Fade to Black

Blank page. Clean slate. Refreshed and ready to start anew. Don't you just love that about slate? The fact that it can be so easily wiped clean?  Not true by the way, in reality slate is a mother to clean.

I realize the expression, clean slate, refers to more of a writing tablet than a metamorphic rock; however for the purposes of this story, I want to focus on one particular aspect of slate. It is essentially created by layering brilliant color with brilliant color, yet it ends up gray, especially when seen en masse covering roofs.

My identical twins love to paint.  I can see their not so identical personalities each time they present me with a piece of pottery. One is articulate, minimalist, true to her conception - her art reflects her vision in vibrant colors.  The other wants to paint the world with every imaginable color. She can't help herself. It's red, blue, yellow, purple, orange, green, all the colors she loves until the colors mesh and fade to black. Dark gray, at best.  I have a collection of black baskets, ashtrays, pencil holders and the like from her. I love these pieces of art and I will save them for her forever because I get it. I can see the colors within her black.

As I continue to process the startling end of my relationship, I am wondering if maybe we had too many colors or at least one brilliant color mixed with another brilliant color, which was indeed brilliant, right up until they went all the fuck gray. He was red and I was yellow and together we were the ultimate shocking orange. When did all those other colors arrive and splatter the shit out of our orange? What kind of a metamorphosis took place and why wasn't I able to see it? To further pound home the slate metaphor, was it over my head the entire time, or did the transformation really happen overnight when he simply disappeared?  Looking back, I think it was his true colors that eventually splattered our orange.

I am sitting still with a pain that runs so deep, every time I think of him, of what he is doing, how he didn't skip a beat before turning to another woman. I feel black or blue, black and blue, like I've been beaten with a bloody big stick. It's mourning the loss of what I thought I had, before the true colors showed up. My yellow is gone. All of my colors are gone.  And I was as bright as Dinah Shore when she rocked a yellow chiffon number. That's who I was but I am not that anymore.  There is nothing left but darkness and shadows. Darkness can't dance, shadows can't date or make love or even smile. They sit in corners and listen to water, alone and still.

It's been a month now. There is a voice telling me it's time. For life has its seasons, a time and place for everything. A time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance. A time to keep and a time to throw away. A time to tear and a time to mend. I have been torn, ripped to shreds this time around but the time for mending has come. Going through the hurt, sitting still with the season, instead of distracting myself in the arms of another, has brought healing and understanding and most of all, picture perfect clarity. It's as clear as that blank slate, on which I'm about to write a new chapter.

This chapter, I think, will begin with a beautiful sunset. And this time, I will be orange on my own.

The Good Man Project - More Than Eye Candy

On Vacation in Puerto Rico

My friends know of him, they ask me to tell certain salacious stories on occasion, because you know, well, I can spin a pretty good tale. And with this kind of material to work with, it's not too difficult to spin. However, what my friends don't know is the bond that exists between us to this day. We sometimes joke that we will find ourselves available at some ripe old age and finally be able to walk off into the sunset together. Not a bad way to go.

He is a friend who will never desert me. He was there at the end of my marriage and the first call I made when my heart was broken by Chris.  He was there to pick me up and hold me at the St. Louis airport when I returned from burying my mother and  he is there to this day to listen to my tears and confusion when I tell him of my current state of sad affairs. 

First trip to Washington, DC

I first met him at a conference in Chicago, summer of  2004. He had been sitting behind me, watching me, but I had not yet seen him.  When it came time to give our group presentations, he and I were both selected as presenters. He came to the podium, confessing his table had nothing to offer. Their  idea had been stolen by the group just before theirs. With that said, he gave it anyway, entirely in Spanish. I literally swooned at the sight of his deep brown eyes, full lips and dimples that could have been chiseled my Michelangelo himself.

As the conference attendees gathered for dinner later that night, I mentioned to my girlfriend, I was happy to see him on the other side of the room, with four or five much younger, much hotter ladies, all vying for his attention. Because, if he were any closer, he could spell trouble for me. Then almost as if I had willed it to happen, he excused himself from his fan club and made his way to my corner of the room. He knelt behind my friend and I and announced his intentions. "Where are you ladies going after dinner"  he said "because I don't want you to leave without me." 

Christmas in Chicago.

Of course, I thought he was attracted to my petite blond friend with the sparking blue eyes, perfect smile and fit, runner's body. I was sure it was not me in his cupid's cross hairs. But as we made our way from the restaurant, he came up behind me, letting me know, he was not about to leave me unescorted in this big city.

True to his word, he kept a close eye on me, in typical Chicago style, until four in the morning. We stayed with the large group from the conference and soaked up all the city had to offer.  At one point, he lost me to a long line in the ladies room.  I had finally made my way to a stall when I heard a voice from the door beckoning with the sexiest of accents, "Anhela, Anhela, are you here?"

Nothing of a sexual nature transpired between us at that night. I was flattered, enchanted, damn near out of my mind but I held to my beliefs and he to his. A perfect gentleman. The next day, class ended at noon and we were to go our separate ways. He escorted my friend and I to the hotel parking garage and pulled me aside as we waited for the valet to retrieve our car.

Mardi Gras in St. Louis, riding in a limo.

His St. Louis crowd was waiting for him, they had a flight to catch, but he wanted to hug me, say goodbye and wish me well.  Why me, I asked him? I have to know, why did you hang out with me when you had your pick of countless beautiful women here? He explained that he had been watching me "own the room" that first day. He could see my spirit and said that I was, in fact, the most beautiful woman in the room. Well, okay then.

I returned home only to wake up the next morning and find another woman's panties in my bed. The day after that,  I called him.

Now, he's a big shot or something!

We began our love affair as I was working my way through my divorce. From Nashville, to DC, to Chicago to Scottsdale, Indianapolis and St. Louis, we made love to each other, taking our time to deliciously taste, smell, see and feel but we also strolled hand in hand, touring museums, going to the movies, sightseeing and spending hours sharing the most intimate details of our lives. We even liked shopping together.

In Scottsdale, he insisted upon buying me a Coach handbag. 

But I don't like expensive purses, I told him. I like to switch them out and a pricey, designer bag would make me feel guilty for tucking it away in the closet when I grew tired of it.

That's nonsense, he said. Pick something out or we're not leaving this store.

I noticed one of the sales girls was wearing a sterling silver Tiffany heart bracelet. So I said fine, I'll take one of those.

It arrived in the mail a few weeks later, with a note simply saying, "forever". 

We were both becoming single parents, both rising stars within our industry and while we were desperately in love with each other; we always knew our love affair was meant for this time and place. We would not be able to move our children. We were allowed to exist in an ethereal dream state where real life could be set aside and pure pleasure could be experienced during a time when we needed it most. We were both broken, needing to heal our souls and mend our wounds.  We were, as they say, good medicine for each other. 

Our last night together, cheesecake, wine, dancing and happy tears.

When I wrote my "Good Man Project" series earlier this year, I did not include him. Mostly because I was in a relationship and I felt it would be disrespectful. But now, more than ever, I want it made known that of all the relationships I've had in my life, this was the only one that ended without hurt. Looking back, I realize it is because we stayed true to who we were, even in the most difficult of times and we remain true to ourselves today. Sexy as hell and loving each other forever.

Oh, I did I mention he's a model? Eye candy for sure. 

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.

Match Dot Comedy

Being a blogger or is it a bloggist(?) can be challenging. There are days when you might worry that the well has run dry. What if I simply reach the end of my stories? What next?

Fortunately, there is always something to write about straight from the pages of my daily life. This is not however, always, a good thing. Now that I'm back on the dating scene, I'll be set with material that could take me past year end. Let's talk for a moment about Match.Com. Shall we?

Match has gone mainstream, gobbling up lesser sites such as Yahoo Personals and boldly advertising that one in five relationships have been created by them. One out of every five couples you know have met on Match.Com.  I have previously disclosed my online dating horror stories and the realities that exist when you're stuck in the tall, tall grass that must be weeded through in order to find a single blade worth pursuing. It's daunting at best.

Match does a good job at keeping you focused. If you don't check your home page, they will email you with their hand picked selections. And how could you resist? These potential suitors are presented to you with catch phrases such as, "like you, he enjoys bowling and performing arts."  Oh boy, that settles it. I simply must meet this man who violates every one of my pre-set requirements. He's 5'8, smokes daily and is not yet divorced.  Three things, that's all I'm asking for people, is three things.  Tall, non-smoking and available.  Is that so hard?

I've only just stuck my little toe in this large pool of un-chlorinated water. I'm not willing to actually date anyone yet; choosing instead to watch throngs of hopefuls filter though my profile in the off chance that somebody does catch my interest.  I know that sounds horribly conceited but trust a girl on this - there's a lot of riff raff in the virtual dating world, much more riff than raff. You get jaded quickly lest you end up wallowing in the disappointment of one bad date after another.

Which brings me to the comedy part. Apparently, I don't have to experience any real life bad dates when I can close my eyes and dream about them. Last night I met my 'dream' date at the beach. I hid myself from his view so I could observe him for a while. Once I determined he was okay, I paged him, yes - I PAGED him. See that way I could make sure it was actually him because the little paging beeper thingy was going off - duh.  In the time it took him to approach me from, oh lets say 30 feet away, he transformed from a hot man to a hot mess.

I'm fairly certain he was wearing dark blue eye shadow and his hair was wrapped around three beer cans. One in the front and two on the sides. A large sheet of Saran wrap secured the beer cans in place.  In the back of his hair, underneath the Saran wrap, he had tucked what looked like that packet of dried cheese that comes in the Kraft macaroni and cheese box.

Now here's where you'll understand how jaded I am.  I was not shocked by any of this. I seemed to understand that this is what I'm gonna get so I might as well get used to it. In a deadpan voice, I asked him if those were beer cans in his hair.  You know, as opposed to Diet Pepsi or something. He said, of course they were beer cans because he's a dude and dudes don't wear curlers.

Oh yeah, good point. Well then dude, do you want to go bowling or see some performing arts?