: I honestly can't remember if my sister went with us to the mall — seems like she would have, but then again she was only 3 or so…Nicole, do you remember?)

So in 1976(?) we moved to Ft. Leavenworth, KS. It was the first time we had ever lived in a place that got snow, so as kids, we loved it. Also, there were tons of neighborhood kids to play with at any given moment — we lived on base, and it seemed every house had 2-3 children. Life moved on, I started 3rd grade, we began the process of going through a battery of weird babysitters. I don't remember how long we were there before my mom got a phone call one night. I think it was within the first year we lived there. The phone call was from Carol's mother, informing us that Carol had died. Carol was dead. As in, gone forever. My mom told me this, but I didn't grasp it. I didn't know details, only that we were flying back to Texas to attend her funeral. Again, I can't recall if Nicole was there, it may have just been my mom and me.

We went to the "viewing" at the funeral home the day before the service, and I sat there, in a room full of flowers, watching my babysitter, Carol, laying very still in a casket. It was an open casket. She looked puffy and smelled like roses — to this day I can't stand the smell of roses or carnations b/c it takes me back to that funeral home. While my mom and her mom chatted and cried, Carol's little brother tried to entertain me. It was very surreal. I remember watching Carol very closely, waiting, willing her to open her eyes. I really just thought she would sit up at any moment and say, "Hello, I'm back, just sleeping." But she didn't.

Years later when I was 14 or 15, I was doing dishes with my mom one night when the subject of Carol came up. My mom then told me what had really happened, and I felt the shock all over again. Carol had been going to college. She had gone out on a date with a "friend" and had been raped. She got pregnant from this rape. Despite being from a staunch Catholic family, supposedly she was "highly encouraged" by a family member to get an abortion, and she did so, against her own wishes. It appeared that she never recovered from the trauma, because they found her one morning in her apartment, dead, with empty bottles of prescription pills scattered around her bedroom floor. It was determined that she had killed herself.

My whole world shifted that day. Things from the past started falling into place: the guilt that her mother had spoken of that day at the funeral home; the unusual awkwardness I picked up on, even at 7; my mom spending hours comforting the mother, even though they were not close friends. My mind went even further. That explained why Carol looked "puffy". It was macabre and devastating and fascinating all at the same time.

I had not thought about that incident in a long time, until I had a strange conversation with a friend several years ago. We were somehow talking about funerals, and as I told her Carol's story, for the first time I realized how weird it was that a 7-year-old spent the day in the room with her dead babysitter in an open casket. I had already been to lots of funerals by then, which apparently isn't everyone's experience. I guess I had a lot of very old relatives die throughout my childhood, but Carol was the only person I ever knew personally, until my best friend Ann's father died our senior year of HS. But this friend was telling me how she had never been to a funeral until her Grandfather died a few years ago. I was amazed, but have come to realize that perhaps I was the anomaly…

It got me thinking. I'm still not sure what I think. But suffice it to say that there was never another Carol, and I will never forget her extraordinary kindness. The tragedy of her short life still makes me ache when I think about it. Which I'm doing today, for some reason.

blahblahblah

Things have settled down. Wayyyyyy down. So far down. I don't know where the past week went, but i'm freaking out that I only have 3 days left to sleep in before reality and real life sets in again. Ugh. But the sleeping-in thing is messing with the going-to-bed-at-night thing, as you might gather by the time of this post. Both the cats sacked out on my bed about 2 hours ago. They tried to stay awake with me but it was just too hard. But me? I'm wide awake.

Jess and Piper are fine now. Jess got over his grumpy episode and they're buddies again. I still think he's grieving, but there's no sign that he's going to stop eating - ha. When I go into the spare room, where Megs spent her last few weeks, he follows me in and sits quietly with me. He seems a little sad. He's been really clingy, but that's cool because I've been home a lot so he'll just snuggle with me on the couch. Of this whole lazy week, I have accomplished very little. This is how little, yet I am so proud to have accomplished ANYTHING:

-Cleaned my room, a several-hour-long process involving hanging up tons of clean clothes stacked in various places
-Did 5 loads of laundry, clearing my kitchen floor of laundry piles for the first time in months
-Packed up another load of shoes and clothes to go to Goodwill
-Started a list of all the things I need to do in order to get my shit together in 2006.

Doesn't sound like a lot? Well... it's not really -- I basically did it all today. That's right, I only took one nap today, by golly, and look at all I got done.

Next week is really going to suck, isn't it?

I have done very little socializing this week, but i did see my friend Sarah, visiting from San Francisco, a couple of times, and that was very nice. Even though I had to work a tad this week, it still has felt very much like a break, which I needed. I'm so ready for this wretched odd-numbered year to be OVAH. I do better in even-numbered years. See for yourself:

- born - 1970
- H.S. graduation - 1988
- college graduation - 1992
- got married - 1994
- got divorced - 1998
- sister got married - 1998
- first nephew born - 2000
- second nephew born - 2002
- third nephew born - 2004
- quit job I hated, started job I love - 2004

Alternately, check out the odd-numbered years:

- mom had cancer - 1995
- started a long journey to my personal recovery - 1997
- separated from ex-husband - 1997
- got laid off - 2001
- near-fatal car wreck and subsequent health problems - 2003
- Meggie's death - 2005

It's kind of eerie, isn't it? Of course there are good and bad milestones in my life that don't fit the pattern, but generally? I'm all about the even-numbered years.

This might be the lamest post ever. Sorry. I'll try to have something interesting to write about very soon. Should be do-able -- New Year's Eve is tomorrow, and you never know...

the aftermath, part 1

As I was pondering the title for this blog, I realized that referring to what follows as the aftermath is doubly true; meaning, the aftermath of the big buildup that is Christmas, as well as the aftermath of losing Megs.

I'm in a weird mood tonight. (Could part of it be because I've been watching The Learning Channel's (TLC) marathon of heartbreaking birth defects for hours? I just watched "Born Without a Face" and am now engrossed in "Born With Two Heads." Why? Why???). Barring the odd ambience as I type this entry, here's the setup: I am in bed, propped on pillows, typing on my laptop. Jess is curled up at the top of the bed by my pillow. Piper is curled up at the bottom of the bed, a mirror-image of jess. Now, the vet warned that the cats might grieve, even refuse to eat. I knew Piper would be thrilled about the whole thing, and I was right, but I expected something from Jess. After all, he's known Meggie his whole life; when he came to me as a kitten, 10 years ago, she was already well-established in the household and took over "training" this young male cat. I would describe their relationship more as that of siblings, rather than mother/son. I never saw much of a maternal instinct shining through even as Megs would tackle him, hold him down, and roughly bathe his disgusting boy kitten self. You could just see the cartoon bubble above her head saying "BOYS. Gross." So she would clean him, then set him free and ignore him for the next few hours. As you would expect, Jess spent his kittenhood trying to get her to love him. He desperately wanted her to play with him, and she would sometimes. For a while, she always had the upper hand (as Steph witnessed years ago when she came home w/me at lunch to meet Jess, and got to witness Meggie dribbling his little gray head in a moment of sheer frustration). Until. Jess grew up. And ended up weighing twice as much as her. And when he realized this, he took every opportunity to sit on her. To jump on her. He loooovveeeddd jumping on her back and pinning her to the floor, just to hear her complain. She was a good sport about it all. I think she did love Jess a little, but theirs was a complicated relationship. I always thought she was somewhat relieved when I brought Piper home, because then Jess had a younger playmate and he left Megs alone more. Megs had no problem with Piper, it was Piper who hated/feared Megs. But I digress.

ANYWAY, while I expected Jess to react in some way to her death, I knew he would not stop eating. I mean come on. We're talking about Jess the 21-pound cat. He has the same problem as his mom - he eats to medicate stressful emotions. So now, he's been eating more than ever, and can I blame him? No, he has not stopped eating, but he is reacting. He seems to be taking it out on Piper. Ever since I got home last night, if Piper comes near him he growls. She is giving him his space, but I know she's confused and a little hurt. It's almost like he blames her or something. I dunno, it's very possible i'm reading too much into this. I just hope it's a phase and it passes and they become pals again.

I overlap cats on purpose, you see; I never want one of my kitties to be left alone, grieving. I adopted Piper knowing that she would be a companion for Jess when Meggie was gone. They're all 5 years apart. So yes, I'll say it: it has occurred to me to get a 3rd cat at some point, so that the same holds true for Piper when Jess is gone. But right now it's not a consideration. I'm a little too raw, and the cats are too. Jess is ANGRY, people. Oh, the anger. He doesn't just growl at Piper, he growls at me when he wants me to stop petting him, or if he sees me pet Piper. He's just plain mad. So there will be no addition to the Young household for quite some time. I'd say maybe never, but I never say never.

I was going to go into my Christmas recap here, but I'm tired and the next show in the TLC marathon just started: "Little People, Big Dreams." More later...

gone missing.

Today there is one less soul living under my roof. While I can still feel her presence everywhere, and keep turning my head to see her visage out of the corner of my eye, she is gone. It's interesting to find out that there is such a marked, noticable change of energy -- that one little cat had such a presence for so many years.

Those who didn't know Megs very well thought of her as a nice enough cat, however a stereotypical one. It's true, you had to earn her trust before she'd allow you to bestow her with pets -- and then she only liked to be pet a certain way and would get really pissed if you did it wrong. But the people who knew her well knew that when you got to know her, she was one entertaining, opinionated, loud kitty. She had a sense of humor as well as a sense of irony. She had the most expressive kitty face I've ever seen. I could have fun scanning in every photo I have of her and putting a caption with what's she's thinking in each one, because to me it was always so clear. I just might do that someday. But today, I just want to remember her as she was just a few short months ago -- healthy, feisty, and fluffy.

If I had any doubts this morning, when the vet arrived at my house, I overcame them by thinking back to how Megs used to be. She has not been herself lately, and who could blame her -- you could just tell from her eyes that she felt like utter crap. She stopped eating/drinking a few days ago, and that's when I knew it was time to take care of her. While it was one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make, I still feel it was the right one -- even as I type this with tears streaming down my face. I miss her. I missed her the instant she was gone. I want so much for her to jump up on my bed right now and cause Piper to go into a hysterical hissing fit. I keep wanting to go into the spare room where she'd been camped out and sit quietly with her again, talking to her and petting her head just right. But still, no regrets. She depended on me her whole life to keep her safe and healthy, I couldn't let her down now. Sure I probably could have kept her around a while longer, to make myself feel better -- but that was not fair to her. And now I feel strangely alone, even though I'm flanked with two sleeping, fat, healthy cats. I'm wondering when they're going to notice she's gone. I fully expect Piper to dance a little jig and click her heels as she belts out, "ding, dong, the witch is dead...", and I picture Jess being really concerend and worried, looking for her and calling for her. But it hasn't sunk in yet, for any of us.

There is just this hole in my heart. And the emptiness of this house. I know we will fill it up again with more love and memories with my two remaining babies, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. I think Piper will flourish, not just because her arch-nemesis is no longer around to freak her out, but because I can finally really love her without feeling guilty toward Megs, the first lady of the house and my best friend for years. I don't think I realized until tonight how I'd always held myself back just a little bit with Piper. Now I can enjoy her and all her little quirks more fully.

The other thing weighing heavily on my mind tonight is Jess. He is only 5 years younger than Megs, and he is overweight. I'm so conscious now that they can get sick and die in such a short period of time, i'm fighting my urge to take him in and have every blood test done to make sure he's **really** healthy. I'm hoping the urge subsides and I'll stop being paranoid at his every wheeze. I want to take a deep breath.

But for now, I am mourning my fair Meggie. A little piece of my heart, which held a piece of my history, died today. And I am sad. And Christmas is in two days. And I am sad. I'm going to miss seeing my nephews open their presents this year, and I am sad.

Let's hear it for 2006, shall we??

history lesson

My oldest kitty, Megs, is very sick. I heard from the vet today and her bloodwork showed something seriously wrong with her liver. It will take a sonogram to find exactly what it is, whether it's cancer or liver disease, but either way, it's not looking good for the old girl. So very soon, I will have some big decisions to make about my 15-year companion. Gosh, that's longer than a lot of marriages -- longer than mine, for sure. That's longer than a lot of friendships. Longer than school.

My cat has seen a LOT of my life, literally witnessing every major life change so far -- I got her when I was 20. Before I had even met the guy who would become my ex-husband. And you know, I can look back and see now how I should have paid more attention to her -- she never liked that asshole. heh.

She knows my history, she IS my history. And it freaks me out to think of life without her fluffy self, she who has been the one constant in my life for so long. That is a good word for her: constant. She has slowed down a lot in her old age, but has yet to lose her attitude and spunk. She'll still kick Piper's ass if necessary -- but really all she has to do is give Piper one withering look and the Peeps is dust in the wind. Megs will still come loudly complain if she is unhappy about something -- hunger, thirst, even the litter box. She will come sit next to or beside me and touch my face with her paw, gently at first and then more insistently, until she has my full attention and I give her what she wants. My long-time friend Kelly was my roommate the semester in college when we decided to take on a pet -- she was/is co-mother to Megs. Even after all these years, and considering Kelly and I don't visit but once or twice a year, Meggie remembers her. And she remembers my family members. Oh yes, that cat has a looonnngggg memory. It makes me so sad that all those memories will be lost when she isn't around anymore.

Which brings me to tonight. I'm trying not to get too morbid, since I still don't have all the facts, but my vet basically told me to prepare myself. And I guess I have been, for a while now. As I've wached Megs grow more frail over the past 6 months, I've known deep down that her age was going to catch up with her and I needed to brace myself. But tonight, I am just loving her, giving her my support. Bringng her a plate of canned catfood to the back room where she prefers to sleep, turning on the gas fireplace for her shivering self, even though it's f-ing hot in here (gone is the ice, TX is back) and I had to strip down to my undies to stay in the living room with her. Before I came to bed, where I am writing this in an attempt to purge my heart so I can sleep, I took this small Ikea fake fur rug into her room and laid it on the futon, where she likes to sleep -- since she gets cold. So we'll see what the next days bring. But am I crazy to think she moved a little shower tonight than last night, almost as if she can sense this change of energy in the house? I'm trying to stay normal, but I get sad, you know.

I will sure miss her, but she is not gone yet, and as long as she's here -- and long after -- she's my best girl.

Peace, joy, bubble bath, and guns.

Last night, the conversation went kinda like this:

“Hello?”

“Lisa, it’s your father.”

“Hi.”

“Sorry to interrupt the game…”

“What game?”

[sigh] “It’s Monday night FOOTBALL.”

“[sigh] Give UP! You know I have no interest in sports, never have.”

[disappointed sigh]
“I have a question to ask you about your Christmas present.”
[pause]
“Would you accept a gun as a gift from me, for self protection?”

“Um, no. No thank you.”

[quickly]
“It would be very safe, very small, you’d just need to load it and leave it in a drawer ---“

“Dad, no thank you. I know you’re being sweet in your own way, and you're concerned about my safety, but I don’t want a gun.”

“Are you SURE?”

“Yes Dad, I’m sure. But thank you. No.”

“Where’s that softball bat I gave you?”

“Under my bed.”

[gruffly] “Ok. Here’s your mother.”

And so goes the phone conversation I had with my Dad last night during Medium. It is important to note that my Dad rarely calls me, he usually just pipes in when I’m talking to my mom ☺. So I know he had given this a lot of thought. And as disturbed as I was at the thought of getting a GUN for Christmas (Peace, Love, Joy?), I really really appreciate him checking with me first. He knew what I would say, but he had to give it a try. I really don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d opened a gift and found a gun. It would have freaked me out, for sure. And there would have been drama. This way was much better.

My feelings about guns are complicated. I grew up in a house full of guns; my father was in the Army and also a hunter. I used to watch in fascination as he carefully cleaned his guns every weekend. From an early age I was taught to respect a gun and not to EVER touch one, with the understanding that “when I got old enough” he would take me to the shooting range and teach me how to shoot one. I knew he and my mother both had loaded pistols in their bedside tables, and I knew not to ever go in there. Well, by the time I was “old enough” to learn how to shoot, I had no interest, then I went off to college, then married another type of man who loved guns.

He loved hunting as my dad did, but mostly, he loved killing. Sure, he’d eat the meat, but his joy was in the kill. And I grew to hate it, hate hunting, hate guns, hate everything associated with the cruelty I associated with him. I grew to hate him for having that mean streak. My dad hunted for sport, and always either ate the meat or gave it away. He followed hunting seasons, got proper permits, etc, and was never purposefully cruel to an animal. My ex, on the other hand, shot anything that got in his path, just to see it die. I once watched him shoot a squirrel with a(n) (illegal) crossbow from his mother’s balcony. When the squirrel fell, still alive, to the porch below, I watched in numb horror from her kitchen as he took a hammer outside and beat it to death with a grin on his face from ear to ear. I saw the evil glint in his eye, and that smile, and for the first time, felt I had glimpsed his soul – and it was a scary, dark, awful place. While he beat the squirrel, I stood frozen in the kitchen, nauseous and horrified. I remember how sick I felt, and then I remember feeling the shiny engagement ring on my finger. I then remember consciously pushing that feeling away, with all my might, tucking it carefully beneath the numbness. I turned away and put it out of my mind. I did not even recall this event until years later, when I was in counseling after my divorce. I now think of it as the pivotal moment I saw my ex for who he really was, and the moment I made a choice, for whatever naïve reason, to marry him anyway. It took me a long time to reconcile what I had seen that day with the choice I had made. But that’s neither here nor there, now, is it?

Today I am just pondering why I have absolutely no interest in ever having a gun in my possession, under my roof. Just thinking about it brings back that sick feeling and all the sadness and disappointment I felt as I squashed down my feelings of horror that day. If this all sounds rather melodramatic to you, keep in mind that’s how I feel about it. I told it that way on purpose. Also keep in mind how serious I am when I tell you that if someday, I were to find out that my ex had committed some crime against a person? I would not be surprised. I would be sad, and numb, and nauseated. But not surprised.

So I have very personal reasons for why I’d rather have bubble bath than a gun for Christmas. But thanks for checking…

In blows hope

It's another lazy Sunday for me -- generally my favorite kind. But my Sundays are also tinged with guilt, because by Sunday afternoon I always feel like a loser for not accomplishing what I wanted to for the weekend. Usually household chores. We already spoke about my love for those.

So I awoke from my Sunday afternoon nap, stretched, and let the guilt set in. Then I noticed something -- the curtains were all blowing crazy-like in my kitchen and living room -- in front of the windows I'd opened... wait... I vaguely remember something about a cold front... on Sunday... wait, it's Sunday ... sqeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I jumped up and pranced through the kitchen to my back patio, and stepped outside into the glorious wind. Then promptly got hit in the face with my hanging chair that was blowing every which way, but I didn't even care. I did a Titanic Dipu and thrilled in the cool breeze, watching the trees sway and listening to the [broken] windchimes [not] chime ... three sets of feline eyes watched cautiously from the kitchen table, as their usually sluggish FoodSource was OUTSIDE, and this was a sight to behold. They were afraid. Very afraid.

I stood out there, arms outstretched, until I got cold. Which was probably under a minute, in fact I'm sure of it. But in that precious 60 seconds, I felt a tiny sprig of joy and hope spring up in my heart. Like it does every fall, at the first real cold front. I love cold weather, people, and no I don't fully understand why i'm still in Texas but that's another topic. The cool weather brings with it my happiest memories, of playing in the snow in Kansas; sledding down Snake Hill (and into a pile of rocks -- again, another post); high school football games snuggled up next to my HS sweetheart; making out down at the rec center wearing his jacket; summers in Colorado at Spring Canyon (ok, that's not officially fall, but the cool weather still counts); and on and on and on. The annual Thanksgiving Parade in Comfort, snuggled under a blanket on my sister's MIL's front porch, holding the youngest nephew in my lap. Breaking out the sweaters. The cool weather brings me to my happy place, I suppose you could say. While the hot weather that exists the other 10 months of the year here sucks it all out of me. Another post.

I stepped back inside, hair wild, eyes bright, toes cold, and confronted my feline audience:

Good times are on the way, my kitties. I think I'll give you canned catfood for dinner in celebration of fall.

And they rejoiced.

Here I sit now, typing a blog, upright for the longest period so far today, planning out how i'm now going to go clean the kitchen and perhaps even do laundry. Or...vacuum. The possibilities. They are endless. I must seize this hopeful burst of energy before it warms back up to 90 later this week.

...and good times were had by all.

The age of innocence

As I compulsively click on CNN all day long to watch hurricane updates, I am reminded of something from my first semester at Texas A&M, back in '88 (gulp). One weekend that fall we were supposed to play Alabama (I think), which was a big game (I think), but there was a hurricane hitting that area and the game was cancelled. Which is a big deal in college football. In Texas. At Texas A&M. Anyway, so what did the students do instead? Why, they threw hurricane parties, of course!

The one I went to was with some of my Fish Camp friends. It was my first official "college party." My [older, wiser] roommate had gone home for the weekend, so I had the apartment all to myself. I went to this party and played drinking games and laughed with new friends, giddy with the possibilities spread out before me in this exciting new world. It was raining, but I don't remember any of us registering any fear or concern for the hurricane, wherever it was hitting. I have fond, although slightly vague, memories of this party, because I met a super-cute boy who liked me and we spontaneously made out in the backseat of a car stuffed with about six other people. Driving somewhere. Intoxicated (although I have no idea who was driving or whose car it was). Crammed in the back, I turned my head and there he was and we just casually made out for a few minutes. Then that was it. It was all very exciting, and I remember feeling wild and free and having it sink in just a little bit more that I was truly On My Own now and could Do as I Wished. His name was Kevin and he was H.O.T.

The notable part for me was how okay I was with just casually making out one night, then just being friendly after that and never even dating – and that was perfectly ok. This was a new way for me to feel, sans burning jealousy. I still had that when it came to my boyfriend back home, but this carefree attitude was new for me and I felt very empowered. Ahhh, youth…

Anyway, it was a hurricane party and I don't even remember the hurricane. And in light of what's been going on lately on the Gulf Coast, I kinda doubt there are any hurricane parties still going on these days. Maybe I'm wrong, but it just seems scarier and more real now than it did then – maybe because I'm all "grown up"? Sometimes I wish, though, that I could revert to that time of innocence and the naiveté I had back then. I felt so worldly and so free and believed the future was mine – I didn't know yet that the world is smaller than it seems, that no one is free once they become a slave to Uncle Sam, and that hurricanes are nothing to party about.

BUT.

I highly recommend kissing a strange boy every now and then.