Finger Lickin' Good

It is here, in Waukesha Wisconsin. The light that blasts through the roof of the cookie-cutter retail strip center in which it resides. A woman, named Alisha - who makes ribs, and fried okra (which heretofore couldn't be found in Wisconsin) and a pulled pork sandwich that melts my heart and expands my hips.

Her mother was Pat, who was the sister of somebody relatively famous. Her mother suffered with addiction but she made a hell of a mean BBQ sauce. This little slice of heaven is literally around the corner from my house. My soon to be 13 year old son has his photo on the wall there and is instantly proclaimed as "The Rib King", when greeted by Alisha. My boy has found a place where everybody knows his name.

Seriously, who could resist those freckles?

I think he won them over when he invited three of his buddies to join him in a rib fest for which he had saved all of his allowance to treat. Awkward middle school kids, rebelliously eating ribs with their various stages of orthodontics.  Who cares. We can pick the rib meat out and nobody will be the wiser?

I am grateful to Alisha in so many ways. Due to her tie to that relatively (okay totally) famous person, her business took off. But she has the eye of an eagle when spotting my freckle faced boy across the crowded scene.  The last time we were there, she literally stopped taking an order, excused herself and walked out from behind the counter to greet and hug him.

That brought me to tears. I know her in a very small way through school and she is close to my older son as well due to his proclivity for wings, hot sauce and good conversation.  Her daughter is in the same class as my little guy.  But none of that was known when she singled him out and made him feel deserving of her attention at a time when his world was falling apart.

I love you Alisha and I love you Pat's Rib Place. She even has a photo of Ryley and I on her website. There are a lot of them so you will have to look for it. Pat's Rib Place.

It's not so much humanity as it is about the simple act of being human; waving a sparkler of effervescent joy and warming hearts with her dimpled smile and tireless approach to serving down home southern cooking (due in large part to her very talented husband) to a rag-tag looking family that was broken. She didn't know how much we were hurting. How much Ryley needed attention, or how much his mom needed an okra fix. She simply smiled and enjoyed her passion in life as we were lucky enough to soak it up just as we did with Pat's famous house sauce. 

Hence, if you should find yourself lucky enough to travel anywhere in the vicinity of Waukesha Wisconsin, take a detour to Sunset Ave and warm yourself from the inside out.  For it is with my whole heart I recommend the love of a daughter rendered so satisfyingly in the food, you will taste the very essence and soul of a woman who lost the battle with the demons of addiction but poured her spirit into the love of her daughters and the spice in her sauces. You will have no choice but to leave feeling loved or in love and you will not be able to suppress your need for more.

Children of a Lesser Mom

They rhyme in rhythm
and compound the energy
surrounding them.
They frolic in the fray
astounding them
and receive the love that
is handed them.
They usher words into gaps
where silence drowned them
giving voice and sound to them.
They seek truth  from the lies
that were bound to them
knowing it can be found when
they are on this earthly ground
though much is confounding them.
Their laughter is joy profound
and I, me, am humbly gifted 
to simply be around for them.

Happiness is Absurd and Vice Versa

In Greek mythology, the gods condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.

Sisyphus, what a complicated soul, destined to toil, day in day out, rolling that heavy bolder to the top, only to watch it fall down again, knowing he would open his eyes the next day and face the same fate. Was he a laborer, feeling as if he ended each day no further ahead or did he find a divine enlightenment in his quest to shoulder to boulder on his shoulder, to prove he was able to harness his strength to defeat the expectations of punishment bestowed upon him?  Did he win? Did he prove them wrong by sheer willpower?

If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals. Homer goes on and on as to the reasons why Sisyphus became the futile laborer of the underworld. There is espionage, kidnappings, bargaining, deceit and so forth. Homer reported that Sisyphus, the conqueror, had managed to put Death in chains. But Pluto intervened, sending the god of war, who liberated Death from the hands of the conqueror.

This did not stop "the Conqueror" from riding high on his reputation.  He proceeded to get himself all caught up in love and jealousy and shit until he created an insidious test for his wife to prove her love for him. Uh yeah, that didn't work out so well;  so hello, he found himself once again in the underworld. Then he got like totally pissed off by the lack of human love so he obtained permission from Pluto (who is not even a planet anymore) to return to earth for the explicit purpose of chastising his wife.

Lesson I am still learning:  Never allow yourself to operate out of anger, bitterness or revenge.

But alas, once on earth, he enjoyed the water and sun, warm stones and the sea and he no longer wanted to go back to the infernal darkness. He lived for many years facing the curve of the gulf, the unpredictable sea and the predictable cycles of the earth. The god's became angry and a decree was in order.  Mercury would seize the imprudent man, literally by the collar, leading him back to his station at the bottom of the mountain with a heavy rock awaiting him.

It is well believed Sisyphus was a hero as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing. Or is it? Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them. As for this myth, it is said one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with arms outstretched, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands.

At the very end of his long effort measured by depth without time, the purpose is achieved. Much like the feeling I have when I am rushing to get my kids out the door in the morning; the toil, the sameness and the insanity of it all.  At the end of the evening when the fucking enormous rock rolls back down, I have to ask myself, do we really need to discuss why we put our pajamas on every single night? I have to get up tomorrow because I need to push an enormous boulder back up a mountain. Have a little respect for that and just do what I say..........okay?

One must be careful though for a face that toils so close to stones could become stone itself (which obviously makes me think of Botox, even though it is not relative to this posting whatsoever.)  One must be superior, or at the very least, equal to his fate and stronger than his rock. For fate, stones, boulders, daily mindless tasks are meant to make us overcome our obstacles and live our truth.

In The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus writes. "When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy rises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Ancient wisdom confirms modern heroism. One does not discover the absurd without attempting to write a manual of happiness. Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd discovery. It happens as well that the feeling of the absurd springs from happiness."

It resonates with me, these images of earth, these imagined ideas of what I am  supposed to be doing today, just today, just roll that rock and keep on rolling but then I realize the very idea of that is truly insane.  My third eye, the one that can truly see, cannot see past the daily toil to realize why I have been given, nay blessed, with these particular toils.

My kids were recently told by their dad that the bible says God only punishes "those he loves the most". To which his mom, their Grandma nudged him, and laughingly replied, "then God must REALLY, REALLY love your daddy".  Needless to say, I have had some difficulty processing that philosophy.  Where is the accountability for the crime he committed? 

Going a step further, dad tells them of a grand life they will live when he gets out of prison.  He will buy land and begin farming, organic farming nonetheless.  He will purchase a house up north for hunting and fishing.  How will he do this with no money, a felon, convicted of stealing from an employer?  Is it just more of the same, his endless stream of unrealistic consciousness,or will someone step in to help him.  Probably the same people who have refused to offer any help or assistance to his kids while he is away.

The only time he provided was when he succumbed to  a desk job. That was his great burden.

As you can see, I am still working on the bitterness and resentment part but unlike the past, when I have these thoughts, they are quickly dismissed.  I no longer allow myself to wallow in the stress or struggle against the tide for the great boulder has been placed upon my shoulders, and mine alone.  I will carry it, push it, attempt to beat the hell out of it, or find another way around it to survive.   

Caymus goes on to write, ".. there is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his effort will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that silent pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which becomes his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death."

"I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

Honestly, as I write this, I understand why Sisyphus was happy.  He took the long road.  He wasn't afraid to work hard each and every day.  He didn't desire a shortcut to luxury or wealth the way my children's father did in his pattern of shirking the burden of responsibility, relying on his mom to bail him out and basking in that cross generational bondage that held him to his mother when she desperately clung to the one child she believed would make good.

But in a hairpin turn, with no nod to proper segue whatsoever, I praise my time with him for we bore three beautiful souls, the very ones I am privileged enough to struggle with each and every day and I know, beyond time and depth or depth and time that MY fate was created by me.  

How appropriate I should sit in front of Oklahoma City's sculpture of Sisyphus with my children, feeling futile, knowing hopeless is or could be but a day or perhaps an hour away, if I let it. But these are my greatest gifts, missing my eldest, but with us in spirit. It is an absurd happiness in the midst of the happiest absurdity I could possibly imagine. Can you see it?

The four of us in Oklahoma City, missing #1 Son, in front of Sisyphus.

What a sight it is.

Paths of Destruction

The New Testament speaks of the wide path of destruction we are offered in our lives versus the narrow path we should adhere to in order to reach the gates of heaven.

So simple, so clear, so much easier to walk along a wide path; though I tend to prefer narrow paths that prevent me from having to walk side by side or in large groups. I love the solitude of strolling along the edge of a beach, leaving friends behind while I drink in the sun, allow the wind to curl my hair and delight in the squish of the sand between my toes.

But gheez, we all know, I have not walked the narrow path as set forth in the book of Matthew.  I walk the path my mama always told me to walk.  She would say just start walking and if you find a bunch of big boulders and shit, nay stuff in your way, then turn around. But if the path opens up to you without a lot of obstacles, six-pronged forks, hairpin turns and perilous falls to your certain demise, then by all means, just keep on walkin'.  Didn't matter how wide or narrow.  Didn't matter if it appeared to be the high road or the low road, for deception lies in preconceived notions.  Just walk.

With that said, actually walking that narrow path between the vast, scary ocean and the solid ground beneath my feet literally summarizes my existence.  If I step too far into the water, then I am solidly screwed for I can't swim and I do not like sea creatures of any kind, not even the little Nemo clown fish.  I don't want to be there but once I'm in, it is very difficult for me to get myself out.  However, if I stay put, on the solid yet sandy side - I will prevail.  I may not last very long as we all know what happens with castles built in sand but I will remain on my journey and wake up each day to move closer to the purpose for which I am here.

First order of business then - figure out my purpose.

Last week, while in Oklahoma City, I was able to visit with a wonderful friend from my long ago past.  She and I started out in the corporate world together, both hired around the same time in our late twenties, both naive and green, both single mom's to little boys who were the same age and both ready to set the world on fire. 

We didn't realize it back then but we were smart.  Really, really smart.  During our visit, we remembered words we used to teach each other, plans we made to change the direction of our company (which never materialized) and choices we made to change the directions of our lives (which did materialize, in the seemingly most interesting and fascinating of ways.)

She married a wonderful man who had two boys of his own.  They built a life together, raised those boys, had financial security and did all they were supposed to do to be good parents.  She rose to the top of her industry and is close to retirement with her handsome man complete with a place in Arizona and a family chalet in the mountains of Santa Fe.

I married a wonderful man, later divorced him out of boredom then married another man, had three more kids, moved to Wisconsin, got another divorce and am now raising the whole brood while the ex is serving time at federal camp "good time" for felony fraud.  I rose to the top of my career as well but retirment is not a word I will entertain for many, many years to come.  I struggle with the burdens and sometimes I breakdown from the sheer load of it all. I told her of nearly losing my second son, The Commando, after his dad went to prison. And I have no handsome man or mountain chalet anywhere near or far, not even with a telescopic lens.

She understood the agonizing story I told her of watching as they took The Commando from me and she lauded my bravery in not stepping in to snatch him up and take him home.  She knew how deep I had to dig to go through with this measure of intervention on a child who was raging, creating his own rath of destruction.

Then she told me how her son, the one who is the same age as my #1Son is strung out on drugs, committing crime, jobless, nearly homeless and still hasn't hit rock bottom. All three of their boys went down the same path of destruction my brothers chose.  She knows, just as I knew with my brothers, this will likely end in death or jail for each of them.

One would think my son would have been the one to fall into the deep end with the crazy life I created for him. Instead he is centered and good, thoughtful, hard-working, loyal and kind.

One would think her son would have benefited from a loving relationship, financial security, all the trappings of a solid, centered life.

But one can never know how these things turn out.

Just as it has been for my life, the edge of that water is always so close at hand, or at foot as the case may be. It is quite easy to fall in, to fall out, to fall over until you find yourself going down the road too wide. Wrong choice of friends, basic wiring of the brain, just a tiny slip and you are cast out into the raging currant.  Especially when it comes to drugs.  Drugs are as vast as the ocean and every bit as deep.  The longer you try to keep your head above water, the more drugs you will need to stay above sea level. Then you are caught in a whirlpool of sharks, waves, wind and three-headed sea monsters from the deep that will pull your ass under and keep you there until you grow fins and gills and breath it in just to survive.

I drifted off, into the analogy of the deep as my friend was sharing her heartbreaking news. I asked all the questions I could ask from someone who had experienced this many times over. But there was one question remaining. One that had never been asked, not even of my parents.

I asked if she knew what happened to him?  Could she tell me what went wrong?

It was then this beautiful soul, who gifted me so often in our times of abandoned youth, deliberately placed the most powerful gift of all in my hands, in my heart and in my mind. It was wickedly deliberate, because she is brilliant enough to know exactly what I needed to hear. She lit her words and then set back to watch the fuse burn until she could see the shrapnel, tearing through my brain and systematically removing all of my fears of being a single parent with a crazy life.  She obliterated my doubts and uncertainty for what the Commando and I went through.

She told me she could look back and see the exact moment when she lost her son to drugs.  She said she hadn't been strong enough to do what I did when she had the opportunity, when he was young enough still, to save.

And just like that, I remembered my purpose.

Winter Wonderland

The kids and I have been enjoying the holiday season and the snow, believe it or not. This has been the first year in the ten years I've lived here I've decided to embrace the snow. We've gone sledding and I learned it's great exercise, climbing back up those hills wearing 20 pounds of layers.  I may have embraced the snow but mama still doesn't do cold.

We've adopted a new family member, Sable the dog who heals hearts. We've done snowmen and rode around on an icy lake and we are going to ski as a family later in February. I should preface that. It's skiing but not on a real mountain - more like a very large hill here in Wisconsin. We capped it all off by celebrating my oldest son's 25th birthday!  Yikes, I must be getting old.

I am feeling so blessed by the daily presence of my children. Some days, I get run down, rather beat down by the grind but then I remember how lucky I am to have them full time now.  Here are some of my favorite shots from Christmas and January. (The dates are incorrect on the last six photos - leave it to me to still not be able to figure out how to work a digital camera, which is further proof of my age.)

We are supposed to get two feet of snow this week. Maybe we should have gotten a taller dog.

The Commando recruited some help.

The twins preparing for the Waukesha Christmas parade.

Gracious Tenacious with Sable.

Our beautiful tree.

The dog who will soon be buried in two feet of snow.

My favorite Christmas pic of The Commando.

Thanks to my cousin Debbie in Oklahoma!

One of the girls insisted on buying this for her "Bubba".

#1 Son and his beautiful girlfriend, Melissa.

The kids on Kelly Lake, just north of Green Bay.

Just completed a Sable rescue mission on Kelly Lake.

The beautiful Ms. V at her lake house. She and hubs are the perfect hosts!

Kids at the local supper club for dinner with their friend, the Elk.

Homemade hat with Christmas goodies.

No caption can do justice to this picture.

The Commando's band concert in December, September!

My beauties.

Mama bear and her cubs.

The Commando's signature look.

#1Son's friends came to his party. We went to an old bowling alley where we had to do manual scoring.

25 YEARS AWESOME!

My Swan Song Sounds More Like Gurgling

The phrase "swan song" is a reference to an ancient belief that the swan is completely mute during its lifetime until the moment just before it dies, when it sings one beautiful song. It's not true of course, but it makes for a good expression. Today, I was supposed to be that fabled mythical creature; yet instead of a swan song, I looked and acted more like a swan diving beak first into a pool with no water. The swan would not sing a beautiful song because she was flapping her wings at the bottom of that pool with a badly damaged ego and a wretched bloody beak.

I have served in a leadership position on a particular board of directors for the past ten years. This was all volunteer work, done with my company's blessing but certainly not required. Today was my last board meeting followed my a luncheon to install the new board. It is tradition to recognize those going off the board, to say nice things about all their efforts, even when they've held their seats for years without doing much of anything important.

During my ten years on this board, I challenged the status quo, asked the board to break apart the current structure, created new committees, restructured initiatives, pulled from reserves to build and invest back into the organization, and personally recruited most of the leaders who went on to follow me, each year making us better, each year building on what I started.  I served for five years as an officer, including two terms as president.  This had not happened since 1973. It was important for me to have two years.  I needed to spend more time overseeing the implementation of the new committees and strategic plans.  I wanted to make sure the roots were firmly planted before I walked away.  It was my baby. My passion for this organization was further demonstrated by my choice to remain on the board for the next five years, until today, when I arrived ready for my swan song, ready for tears and accolades to flow.

I invited my closest friend to be my significant other.  Someone who could revel with me.  I even asked my son to attend but his work schedule prevented it.  Thank the Lord for those small blessings, I would have been mortified to have him witness my gloriously embarrassing swan dive.  As the entire 2010 board was called up to be recognized, I was expecting my moment.  They had to say something about me before they installed the 2011 board.  If they didn't, it would be too late.  So I stood there with my head in the clouds, waiting to act surprised and humbled by the good words that were surely coming my way.

I had been too busy rehearsing my speech to realize they had already transitioned to the 2011 board installation.  People in the crowd had to motion for me to sit my ass down. And just like that, it was over.

Now everybody knows I've never once been mute.  Perhaps that's why I was not given my swan song moment. I had tendencies to hog the microphone and passionately disperse my particular brand of what one of my friends referred to as "diarrhea of the mouth" at more than one event. Everybody knew it, I knew it but I was all about generating excitement.  And being a writer, excitement presents itself in me through words. Every leader that has followed me seems to be making a conscientious effort to limit their speeches, as if they are making up for all the time I babbled on and on.

I don't think it was intentional, I know and love these people and believe they would never purposefully slight me or hurt my feelings.  There is a lot to do when you're planning these big events and some things just get missed.  During my years as president, my passionate writing and love of the cause drew national attention to our little Milwaukee chapter.  We were named best of the best for those two years, competing with mammoth chapters like Chicago, Dallas and Houston.  The annual reports were written by my hand but encapsulated the excitement I felt from a passionate hard working board who had created something truly wonderful. I wasn't doing that for the recognition. I did it because I needed them as much as they needed me. I was going through my divorce. It replaced my marriage, giving me something to love, something to quell the post divorce trauma while I healed. All my talent, time, energy and passion went into this chapter because a new chapter was being written in my life. And yes, it is true what they say, in the end you get more than you give.

I received bountiful blessings in terms of personal development, confidence building, leadership training and making life long friends around the world.  I was meant to be there at that time with too much time on my hands and an ability to write and inspire those around me.  It was one of my many personal beginnings as well as the beginning of what has become a Milwaukee legacy.  We remain the brightest, shiniest star in the entire international organization.  It is my legacy, along with all those that served with me.

As soon as my bruises heal and my beak stops bleeding, I will remember that and I will sing my own personal swan song to myself.  Not just before I die, but just before I begin, yet again.

Red, White and Black

I wondered into my local corner Asian nail salon for the mandatory pedicure on July 3rd. The beautiful young college girl who always does my toes was so happy to see me.  She had talked me into my first ever big toe design on my last visit so she sorta sees me as this cool old chick she was able to convert.  To what, I am not sure. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to my comfy vibrating massage chair, sat my feet in the warm pulsating water and said I've got something very special planned for you sweetie. She always calls me sweetie. That's so she doesn't have to remember my name. She had planned to decorate my toes in a red, white and blue motif with an exploding firework bursting forth from my big toe.  She is the artist and my toes are her canvas; yet, I couldn't do it. You know what I really want, what would be great to have today is black.  Do you have any black polish around this place? And with astonished hurt in her eyes, she looked up from her work and said, you no like 4th of July sweetie?

Truth is, I've never really cared much for it. In the hierarchy of holiday rankings it is dead last on my list, hence the black nail polish. When it comes around and everyone is all giddy with excitement about the prospects of fireworks and family fun, I'm kinda like.....meh.  I have a long and storied history of lousy 4ths of July. I lost a baby once on the 4th of July, you know, shit like that. Suffice it to say, fireworks invoke a sense of melancholy in me that is beyond any conscious level of understanding. And of course, this 4th of July consisted of me sitting still, trying to make sense of a senseless broken heart.  

Typically, the kids dad has always stepped in to give them the Independence Day celebration they deserve.  I mean just because I don't care for it, doesn't mean they should have to suffer, right? Unfortunately, I started receiving text messages from my son early in the day on the 4th, telling me how bad it was going to suck. Dad's not getting any fireworks this year mom, this is the worst 4th of July ever mom, can you please get us some fireworks mom.  Please.

You would have thought these children had been denied food and water the way they were acting. So woefully mistreated they were. It was an act of sacrilege that had been perpetrated against them, taking away their sacred right to bare fireworks. Their dad and I were obviously conspiring to make their lives a living hell.   Because you just know they don't celebrate the 4th of July in hell. 

They returned to me on Monday morning with their frowny, forlorn faces.

Happy 5th of July, I announced!

What?

Happy 5th of July, my little minions.

It's the 5th of July so we're going to celebrate it with a cookout and fireworks and friends and a cake covered in Cool Whip with strawberry stripes and blueberry stars and everything.

Oh mommy, you're the best mommy ever.  Happy 5th of July to you too!

Everything came together just as planned.  The burgers were cooked by #1Son while his girlfriend adoringly watched. The fireworks were spread out on the patio table, beckoning the kids to pray to God above for the sun to go down. And finally it did. The moment came for us to gather around the patio. We were armed with copious amounts of mosquito spray, carrying our punks with the burning red tip. I placed a large patio stone in the middle of the backyard for the boys to use as a launching platform while the girls and I lit sparklers and sang happy 5th of July songs. 

And then the veil was lifted. The jig was up.  This ruse of using the 5th of July to take away the suckfest that the actual holiday represents came to an end. We were systematically taken down, one by one by the most viscous animal known in the world. I kid you not. I googled it.  Here is a list of the top ten in the order of fatalities they inflict.  

10.  The Bear

9.    The Shark

8.    The Jellyfish

7.    The Hippopatamus (but they seem so nice)

6.    The Elephant

5.    The Crocodile

4.    Big Cats

3.    The Scorpion

2.    Venomous Snakes

And the #1 most deadly, ritualistic killing machine known to mankind, ladies and gentlemen, may I present - the mosquito. This disease infected vampire bug kills in the range of 2.5 million people per year. It has been freakishly hot and muggy this year in Milwaukee, with flooding rains over the past month. We were helpless against their attack. They were abnormally large, mutant, frothing at the mouth Cujo vermin. While dousing my children with bug spray, they mocked me, laughing with their full, bloody bellies.  They started to bite through our clothing, on our faces, on my newly ghoulish black polished toes.  So, it is to be war, is it?

We came up with the idea to set off a smoke bomb explosive. We had lit one earlier in the day and immediately had to run in the house due to the toxic smell, something of a mixture between burnt tires and elephant dung. My little Commando, being the good soldier he is, offered to sacrifice himself for the greater good. He stood on the patio, holding the smoke bomb, his mouth covered with wet paper towels. When the smoke cleared, he looked like a war hero appearing through the haze, dragging himself off the battle field of bloody carcasses.

We ran back outside and commenced to popping but it was to be a fleeting respite. They came back and they brought friends. I'm pretty sure the entire Cullin vampire clan had arrived along with the cast from True Blood. I might have even recognized a few werewolf mosquitoes. We were goners. We scooped up the remaining fireworks, took them to the center of the yard, lit them all then ran like hell, watching them explode from the safety of our back door. 

Oh well, at least we still have our 5th of July cake. Nothing tastes quite as good as a holiday cake with a side of Calamine lotion.

Painting: 4th of July Night Sky

By Albert Howard

Before I Get High

My head is racing, my heart is pounding. I can feel the heat and subsequent blush in my face and all I’ve done is show up to work. I immediately decide I cannot focus without music. I don’t want to hear the day to day office chatter. Shut the fuck up, will ya? I’m trying to have a moment here.

I am in pain and I want to feel it.

I had dinner last night with an old lover who was in town for business. So good to see him - to have him look right through me, knowing my words before they were even thoughts. How does he do that? I have missed him. It felt like wrapping up in my favorite fuzzy blanket, familiar and warm.

He looked good - really, really good.  He gave me a wink and offered me his pickle. I told him I had already had his pickle and needed to find a new one, perhaps a Vlasic this time or maybe a pickled pepper but definitely not a baby dill, if you know what I mean.

We laughed and cried and we loved each other, only now through the eyes of friends. I shared my broken heart stories with the man who first broke it. It was tender and touching. When it was time to go and I felt him pull me in for the big kiss, I gently pushed away and said hey, do me a favor......go and be happy now, you hear? Yes Angela, I will he said. And you do the same baby cakes.

It was cathartic to see him. I had let go of him many moons ago but we never had closure. We never got to the point where we could be friends. That's what this dinner did for me (us). I looked at him through the eyes of a friend and saw somebody I really didn't belong with. Unfortunately, all of these earth shattering revelations didn't take away any of my aforementioned pain; nor did it fill up any of this space inside me, you know the part that feels like a big empty hole. 

A vast empty broken heart remains.

So here I sit in my little office world, plugging in my Ipod and placing my faith in the shuffle option to carry me away. First song, I hear the peaceful sound of chirping birds, then the acoustic guitar increasing in volume until finally the melancholy flute descends upon me. Lifting my head, I am transported through time – a young girl, alone, raising a baby on her own. Rocking him through the night as I looked into the future and agreed – there’s a lot of me got to go under before I get high. 

Even in the quietest moments
I wish I knew, what I had to do
And even though the sun is shining
Well I feel the rain
Here it comes again, dear


And even when you showed me
My heart was out of tune
For there’s a shadow of doubt
That’s not letting me find you too soon


The music that you gave me
The language of my soul
Lord I wanna be with you
Won’t you let me come in from the cold?


And even though the stars are listening
And the ocean’s deep
I just go to sleep
And then I create the silent movie
You become the star
Is that what you are, dear?


Your whisper tells a secret
Your laughter brings me joy
And the wondrous feeling
I’m natures own little boy


But still the tears keep falling
They’re raining from the sky
Well there’s a lot of me got to go under
Before I get high


Even when the song is over
Where have I been?
Was it just a dream?
And though your door is always open
Where do I begin?
May I please come in, dear?


~Roger Hodgson, Rick Davies

The Conclusion of the Rear-Ender Offender

When I told #1Son about the incident, he said holy cow mom, your description of that old geezer reminds me of Frodo's uncle who turns all crazy and mean after being asked to give up the ring. He couldn't have been more spot on because suddenly, I was staring deep into the watery eyes of a man possessed.  Bilbo Baggins for sure.

Good thing I'm used to dealing with douche bags.  Even old ones.

I cannot say the same thing for him. As I began to size him up, studying him from head to toe, observing his clothing and mannerisms, taking copious notes of my opponent, I realized he was a man who was quite accustomed to pushing people around. He was not dressed in the customary 80 year old man, pants up to his nipples ensemble. He was a power monger.

Driving around in his newer model red Caddy, wearing his perfectly creased Brooks Brothers blue and white striped dress shirt with white cuffs held together by what can only be described as old man bling. I kid you not, his cuff links were emerald shaped aquamarine or possibly blue topaz boulders. I'm surprised his frail little arms could hold those things up.

I'm fairly certain he must have been relieved when he saw he had smacked into a woman. I'll just stand here in front of her bumper, tell her everything is okay and she'll believe me. Oh look, she's got curly red hair and she's wearing a lacy, delicate feminine sweater.  Even better, he thinks. She's not a feminist, she looks like someone who has been taught to respect their elders and act like a lady.  She looks like a woman who knows her place. Piece of cake, he thought, I'll be back on the road driving recklessly in no time.

As we now stood in front of the officer, telling two very different sides of the story, he kept looking at me as if he didn't understand why I would be upset. This was the most puzzling aspect. It was either pure evil in its truest form or some form of dementia was at work. In my moment of very un-zen like rage, I chose to believe he was a pompous ass who had picked on people his entire life.

The policeman informed us without an independent witness, he could not take one side or the other. He would write both sides into his report and let everyone go without a fine or citation.  Essentially, he said your insurance companies will fight it out - it's the law here in the cheese state. Oh, and get this, they don't ask you for proof of insurance. We are one of only two states that allow uninsured motorists to roam the streets at their leisure.  Positively, unbelievably, fucking delightful.

When the PoPo went to his car to write up the paperwork, I decided to venture on over to Bilbo-bling-daddy and let him know exactly what I thought of his behavior. Drawing from my very best dignified, steady and precise Julia Sugarbaker impersonation, I strolled up to him in a friendly manner and said, "Sir, may I ask you a question?"

Of course, I didn't care or even wait for a reply.

I am wondering how you sleep at night? When you close your eyes, do you have trouble falling asleep or do you sleep like an innocent baby, free from any thought of guilt or remorse? Tell me, do you do this often? How many other people have you hit lately. Have you hurt any small children with your 3,000 pound weapon of mass destruction? Do you have many children and grandchildren?

My children and grandchildren are of no concern to you, he protested as he folded his arms in front of him with righteous indignation. 

I was just asking because I am wondering how you look them in the eyes knowing their beloved role model is nothing but a lying old sack of bones, willing to hurt other people to protect his own worthless ass. My mom and dad raised me to be honest by example. Can you say the same for your own kids. Did they turn out okay or are they as fucked up as you are?

I will not allow you to speak to me that way. Who do you think you are talking to me like that?

I'll tell you who I am.  I am your worst nightmare.  You will wake up at night and think about me and when you do, I want you to remember, I'm a single mom who works a full time job to do the best I can raising four children.  It's not easy but I get up and I do it every single day. I'm the woman who just purchased this car three weeks ago because my other car was not safe to drive in the snow. I'm the woman who will not rest until I have your license revoked in the state of Wisconsin. That's who I am. Now, if you don't want to have this on your conscience, you get over there and you tell that policeman the TRUTH!

The cop can hear me now as he is walking toward us with our driver's licenses in hand. He turned to me first and calmly explained he already knew the truth. He said he knew I hadn't backed into him, like duh, that's pretty obvious. Then he looked at the old guy and said, "Sir, do you realize you're driving with a suspended license?"


Post Script: He's a slickster alright. A record check revealed a long list of violations and when I say long, I mean 25. Some were for traffic issues, speeding, failing to stop at a stop sign, passing on a hill or curve, while others were for evictions, tax warrants, small claims and large law suits. Apparently, he used to live on Lake Drive, which translated for non-Milwaukee readers means he was living in luxury in the wealthiest area of the city with a view of Lake Michigan out his window. He now lives in a condo in  Waukesha and drives a red Cadillac with a damaged front bumper and hood. He was able to pay $50.00 to reinstate his license so he is still at large. He was insured however, so my agent is going to fight to get me covered under his policy. I haven't figured out how just yet but I do plan to take action to get him off the roads for good. In speaking with a police officer friend, I was told the police have to catch him in the act of a violation then require him to go in for a driver's test and reevaluation. Hmmm.  Wonder how I could arrange that, any ideas??

The Good Man Project - Bubba

After spending a great deal of time here at Stalking Sunsets sharing my painful memoirs inhabited by one bad character after another, I was asked by a follower, "aren't their any good guys out there"?

What to my wondering eyes should appear but a revelation, and an inspiration to expose the good guys for what they are.  Simply good.

I must begin by picking up where I left off on my last post and mentioning perhaps my all time favorite good guy, my very own #1Son.  It is difficult to describe the gentle spirit that resides within this young man. You meet him and you feel immediately comfortable with him; yet, you're not sure why. He won't open up to you, he will appear quiet, reserved, perhaps even shy. But once he knows you, you will find yourself wondering how the hell he can be so damn funny.

He is the kind of person that will be there when you need him, which is a good thing since he will be around to usher me into my twilight years. That's old age, not vampire sex.  He's a diamond in the rough, with life waiting just around the corner. He takes things as they come. He's not in a rush, he's willing to let life unfold before him.

Traveling together to Oklahoma this past Thanksgiving, we laughed our way there and back, each of us doing our impressions of the southern accents we've long since abandoned. I have expected a lot out of that child. I moved him to Wisconsin at the age of 14, I married twice during his lifetime and I brought three more kids into his formerly peaceful existence. I was a young, single girl who learned to be a mom and I made lots of mistakes.

He has endured the loss of his grandmother and grandfather who favored him and helped to raise him while I was working three jobs. He has watched me bury two brothers and bring life to two babies at the same time. He had a tumor removed from behind his ear at the age of four and will always have a hearing loss from the makeshift inner-ear the surgeon fashioned back into place for him.

In spite of it all, he grew into this amazing man and he loves me with all my faults. He is a dedicated brother to his somewhat challenging siblings. They adore him and they call him Bubba.  Everything he has attempted in life, he has done well. Whether it was pitching a no-hitter on a red dirt baseball field in Oklahoma or playing the trumpet and winning the State of Wisconsin marching band competition. He can be counted on by anyone lucky enough to be a part of his life. He is soft and kind in spirit yet tough as nails underneath and I couldn't be more proud than to proclaim him a "good man".

Let Him Be - A Retrospective (#1 Son Part Two)

Before I continue to tell you the details of how the mysterious chiseled chin stranger became my baby daddy, I thought it important to give you a retrospective of #1Son's life thus far.

He was always happy, cool, gentle of spirit, quiet by nature but powerful in voice (some of which he hasn't fully discovered).

Poor child suffered early on with a clueless single mom who had free reign to dress him as I wished.  He is terrified of these photos but I hope he understands, none of this was his fault. He was a victim of my need to surround myself with "awwwww, ain't he cute" moments. I didn't realize how devastating this could have been to his manly development. Thank goodness he made it through without any lingering effects or propensities to dress in bow ties.

I took him out in public like this:
 

Clearly, I had some sort of disturbing fascination with all things Orville Redebacherish.  

I'm sorry little buddy.  I didn't know, really I didn't. But gosh darn, awwwwww, ain't he cute?

Back to the story.  I seem to always be ahead of the trends, like the Barbara Mandel song inferring she was country when country wasn't cool.  I had a baby daddy before baby daddy's were all the rage. The young man from the bar became my boyfriend. We hung out in my sparse apartment because it was generally clean. This was a sharp contrast to his sparse apartment which was generally disgusting, like you're afraid to use the restroom kind of dirty. But the guy was cool, quietly intellectual, musically inspiring and sensitive. He listened to me and cared about the random thoughts of an early twenties mess of a girl.

I suppose it was effortless for him to listen to me when he was equally as troubled and unsure of the direction his life would take. He was also easily taken advantage of in the sense that he didn't bother to ask me if I had birth control measures in place.  I'm sure he assumed I did. He never saw it coming or had any notion that at that time in my life, I was singularly focused on having a baby and he was to be the lucky sperm donor.

When I informed him of my pregnancy after three months of dating, I couched it in a way to clearly give him the option of staying or leaving, with a subtly, ever so deftly implied preference for him to go. We had only been "playing" real life for those three months, like when you were little and you pretended to have a job and babies.  He wasn't ready to be ushered away from that superficial world, kicking and screaming into a life of real responsibility. I knew it wasn't in his plan and I was grateful that he let go without much fuss or fight.

With pressure from his ragingly oppressive mother, he did enter back into our lives after #1Son was born. We even attempted a reconciliation of our relationship but it was not meant to be. I had the inner stirrings of my now well honed mother bear instincts manifesting in me and he still wasn't quite ready to be a dad, outside of his vague impersonation.  I didn't ask for money, I didn't ask for help in any way really.  All I asked was that he be all in or all out. I didn't want to raise my child with a half committed father figure skipping in and out at his leisure.  The final decision was mutually transparent.  Baby daddy out.

Believe it or not, I consider him one of the good guys. Like a parent who gives up their child for adoption because they want a better life for them, he did the right thing by me. He knew I had it under control and he was afraid he would mess something up. He gave me this child who carries his gentle traits, musical ear, tall stature, wicked sense of humor and even the interesting facial structure and chiseled chin that drew me to him from the beginning.  

(To be continued......)

Let Him Be - The Story of #1 Son

This is a photo of #1 Son doing what he does best, making me laugh, LOL, LMAO and all those other text speak annotations that mean the guy is funnier than shit. I dreamed him into the world but I never imagined he would be this cool.

I was 21 and had just survived what one could only describe as a prolonged stop in the deepest never regions of craaaazzzzzyyyyyy.  After marrying and shortly thereafter divorcing my high school sweetheart who was hiding a little ailment the psychiatric community likes to refer to as a classic Criminal Personality as a DSM-III-R Antisocial, Narcissistic, Borderline, and Histrionic Personality Disorder, I was spent, or was it bent? I'm really not sure.

I had moved into this ghetto really cute apartment on the north side of Oklahoma City so I could finally shed the south side trash moniker and began to set up my very first household.  At first, I had the essentials - a mattress on the floor, a TV and a few large bottles of Reunite in the fridge. White Zinfandel no less. I shudder at the thought.

I need to put this in perspective for you.  I was not the sexy, outspoken Zen Mama of today.  I had long straight hair past my waste, enormous Sally Jesse Raphael glasses and I frequently wore silk (pin on) girlie bow ties to work. I was an accountant. 

And not just any accountant, I was a bitter, washed-up, man-hating accountant who had been in the biblical sense with only one man. A man with whom she had diligently saved herself; only to get screwed on the way out as well as the way in. How could I have known he was a murderer?  Mama didn't teach me about such things.  You can bet your sweet ass MY girls will know how to properly identify a psychopath.

After a few months of spending my lousy pittance of a paycheck on used furniture from the rental-return place, I felt ready to venture out into the world.  I now had a couch, love seat and coffee table, a dining room set, some "artwork" and a bed frame.  I was feeling empowered. So I did what any inexperienced, pent-up, southern girl who had been taught to always be a lady would do.  I went a little wild. Okay, it was a subdued version of wild but certainly a change of pace for yours truly.

This was long before the age of internet dating.  Hell, we barely had PC's at the time. Our work place was still functioning with a large main frame computer that took up an entire office by itself.  Left to my own devices, I figured I had to get out there and meet people at the only decent place in town; no, not the church, too hypocritical - I went straight for the bars.

Let me break this down for you. You had your country line dancing bars with a bunch of "ladies drink free" specials.  I saw right through that one, thank God.  Otherwise, I could have ended up leaving with Booger the Red Neck in his monster truck. He would have fallen in love with me right there in his fancy double wide trailer and that would have been my life, except I would have then been forever known as Mrs. Booger and I wasn't having any of that.

My second choice for a watering hole in Oklahoma City was the remnant disco bars that had either refused to die or they simply hadn't heard that disco was dead. They were still all "I like the nightlife, I like to boogie" complete with flashy gold lame halter top wearing chicks (and dudes) and healthy doses of ecstasy. I had just begun to experiment with drinking and I had never done drugs so that was out.

My third choice was the neighborhood, friendly bar/restaurant. The kind of place where everybody knows your name, except without Sam, Diane and the gang.  I found a place that was so comfortable for me, I didn't mind stopping by a la carte, or in other words available for meeting separate from others - by myself.  Not sure where this new found confidence was coming from but I actually seemed to prefer it. It allowed me to find my spot in the corner and watch.  I was a voyeur, like Dian Fossey, studying the order of tavern-dwelling primates.

One night while I was safely ensconced and happily perusing the crowd, I noticed a tall man with dark hair, big brown eyes and the most interesting facial structure I had ever seen.  It appeared his cheek bones and chin had been chiseled by the hand of God himself.  

And through my haze of cheap White Zinfandel, I imagined he could spawn one helluva a good looking baby. You see, somewhere along the journey, I had determined I would never venture into marriage again but after having lost two babies with Mr. Personality, I desperately wanted a child.  A child of my own - for me, just me - not to share with anyone else. This was the mind of one fucked-up 21 year old girl.

I slithered out of my corner booth and made my way over to the young man, who as luck would have it, was my age and had his own share of issues.  He was graduating from a liberal arts college with a degree in drama, hated his domineering mother, didn't smoke and loved music. Perfect.  I invited him to come home with me. Somehow, he managed to see past those hideous glasses of mine, and he followed me home.

When we got there, we sat on the couch, listened to albums and made out a bit here and there.  Then he pulled out his flute.  Not a reference to his penis, his actual flute, which he played beautifully.  He serenaded me with Led Zeppelin and Supertramp and we ended up cuddling on the couch together until we fell asleep. So much for wild.

To be continued......

Merry Christmas to Me!

Joyous noel to you. I am happy to report I got the two things I wanted the most this year - furry black boots and a clean bill of health. My surgery went exactly as planned on Monday. I clearly remember going to sleep while muttering to the Anesthesiologist......"why do doctors always say it's only going to hurt a little.....you guys should really be more honest.....just tell us it's going to......"

When I woke up, the recovery nurse was at my side, fully stocked with copious amounts of morphine. She was awesome. She didn't hesitate to shoot me up again and again and again until I stopped flinching and drifted off to the land of rainbows and unicorns.

Sent home with more pain meds, I was essentially knocked out the rest of the day. I remember waking up to eat a grilled cheese sandwich, compliments of #1Son. My throat was so dry, it was difficult to chew and swallow. Then I heard him laughing. I had fallen asleep, sitting up, grilled cheese in hand and half a chewed bite still in my mouth.  Ahhhh, the glory of pharmaceuticals.  I told #1Son, this was foreshadowing things to come - when I'm old and can't chew my food any longer. He gave me a drink of water and a little nudge and I was out again.

The next day, I experienced a true Christmas miracle.  For the first time in six weeks, I woke up with no pain, no gushing enormous clots of blood and feeling awake, excited and energetic. I had forgotten what that felt like - to wake up as myself. I called the doctor to thank him and I cried. He had given me my life back. For the last three days I have been an obnoxiously peppy Christmas energizer bunny. I'm certain it has been annoying to everyone around me; in fact, if I wasn't so darn happy, I'd make myself sick.

I am awash with positive energy, the joy of Christmas, the happiness in my children's faces and the love of a wonderful man. I am blessed beyond belief. I'm going to put on my black furry boots and conquer the world.  Or maybe I'll just clean up the assortment of Christmas wreckage and rubble scattered throughout the house. That's a good start.

Peace, love and calm to you.
Zen Mama

It must be mentioned, I am tempered by a heavy heart, which bleeds for my good friend Robin. She has put Christmas aside to care for her mom who has been hospitalized, very weak and undergoing painful treatments. She is on my mind always, as are my other friends who are dealing with aging parents, spending their first Christmas without loved ones, cancer and other diseases and divorce. In other words.....life. At 8pm tonight, we will all stand in front of our Christmas trees and raise a glass of wine to each other. For we are each other's strength in times of weakness. Please join us at 8pm (CST) - with enough people raising a glass of goodwill, maybe we can conquer the world.

Mr. Sunshine (Part Five) - The Reformation and Resolution

He came back to me, changed and seemingly broken. He appeared to be coming out of his self-imposed delusions and moving toward the honest, somewhat shocking realization of who he really was. He would not consider himself a failure but he had failed, in so many, many ways.

He no longer wanted the hot, sexy young sales girl. He wanted a life with me. He wanted to be a father. He wanted to start going to church, to get a "real" job, to finally be a man and oh by the way, in order to accomplish all of this, we would need to move to Wisconsin.

While the thought had certainly never entered my mind that I might one day be living in Wisconsin. We were losing the house anyway. I had shut down the business and filed bankruptcy on the remaining debt. I didn't really like my new job and I was restless. We had visited Milwaukee many times to see his mom. It seemed like a city on the verge of cool; well at least much more on the verge than Oklahoma City was at that time. Why the hell not, let's do it!

We moved in August of 2000. It was glorious, fresh and new. It smelled clean and crisp; fall, my favorite season, was already in the air. Those first few months were exciting as we searched for a place to live, settled #1 Son into his freshman year of high school and began to explore our new surroundings. Mr. Sunshine had landed that "real" job for a national company, no less.  It took me a few months to find work back in my field. We were on our way, at the dawn of a new life. Time to rebuild.

When December rolled around, we had our first big snow storm. I had seen snow before, but never anything as beautiful as that. The entire place looked like a giant Christmas painting or Hallmark card. I bought snow boots for everyone and it continued to snow. We frolicked around in it and it continued to snow. We made snowmen and had snowball fights and it continued to snow. We went sledding and it continued to snow. By month end, we had received an all time, record breaking snow for the month of December - a whopping 52 inches.

It is the perfect metaphor for how my life with Mr. Sunshine evolved and eventually ended. Some snow is good; in fact, it can be great - a helluva fun ride but 52 inches in one month can put a damper on things.

Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself.

The reformation of Mr. Sunshine With a Chance of Pain had begun. He started to dabble in politics, his first love and perhaps his only true passion in life (besides his children).  Within two years he was heading up statewide committees, running for county and statewide elected office, volunteering for national senate campaigns, pursuing a Political Science degree at night and making a name for himself among the most conservative of the ultra-conservative-elite.

Taxes are three times as high in Wisconsin as they were in Oklahoma so I was proud of him for his fiscally conservative position; however, he couldn't hang with the big dogs without drinking from their water bowls, much like those poor souls who drank the Kool Aid in Guyana. (Yes, I intended to portray it in such a shocking context.)

Our fundamental belief systems began to sharply contrast. Soon, I found myself on the receiving end of many a diatribe over such things as abortion, gay marriage and family values, you know - things like infidelity and divorce, which a few of my friends were going through at the time.

"You shouldn't hang out with them" he would say, "They are a bad influence". After a long pause the only thing I could think to say was:

Excuse me, but have we met?

In November of 2001 I found I was pregnant again.  He was, believe it or not, a top notch partner during the pregnancy. He had to be when they put me down to bed rest. But after the babies came and the stress of two premature infants became apparent, he was again skipping out the door for work, night classes and political commitments. When someone suggested he run for office, he had to go back and fix an itsy, bitty, teeny, weeny little mistake.

I will never forget the shock and romanticism of it all when he came home from work on my birthday, handed me a gift box and said something to the tune of well, we've had three kids together, we might as well get married now.

The son of a bitch bought me an engagement ring on my birthday to get out of having to buy me a present.

The girls had been born in May, this was August.  We were married the following June.  There I was in the bathroom, crying so hard, knowing I didn't want to be married to him, knowing I would have to wait many years for him to truly grow up, but telling myself - I want to put the bow on this package and make it legitimate.

I wanted to share the last name of my children and I didn't want to have to explain why mommy and daddy were never married.  I walked down that aisle. If you look closely at the photo of me from Mr. Sunshine-Part One, you can see my red nose and red, squinty eyes, swollen shut from the profuse emotion; yet also, perfectly matching my red dress. Does anyone still question why I selected red as an articulation of my bridal bliss?

There were many interesting things that happened from June of 2003 to November of 2004 when I decided to leave him for good. At the height of his political involvement, he was spending most of his time volunteering for the Tim Michels campaign for the U.S. Senate seat held by Russ Feingold. I was invited to attend some events for the staff and volunteers at the Michels' home. It was difficult for me to sit and listen to them go on and on and on about abortion, knowing the man sitting next to me had paid for the abortion of the drug addicted whore he had knocked up.

Let's suffice it to say, I wasn't invited to many more events.  They could smell a social liberal at fifty paces.

Then there was the time they all went out after some rally or something and one of the young paid staffer girls got so drunk, Mr. Sunshine brought her home, carried her into our house, while she was kissing on his face and neck and put her to bed on our couch.  That was a tough one to explain to the nanny the next morning.  "Oh, don't mind her, my husband brought her home last night."

After that, I checked Mr. Sunshine's email on a regular basis and found he had quite the emotional affair (that's all I can prove) with a another young volunteer who was incensed that he had stood her up at a fund raising event he had promised to attend.  As I recall, he missed the event because I forced him to accompany us to my annual company picnic. I didn't feel comfortable keeping up with two babies and a four year old by myself.

It didn't make sense to me why he said he couldn't come with us. Why was a campaign event more important. Then I understood, he wasn't just showing up to support the candidate, if you know what I mean.

In late October, I came home from an overnight business trip to Chicago and woke up the next morning to discover another woman's panties in my bed.  Actually, I didn't discover them, one of my toddler twins had picked them up and placed them on her head.  I grabbed them, checked the size (small, not me) the label (Calvin Klein) again, not me and the smell (most certainly used and NOT BY ME).

Twin was immediately scrubbed down similar to that of a potential hazardous waste exposure.

All of that nonsense aside, I still wasn't totally done until I realized the guy was never going to work a real job, live real life, be a real husband - no matter what I did.  He had been laid off by the big national company when they noticed his head was in the political clouds instead of with them. He had not found a new job, opting instead to start his own consulting firm and supplement his income from county or state elected positions.

All of this cost money. He had cashed out everything from his job, borrowed money on our house and put us in debt, again to the point where we didn't have enough money coming in to cover the bills. When there was no more credit to be extended, he went to his mom and asked her to finance some home improvements, selecting the colors and fixtures behind my back.

I came home from work one night to see carpet torn out, cabinets demolished and new items slated to go back in, which I had previously objected to.  Said objections were not solely a cost issue - I hated the idea of pedestal sinks when you have no cabinetry - where's a girl supposed to put her shit?

It was a life changing moment. I sat at the edge of my bed, looked at the debris around me and felt as if Cher had suddenly walked up to me, slapped me across the face and said, "Snap out of it".

Thanks Cher. You were right. I am 41 years old, I make a good salary.  It was a revelation, a resolution and a glory hallelujah, I was unquestionably resolved. I could support myself and my children without him, I had to if I wanted to survive.

Just as I felt on my wedding day, I was done, so very, very done. However, this time it was "real".