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.

Bad Day at the Office

This is where the HH-1 Huey Naval helicopter finally came to rest on March 26, 2002 just after a passing civilian aircraft reported a large explosion. She was precariously perched in her usual position as a spotter, helping the pilots navigate their way around rocky terrain in order to allow her to repel down for a mock rescue. This was part of her training to hopefully, one day, use her skills to save somebody's life. She was attached to the craft via a gunner's belt.

When the helicopter started to spin out of control, she said it did exactly what you have seen them do in any number of war movies, whipping around in desultory spirals. She was bounced from one end to the other, helplessly flung forward and ripped back again by the very belt she had worn for safety.

I have imagined her back breaking each time she was thrown violently, like a rag doll against the hard, heavy metal surface of that helicopter. Twice, she said her goodbye to this life. Twice, she stared straight into the eyes of death.  The first time was when she braced herself for the initial impact of crashing into the side of a mountain and the second was when the wreckage began to dislodge from the peak of the Split Mountain area of the Sequoia National Forest. As it started to plummet downward, knowing there was a 6,000 foot drop beneath her, she quickly made her peace with the world, but then it came to rest and she was still alive.

Unfortunately, two of her mates on that mission were not so lucky. They gave their lives that day.

I asked this beautiful girl, my cousin, my newly adopted niece if she ever sits at her daily office job in the oil and gas industry and laments the exciting, yet obviously dangerous life she left behind?  After all, she had traveled the world and now she's in Oklahoma, having been back for three years since she first left at the age of 17. Here's what she said:

Yes! I miss that life every single day. I miss being part of something bigger than me. Going to work, not knowing what I would be doing but knowing I could go out and save a life. It was exciting and the camaraderie you have working in such a close knit group is really one of a kind.  I loved putting on my flight suit every morning and just remember the thrill and pride I had each time I walked across the flight line to head out for a flight. Always hoping for a chance to use my skills and training to save someone. I knew what I was doing was dangerous and that not just anyone had what it takes to go for it, yet I was never scared. Sure in the back of my mind I knew each time I went out on a flight could be my last, but I never actually really cared or feared that.

Beyond all the fun and crazy search and rescue stuff, I also had the opportunity to be the one to take the school kids around the squadron when they came over on career days. I would take them to the F-18’s and let them get up in the cockpits and pretend they were fighter pilots. We would climb into the helicopter and set them up in our harnesses and rappel a few feet from the cabin to the ground just to get a small glimpse of what we did.  What was really cool was seeing the little girls realize they could do something like that and it wasn’t just a boys world with them there just for decoration.

I am happy with where I am now. I’ve experienced so many different crazy things that most people can’t even dream about. Although I’m sad my navy life was cut short…I know it all happens for a reason and I’m happy with where my life has led me to this point. I’m glad to be close to family again even though I miss traveling. It’s nice to know that if something happens or family needs me for some reason…I can be there no problem. My body may be a lot worse off, but I know I am stronger and can make it through anything. They didn’t give me the call sign OTB (One Tough Bitch) for nothing. I also know that a bad day of work at the office….is never really THAT bad and we make our minds up to be happy.

Imagine how flattered I was when she read my blog and told me she admires MY strength. She was 21 when she crashed in the line of duty, serving her country. I don't know if I could ever compare my fortitude with hers. I have been referred to as one tough bitch at times, but it was survival of a different kind. My hope is that this brave girl and I will learn from each other. Maybe one day, she'll even teach me how to swim.

With her back broken in four places and multiple other injuries, she climbed her way to the top of that mountain peak and rescued herself. She dusted herself off and came back to a life where she still challenges her limits with triathlons and mountain climbing.

She will never have a bad day at the office like the one she did so many years ago and she has made up her mind to be happy. I love her style and I love this last photo of her as she is heading toward the starting line of her first triathlon. Sure, she is nervous but do you think a little nerves are going to get in her way?

Walk tall my precious Megan. I simply can't wait to see how the rest of your life unfolds.

Random Bouts of Lucidity

Mama said there'll be days like this.  There'll be days like this, my mama said.  But I'm certain she could never have imagined her baby girl would grow up and have a day where she, I, that would be me......

.....sat at my desk and sent an email to the entire company, affiliates and cousin companies and possibly even relatives of employees, calling the President of one of our companies a repugnant, repulsive ass who had ruined everyone's morning by spewing his vile negative energy out to those of us who try to do good in the world. Thank you very much.  Why do I always have to be so ostentatiously flowery, wordy and colorful? What am I, the fucking Reader's Digest Guide to more Picturesque Speech?

My assistant sat next to me, begging me not to send it.  Beseeching me to sit on it.  To give it some time to allow the festering puss that was causing me to feel such righteous piety to subside. But alas, I was talking on the phone with a colleague who gave me just enough encouragement for me to hit the send button.  Only I had intended to keep it private, telling this man what I thought of him mono e mono.  I guess it's true what they say.  I really shouldn't try to type emails while talking on the phone. Suffice it to say, today, my crazy flag went viral.

Suddenly I was lauded as a hero. My phone lit up like a DJ giving away tickets to a Poison concert in 1987. My  lady balls were described within the company grapevine as massive beyond reasonable proportion.  The receptionist called me to tell me she loved me and passed along that the Chairman of the Board had walked by her desk and acknowledged my email as "impressive".   On the other hand my boss, the President of my particular company, called from his vacation slumber to plead with me to please, for God's sake, not send anything else. He promised me he would do what he could to save my ass and confided in me he agreed with everything I had written.  But in his interminable south side Chicago style he closed with, "God Dammit, couldn't you have talked to me first. Jesus H. Christ."

As the day went on, I began to feel increasingly worse.  As is true to my nature, I have never been able to tell somebody off without eventually regretting it.  It's not an "oh shit, I'm gonna lose my job" regret. It's more like a "you stooped to his level and fought negative with negative" regret. Just because he's a prick doesn't mean you have to be a cu... a cun...a cusp.  Okay so maybe I can tell off a very important, egotistical, jerk but I still can't say the C word.  I guess that makes me a wimp with a big mouth.

I am quite certain word of this will leak out within my marketplace and all those adversaries who despise this man will think of me fondly. It's a competitive market we are in and he is successful. He has enemies for sure.  Just a few weeks ago, this man was featured on Jay Leno's headlines for a photo that described him as "Making a Mark on Milwaukee" while he sat in a squatting position in a vacant parking lot. I mean somebody took it upon themselves to send that photo to The Tonight Show. People don't like him but that's because he is good at what he does.  He is a rainmaker.  And ironically, I have always liked him.  I have listened to others complain about him for years, even saw someone lose their job after reporting him to HR for abuse, not sexual, but verbal abuse. But for me, there's never been any discord. He has always been amenable to me.

To compound the irony, I came to work today feeling entirely focused, full of positive energy, ready to close my week by working my ass off. I plugged myself into my I pod and proceeded to enjoy some soothing classical music as I blissfully pounded away at my computer. Then his, did I mention vile, email arrived and production in my company came to a screeching halt. I read it, took my ear buds out and sat in amazement as I listened to the reactions from everyone around me.

But in my defense.  I blame it on Quentin Tarantino.  I watched his movie, Inglourious Basterds last night. I think, perchance I came to work ready to subconsciously "scalp me some Nazis".  Please don't infer that I would ever infer or construe this man as a Nazi.  That's not what I'm inferring at all. I just liked the movie and was a tad bit charged up, that's all. Sometimes these days, in these days of hormones and menopause, I wonder if I'm really sane at all.  Am I living my life with sanity and random bouts of lucidity or are the Inglorious Bastards in charge at all times. Is a menopausal woman the same thing as an Inglorious Bastard, or would it be more apropos to call us Inglorious Bitches?  I'm not proud of the moniker either way.

And so, I shall sit with myself this weekend, figuratively cowering in the corner.  This could be it for Zen Mama's career. Then what happens to my kids.  Daddy's going to jail, mommy's unemployed.  Oh joy.

Maybe I'll just have to figure out a way to write for a living.

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 Case of the Rear-Ender Offender

There I was, dangling in the middle of one of those busy highway intersections where you have to cross three lanes of traffic, then wait in the median for traffic to clear from the other direction, enjoying a picture perfect, practically unprecedented April 1st here in typically cold-until-freakin'-July, Milwaukee. I had just purchased my fast food lunch at Sonic; opting to grab and go instead of eating in my designated stall with the other throngs of people who were there enjoying the weather. The traffic was thick. I hunkered there in my beautiful new car purchased three weeks ago, with plenty of time to pop a tater tot or two when WHAM!

It took me a few minutes to figure out what had happened. Wait, where am I? I thought, as I tried not to choke on a tater tot. Then he appeared at my window. He was old, 83 to be exact. He looked sad, slightly confused and visibly disoriented. With his watery eyes and mumbling voice, he apologized profusely, holding his hand to his heart.

I'm so sorry, he said.  It was totally my fault, I didn't see you at all, I was looking the other way and didn't see you, I'm so sorry. You didn't do anything, you were just sitting there and I honestly did not see you at all. I'm very, very sorry. Looks like there's no damage but I'm so sorry, he said with his hand still resting over his heart.

Well, anyone who knows me knows I have always been a sucker for the old timers. My mom and dad used to tell me one day I would grow up to work in geriatrics because of my constant concern for their well being. I clearly recall them telling me I wouldn't mind cleaning up their soiled sheets.

Thanks for having such high aspirations for me.

I guess I couldn't blame them for their conclusions. It wasn't uncommon for me to see an elderly woman in the grocery store and run to offer my assistance to reach the upper shelves or stop to steady an old man making his way across a parking lot. When my grandmother was placed in a nursing home, I would sit and visit with all the residents (except for that dirty old guy that would chase me down the hall in his wheelchair mumbling something about big boobies) because they craved me (and not in the way the dirty old man craved me), they needed someone to talk with and my heart was soft and open for them.

As I watched this shaky old man on Friday, I immediately felt so bad, I got out of the car saying things like, sweetie, don't you worry about it......are you okay.....are you hurt.....is there someone I can call for you honey?

No, I'm fine and it looks like there's no damage to your car so you don't have to worry about anything.

Okay sweetie, I said.  But listen, I just got this car so I'd like to take a closer look and see for myself, if you don't mind.

Oh, I already looked it over, he said while standing directly in front of my right rear bumper. There's no damage at all.

At this point, I gently placed my hand on his shoulder and moved him out of the way while bending down to take a closer look at my busted bumper with a deep gash, a few dents and some paint scratches.  Well I'll be, this affable old man couldn't have lied to me.  He just can't see very well, I mean after all, he didn't see a large Mazda CX9, one of the largest vehicles of its type with three rows that seat 7 people. If he can't see that, then he most likely couldn't see the damages.

Listen sir, I would feel more comfortable if we call the police so I can have a report for my insurance company.

There's no need to call the police, they won't even come to investigate something this minor. I will give you all of my information, my drivers license, my insurance carrier, I will take care of everything for you. The police cannot respond to every little fender bender. Let's pull out of this busy intersection and I will give you everything you need.

This made a lot of sense as we were in the middle of a six lane highway, with cars turning in all directions around us. It didn't feel safe. All we needed was to have more cars piling up. I agreed to move to the bank parking lot across the street but I told him I would need to take his drivers license with me.

What, you say? Why was I suddenly leery of this beloved citizen of the senior persuasion? Let's just say, once again at the age of 46, I have learned to listen to my instincts. Thank the heavenly stars above. My 20 year old self would have hugged him and told him to be more careful while sending him on his merry way.

He pulled into the bank parking lot and proceeded to park his bright red Cadillac sedan perpendicularly across the only two drive-through lanes the bank had, cutting off full access. By the time I turned my car around to get to the bank, he had a bank employee at his window, asking him to move. He sat there for a good little while, with his quivering hands and sodden eyes obviously telling her of his accident. I could see her heart bleeding from two rows away.

I called the police.

After he found a real parking place, he came up to my window to give me his information. When I told him I had called the police, I witnessed the emergence of a new character.  Suddenly my helpless, decrepit old man turned into a belligerent, raving crackpot who was either in a terrible hurry as he had been insisting or he had something to hide.

I dropped the tender affection immediately and with my best raised, calm, clear and slow, mom means business voice, I said,

"step....away.....from.....my.....car......NOW".

He took a step back, looking shocked, appalled and unsteady again. Why would you talk to me that way, he said, as his wide eyes began to look all gray, red and moist again.

I rolled up the window and called my insurance agent. The very same woman I had spoken to such a short time ago to tell her I got a new car. She was commiserating with me when he came back to the window and told me he refused to wait any longer. My agent told me to get out of the car and get his license plate number as he could be charged for leaving the scene. She could hear everything he was saying. She told me to be careful. Even over the phone, two cities away, he didn't sound right to her.

I grabbed my ever present small notebook where I jot down blog ideas or inspirational thoughts and began to take down his license plate number. I asked him to give me his name, address, phone number, and insurance information. He refused at first but when we saw the police officer turning into the lot, he began to cooperate. I got everything down except the policy number when the officer came up to us to begin his questioning.

Gramps proceeded to get uncomfortably close to the officer, positioning himself between us, with his head turned, speaking directly into his ear with that sad, old, shaky, helpless voice said, "I was just sitting there officer, and she backed right into me".

(To be continued......)

The Good Man Project - Behind Every Good Man.....

Isn't he yummy, Cary Grant? Much sexier than Clooney, Pitt or any other movie star icon from today. Cary symbolized suave and seemingly seeped charisma from his very pores. His screen personalities could joust with the strongest female characters of the time and eventually convince them to just stop all their fussing and fall helplessly and hopelessly into his arms forever. He took on Katharine Hepburn, Maureen O'Hara, Grace Kelly, Doris Day, Sophia Loren and even Mae West. All feisty, all independent, strong-willed women, all eventually succumbed to his devilish charm.  In the movies that is.

His real life, born as Archibald Leach, was marred with rumors of being gay or bi-sexual. He married five times. This is why the focus of my blog post today will be on the real-life Cary Grant's I know, not the Archibald Leach's of the world, a few of which I met and married.  Make sense? Let's get started then.

I had a frustrating lunch with two of my girlfriends last week. One of them seemed to have arrived at a place in her life where she felt she needed a man for one thing, and one thing only, and it's not to make repairs around the house. After an hour or so of trying to convince her otherwise, I figuratively threw my hands in the air and gave up; yet, I knew deep down, she was wrong.

All of my girlfriends are strong, focused, successful women. Some of them selected an Archibald in their youth, before they knew any better, then were able to enjoy the fruits of meeting their Cary Grant later in life. These are good guys who can appreciate a gutsy, determined, intelligent, opinionated woman while still being a man who knows when to wrap them up (reference helplessly above) in his arms and allow them to cry.

There's Larry#1 who married a single mom and built her a castle (literally). He helps her care for her ailing mother and her 16 year old daughter with a gentle spirit representing what a man should be.

Mark #1 married my friend T and restored her belief in love after she endured abuse at the hands of an alcoholic and the death of her baby boy. He now insists upon taking care of her daughter who just graduated from college, saying he wants to help her out financially for a bit so she can build a nest egg to start her new life.

Russ fell in love with K right before my eyes.  I was there at the precise moment they met. He runs an international company in Chicago, commuting by train everyday from Milwaukee so he can come home to his wife and young son. His daughter was fully grown, he was finished with the parental aspect of his life; yet, you should see the twinkle in his eyes when he speaks of this little boy who is now very much his own.

Mark #2 travels back and forth from Oklahoma City to Houston to be at his sister's bedside while she is undergoing cancer treatment at MD Anderson. He comes home to K and their gorgeous daughter and devotes the same attention to them, never seeming to give much thought to his own needs.

My friend V was lucky enough to have experienced two good men in her life.  I think that's because she is like walking sunshine, you feel warm in her presence.  After losing her first husband, she eventually met Dave. He stirs excitement and exudes the same inner warmth and depth, creating a life together full of adventure with plenty of room to always welcome friends.

Larrry #2 found my single mom friend S, whose two children had been exposed to an alcoholic father. He helped her complete the child rearing and now enjoys time with their grand kids at their serene lake cabin getaway.

Doug buried his wife after complications she suffered from the OKC bombing. He was unsure about marriage to my friend D but a trip to Ireland convinced him to come home and literally sweep her off her feet. They married in Hawaii and seem to be almost custom made for each other.

My bright, beautiful friend J met Alan after being single for many years. She had buried her husband (again, from alcoholism), was raising two sons and was determined to put herself through school. This slightly younger, charming man didn't try to tame the feisty blond; instead he grabbed on for the ride of his life. They are unique in that they have some distinctly different points of view but at the end of the day, they celebrate their love and share their good fortune with everyone lucky enough to be a part of their lives.

Three of my girlfriends married right out of high school and are still married today.  Boone, Randy and Steve all have one thing in common. There is a calmness to them, a sense they can be counted on for anything and an unwavering belief in doing the right thing. Plus, it doesn't hurt when one of them just celebrated their 27th wedding anniversary and they love to have sex standing up!

The lesson here is hope.  There is hope for my girlfriend who seemed on the verge of giving up last week. She sent me a quick message on Monday to tell me I was right. She does want someone in her life after all.  She has been wasting a lot of time with Archibald-types, especially the one who was most likely gay. My other two girlfriends who are just leaving lengthy marriages; one with a meth addicted doctor and one with a narcissistic, "Sleeping with the Enemy" control freak will all find their way if they simply allow themselves to believe their Cary Grant awaits.  But more importantly, they have to know how lucky he will be to have found them.

My dear friend, set your heart free, release the fear that resides within you and allow it to fly away like a gentle dove on the winds of change. Give it time to coast and glide along these winds of destiny until it is able to circle around and come back to you, fully open and ready to embrace what the universe will provide. You won't recognize him until you can see this within your own soul.

Let it go and let it come.

Betty Friedan, Simone de Beauvoir and Me

I am still somewhat new to blogging and as such, I consider my blog a work in progress. I am hungry to learn more, to study the nuances and components of a good blog and to endeavor to make my blog appealing to my audience. Very early on, I came across an intriguing, if not addicting blog called, “Ask and Ye Shall Receive”. The domain name gives away the premise as does the cartoon character of the grim reaper residing in the corner. If you ask, you need to be prepared to suffer the consequences because they are located at “iwillfuckingtearyouapart.blogspot.com.”

The writing is magnificent; they are free to be brutally honest, wickedly blunt and constructively critical. It all works because the people they are tearing apart have asked for it. Countless bloggers dare to put themselves under this microscope of harsh scrutiny in spite of reading the disclaimers essentially telling them to bend over and grab their ankles. They ask anyway.

I’m fairly certain I must have had a few glasses of wine when I submitted my blogging for their flogging. What WAS I thinking?

It has been months since I did it. I have read all their reviews since and I had pretty much given up, thinking it must not have made the cut, thank God. I was breathing easily; imaging my impetuousness had not gotten me into trouble after all. Then it showed up – the notice that I had asked and I had received.

With my heart firmly settled in my throat, I clicked over and read the review, prepared by Madame Bellicose herself. I didn’t get shuttled off to a guest writer; I was to take my spanking from the mistress of doom, the blog’s proprietor. They have a rating system ranging from a “flaming finger” (the worst) to “four stars – I fucking love you”, (the best). Obviously, being the competitive person I am, I wanted nothing less that the full four fucking love.

Essentially, you could say I got a good review – three stars are not too shabby. She liked my writing, thought I was talented but she couldn’t go all the way with me because we differed too much in taste. Plus, my background was perceived as too busy with fairies and such. My intent to create chaos amidst the calm of a sunset was distracting. It made it difficult to read and my words were certainly worth reading. Enough said, fairies gone.

At first I didn’t recognize the person she was describing. I’m no feminist; I’m a delicate, southern lady, thank you very much. Then I read through some of my posts and I saw it. It is there, a thread that ties the entire purpose of my blog together.

It’s my blog and as all bloggers know, we start a blog for ourselves but ultimately we want others to follow us, to buy what we’re selling, to get the essence of our voice and to connect with us. I feel perhaps I was chosen to tell the stories of my life involving a lot of “Mr. Whatevers” to inspire women, to make them laugh and cry but most importantly to make them think.

I have just begun to peel off the layers of my life and as I explore the meaning of it all, I shall not walk through the valley alone. For you see, it is not just my plan to be a positive influence to women, it is my life to be constantly influenced by the positive women who inhabit it. That’s who I am. If that’s being a feminist then clear me a spot at the table.

A Funny Thing Happened To Me While In Stirrups

While I easily could write an entire post filled with all things disturbing and unnatural about stirrup pants, this particular post is not going to delve into that.  I am not going to discuss how many days in a row I wore my favorite black stirrup pants with the massive accumulation of cheap cotton fabric ballooned out at the waste in homage to MC Hammer.

I refuse to indulge in the equal parts luscious and frightening memories of the decade that was the eighties. Not to mention the requisite accessories that accompanied your stirrups. You know the ones - the scrunchie socks, the over sized sweaters, the Doc Martin hiking boots and of course, the side pony tail.

Instead, I am endeavoring to discuss the other kind of stirrups; as in, put your feet here and slide down to the end of the table. No need to worry. I am not going to discuss any gory details such that my male audience would blush. Remember the post title -A FUNNY thing.......

Arriving at the doctor's office on Monday morning, it was my second visit in less than a month for the same damn, bloody problem. Infer from that what you will. This time, I am pleading with him, "Doc, I can't go on like this, you HAVE to do something, do you hear me?" It had been an unbearable three months of nonsense, daily pain, draining me literally and secondarily draining me of all energy.

He mentions a minor surgery we could do to fix me right up, give me a fresh start so to speak. Of course, I am all in - let's get this baby over with.  Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way, he tells  me.  We have to run a few tests, eliminate other possibilities.  We need blood work, we need ultrasound, we need a biopsy. In other words,  "Put your feet here and slide down to the end of the table."

People who know me know I have an extremely high tolerance for pain. One who has lived my life gets used to certain amount of discomfort. Nothing much will phase me. Childbirth was a piece of cake - even with twins.  A little breathing, a little pushing, badda bing, badda boom, welcome a new life into the world.  The only time I can remember truly feeling hard core pain was the first time I had a full-on, no hair left behind, Brazilian bikini wax.  "Son of a mother fucking bitch!" But that's another post.

So now I've assumed the position and my precious little doctor, who looks exactly like Larry David, is safely hidden away behind the paper sheet thrown over my knees. I know they put that there for modesty purposes but honestly; is it really necessary?  I realize he's there, I might as well see him. It's the adult version of peek-a-boo.

Before he begins, he mentions to the ultrasound technologist how uncomfortably warm it is in the room. He asks her to make a note to check into purchasing a supplemental air conditioning unit. This prompts me to launch into forty questions concerning his office lease. Does he have a full service, gross lease? Has he called his landlord to repair the problem? Is he aware of his rights as a tenant? I'm talking business while he's just getting down to business.

Now, there are two things a woman does not want to hear when a doctor is holding a speculum and a collection of sharp implements.

1. You might feel a little pressure here.
2. You will feel a little pinch.

Emphasis, in both cases is on the word "little", which generally translates to - hold on to the edge of the table because you're going for a "little" ride.  

Meanwhile the entire time, through the pressure, the pinch, the pain and the out of body experience, we're continuing to talk business only now we're talking about the chairman of my company. What a great guy, super reputation, everyone knows and loves him. I adore him too but I'm finding it awkward, bordering on annoying to discuss with him at this particular, shall we say, moment. Thinking it couldn't get any worse, it does. Doc realizes his accountant resides in my office building. Now we're talking about a man I'm not particularly fond of. Gheesh, do I really have to think of him NOW?

The good news to come from this experience? I have received the "all clear" for the surgery. I'm going in on Tuesday morning and I'm so excited, I can't stand it. Yes, you read that correctly, I am elated and overjoyed to be having a surgery. Yeah me! Sing it with me, I'm gonna be a new woman, I'm gonna be a new woman......

Wish me luck on Tuesday morning and especially think of me during the recovery. I've already been told to expect a "little" discomfort for the rest of the day.

Don't Get Your Spanx In A Wad

I am adding a new label to my blog log today. I thought of it while driving home tonight just after I discovered I had been wearing my dress backwards all day. Seriously, how does someone manage to pull that off? My office is small - we're all fairly close, that's to say we're close as in a) we seem to like each other and b) there are very few actual walls in our office.

Granted, the dress looks virtually the same from the front or back. I shouldn't have expected anyone to notice but why did it take ME to the end of the day to finally stop and realize the darn thing was choking me. The higher cut back was riding up my neck like a dog collar while the lower cut front had surely exposed my bra straps during that brief stint when I took my blazer off to deal with the stagnant air in our tight-knit little community of unobservant, preoccupied desk jockeys.

If I am ever so lucky to be able to publish my musings in a format other than this, I should like to title my work, "Don't Get Your Spanx in a Wad". It's a way for the sisterhood of backwards-dress-wearing, crazy ass, powerful women to relate to each other. You have to laugh and accept these oddball happenings and love yourself to death for all your human frailty.

I can't begin to imagine what the uptight "Brookfield Betty's" ( local term -utilize your own euphemism for the perfect people in your community here) would think of a woman who embraces this kind of decorum. I not only embrace it, I revel in it - you hear me? It's time for us one and all to unite and admit we can rule the world with one black pump and one navy blue pump pulled from the closet during the early morning haze of burnt toast, fussy children and a make-or-break presentation you're supposed to give later that morning.

You will give that presentation and you will dare them to say something, just one thing, about your clashing clodhoppers. Hold your head up high, take a deep breath, click your mismatched heels three times and then consider yourself blessed to be a part of the sisterhood of the unraveling spanx.