The Art of Getting Things Done

Well, all that procrastination led to some kind of power boost, because I got my taxes done, the website is ready (I will be launching on Monday, so stay tuned), I read and critiqued 8 pieces of student work for my lit fiction class, finished Barbara Kingsolver's book at long last, and paid all the bills. I even got a couple of work-outs in.

Spring organization fever has struck. Beware, it may be contagious! Not responsible for inadvertent trips to the container store. Just bought a tree thingy to hang all my necklaces on. Yup, I got it bad!

A Burning Barn

I woke up this morning to this fiery scene reminding me of last week's lessons. Lessons in words and sentences, gerund verbs and participles. I visited a Calder exhibit with a group of 10-year olds, struck by the simplicity of the red, yellow, blue, white, black shapes spinning, equally fascinated by the shadows they cast on the stark white walls. Sculptures at once simple and detailed. For me, an objectification of words, sentences paragraphs. The simplicity of the end result.

Later that afternoon, I pulled open a door to a new world, stepping into a room full of animated people, walls painted mustard, and rich hues of burnt orange. I was greeted with smiles and questioning looks. I did not fit in, though I couldn't say how. The people sitting at tables drinking coffee or milling around had a quality to them, a worn, hardened look around the eyes, clothes not tattered exactly but bearing the Goodwill label, slightly ill fitting. Recovery Cafe is a community center for recovering addicts and homeless.

After signing my name in bright purple ink on several sign-in sheets I was escorted to the classroom, greeted with smiles and a welcome, but finding a chair on the outskirts of the table, attempting to assimilate into the class. I had been invited by my fiction teacher as a guest to talk about my book, my so-called ability to rise above adversity.

But my trauma paled. This I knew immediately, by the haunted, wide eyed gaze of those around the table. I was blessed with resources; these people had few. A woman began reading her work, describing her experience of being labeled "The neighbor lady" in a Facebook photograph, marginalized. She wrote beautifully, her story both uplifting and sad.

I partook in a three-part writing exercise based on the photograph of a burning barn:

1. What would you try to save if your home were burning?

Assuring the kids were safe, foremost might be to rescue memories -- those moments locked in time reminding us of what was, what might have been -- snatching them deftly from between licking flames. Fading smiles caught between slices of clear plastic, and the purple velvet Crown Royal bag that Arron used to collect his precious things -- silver dollars, now tarnished; a clunky gold watch, one of the first digitals ever made, Arron claimed, with its red square numbers; and his wedding ring, the ring he had replaced with an imposter, perhaps sensing its potential for being lost. I would find the cardboard box topped with my old point shoes, the ones I only wore once or twice before a knee ended my prima ballerina fantasies. The box holds yellow manilla envelopes full of love letters, New Zealand flowers pressed inside a Valentine's card, with my hand drawn heart, Arron's crooked, loopy writing concrete evidence of his existence, of his love.

2. What would you be better off without?

TVs, game cubes, remotes, a detritus of plastic, bills stacked forlornly in a wire mesh bin, apologetic. Broken down IKEA shelving, worn shoes, clothes in a pile waiting to be taken to Goodwill. Computers maybe, that hog all our hours, hours that we can't replace. Objects really, taking space. These I would watch burn, feeling the burden of them vanishing in the dark, billowing clouds.

3. What would you do differently if you had to start over?

The Phoenix always rises from the ashes -- the ability to begin anew, cleansed, the ground fertile. Perhaps the spaces would be smaller, filled with light, feeling huge in their emptiness. Time might revert to a simpler age, one before computers and TVs, where everyone knew their neighbours, children played in the street, walked to school by themselves, where needs were few. That time would be blissful, though short, knowing that eventually, the spaces would bloom with undergrowth, the saplings of what was to come.


Another woman read her passages, describing her barn burning, her fear for the swallows nests in the corners, her words resonating in the room long after she finished reading.

I spoke, telling my story, hoping it might be universal enough to the people in this room, my toughest audience, to relate, to inspire. At the end, I gave one of my books to a woman who I knew could barely read, whose body's deformations had clearly defined her fate. I signed the book, offering "best wishes," wondering what those words might mean to her.

That night, at a poetry reading, Mark Doty's words inspired. More words about burning, fires and what you would rescue.  What could this particular serendipity be telling me?

I feel warned. Those saplings have taken root. What, I wonder might they become?

Alphabet Soup Brain

Do you ever have have those weeks where so much is going on inside your brain, you feel like your head is full of alphabet soup?

I figure if I write out the list of things crammed in my brain, perhaps it will help me prioritize them. Here goes:

Read Madame Bovary (part of my NY resolution to read some classics)
Meet with Carter's potential middle school and not forget the appointment (did it!)
Meet with writing group (Got some great feedback!)
Sign book for USS New York and get it into mail (check!)
Sign forms to update my financial asset allocations
Review forms just sent from timeshare
Set up AppleCare for my new iPhone
Read a friend's manuscript
Send links for books on memoir to a friend (see below)
Pay fee for The San Miguel Writer's Conference where I plan on doing a reading
Finish reading The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver before Conference
Find a new GP
Send a reply to a lovely woman who wrote me a hand written letter in August (so embarrassed by this one)
Try not to be distracted by FB
Read "Reading Like a Writer" for my literary class
Finish bare bones outline of what I hope will be a new book
Take Salsa dancing (class is tonight with a guy we met called el Diablo. No, really)

OK, I don't feel so bad. There really was a whole ton of junk in there.

Here is a list of great books on writing memoir for anyone intersted:

Your Life As Story, Tristine Rainer
Shimmering Images: A Handy Little Guide to Writing Memoir, Lisa Dale Norton
Writing the Memoir, Judith Barrington

And on writing in general...

Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott
Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg
A Writer's Book of Days, Judy Reeves

Beauty, Dysmorphism, Love and NOT "Settling for Good Enough"

I have finally found some time to read a variety of posts from fellow bloggers, and through three different posts, something strikes me. First, was at Little Big Wolf's Daily Plate of Crazy who writes about a new book by Lori Gottlieb, Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough. She is irked by the title, by the idea that women are being told to "Settle" for something that is not excellent, or perfect, but "good enough." Along a similar vein, a friend, Shafeen, in his blog ~synthesis~ discusses the idea of barriers in schools, whereby we, as a society are setting the bar too low in schools, thus ensuring the failure of our kids. In an opposing view, Dad's House praises the book, saying the book will help women consider more carefully their real requirements in a partner. Over at Better Now, Kristin writes about being criticized for trying to be healthy, for being tall and skinny, for having (and writing about) her hot boyfriend. She is accused of being dysmorphic and self conscious for simply learning to be at one with herself, for raising the bar for herself. And finally my friend Lindsay at Dispatches on Writing, Art, Music discusses the meaning of beauty with relation to teaching a Rilke poem. When she asks one of her students what they think the meaning of beauty is, one whispers "that I'm ugly." She writes, "Beauty reminds us of our inadequacies, of our mortality, of our limits. Beauty tells us of our short-comings, but also of what is possible."

Lately I have been aware of my own indifference to beauty. At risk of being accused of being dysmorphic like Kristin, here is the truth: when people tell me I am beautiful and I don't see it. When I look in the mirror I see eyes, nose, mouth, hair, but I fail to see whatever it was that lead them to that conclusion.  I suppose when I see beauty in someone, it is not about the components, its about the overall effect. A gesture, a twinkle in someone's eye, the way a certain light plays in someone's hair. I might find beauty in a hand (as I did Arron's), but it has more to do with what the hand can do, its touch against mine. These are things one rarely sees in a mirror.

Lindsay writes in her post: "Love, like Beauty, is supposed to take you somewhere. It has the possibility (the promise?) of taking you closer to yourself, closer to God, closer to life, to Spirit, to Mystery. No matter what you are loving... The lover, takes you, “in the gathering out-leap” beyond who you were, so that you can be at one with yourself, with the world."

Tall order.

I don't know what is in the book, though clearly the author believes that women are setting the bar too high, thus not achieving their unrealistic goals. We expect love to take us beyond who we are. But isn't that always the challenge? I don't think I am willing to "settle" in any aspect of my life. I guess I will have to read the book to be convinced otherwise.

Where I'm From

"Mama, I forgot to give you this on Christmas," he said. Apparently, I am not the only writer in the family...

Where I'm From

I am from snowboarding, from play dough and Lucky Charms
I am from the basement, warm, safe and my favorite place to be
I am from the aloe and the delicious goo inside
I am from the giant bottle of beer and the lol's, from Olivia and Abby and Arron
I am from the alcohol and obsessive shower time
From "Go to your room" and "clean the dishes"
I am from no church even though we tried it once. It was too corny.
I'm from New Jersey, England and not yet Seattle. New Jersey root beer float and hot dogs
From the famous attack of 9/11 that took my dad and created my author mom
I am from mom's glass doored cased filled with all precious things. A gold ring wrapped in a purple bag that my mom finally showed me, and a marriage ring.

-- Carter, age 10

And Olivia made this in her ceramics class. Could be in a gallery somewhere.
A proud mama and her talented kids... ahhh.

A Pirate's Blue Moon

The choice of drinks was beer and "Margarita's" but the kind made with something that looked like neon green Kool Aid (or Freshie as we called it in Canada), bile colour and sickly sweet. We all switched to beer after the first sip. The kids were lined up for a dance contest and each one did a solo to that insidious "Gasolina" song. Carter performed the robot, the worm and the stanky leg and blew the tiny competition out of the water. Soon he was chasing little Marco from Chiuaua around the boat, neither noticing the language barrier. The rest of us shivered. I was chosen as one of the women to humiliate. They had four of us sit on stools and then lean back onto eachother's laps while they took the stools away. My big head apparently caused my head's lap to collapse. Big laughter.

The sun slid below the horizon, but no one but me seemed to notice. The moon appeared on the opposite shore, a gigantic fiery ball, rolling along the tops of some tiny seaside hotels, whose windows blazed with the sunset. Photos don't do it justice, but I snap many anyway, though my hair flaps in the sea wind.

A second humiliation as I was forced to dance with a scary dude in a mask known as the ghost pirate. Seemed appropriate somehow, an ode to Arron. I won a shot of tequila for my efforts, but didn't claim my prize. Perhaps it would have warmed me up.

A plate of appetizers appeared, for which we paid an extra five dollars. The flimsy foam plate contained four unpeeled shrimp, a dollop of ketchup, three toothpicks skewered with ham and cheese and topped with a green olive, a blob of tuna salad and a package of saltines. Only later would we be grateful.

Finally, it seemed the ship was heading for port, our treasure chest full. As we neared shore, there was a slight shudder, a glide. I heard the engine kick back. I looked up at the pirate captain, but he appeared calm and smiling. He saw me looking at him and winked. I looked over the side and could see the indigo water below churning, foggy with sand. The shore did not float past. The neon sign of a restaurant on shore remained stationary. We were grounded. No one else had noticed our dilemma, so I turned to my sister, whose three year old was asleep on her chest. Her eyes widened with the news. Soon, the rest of the pirates and victims passengers were aware of our plight. My brother-in-law seemed jubilant, excited almost, chatting amongst the men, making new friends, sharing a common peril. The pirates looked resigned, all now talking on their cell phones, updating their New Year's plans.

We sat, cold, tired, hungry stuck on a sand bar laughing how it seemed a suitable end to a strange year. 2009 had caused us all to grind to a halt in one way or another. The kids kept warm playing tag and ungluing the shimmering baubles off the fake treasure chest. The pirate captain leaned over the rail and smoked another cigarette. Some of the younger men climbed to the top of the boat and set off fireworks, apparently part of the regular pirate festivities.

We admired another cruise boat, one that had an indoors, longing to be inside its warmth, watching its large screen TV. For a while, it seemed to be coming to our rescue, until it became clear that it too was grounded on the sandbar, rocking sideways awkwardly like an ailing goldfish in its bowl.

We waited an hour for the monstrous blue moon (two full moons in one month equal blue, an incredibly rare occurrence) to work its magic on the tide. And then, gently a series of waves bounced us, the pirate captain started the engine and it took us all a minute or two to realize we were once again moving, the neon sign disappearing to our right, the narrow channel's shore only feet from the boat.

As a final encore, the harassed looking waitress emerged from behind a door clad in a bright pink hula skirt with a fake coconut bikini top and performed a strange dance, part hula, part salsa, looking cold and bored.

It was a New Year's eve that none of us will forget -- a strange epilogue to a strange year. But that sunset, the fiery moon and its rescuing tide, the children dancing and the hula/salsa dancer combined in the most surreal, or perhaps just Mexican of ways, to provide us all with a kind of optimism for the year to come.

Happy Birthday Arron

Its funny as time passes, it seems less and less necessary to celebrate the big events, such as Arron's birthday. Or maybe I should say, it seems less necessary to celebrate outwardly, the big events. Arron had the misfortune of having a birthday 3 days before Christmas. He always complained, as most Christmas babies do, that the birthday was always a non-event, swallowed up in the belly of Santa.

The truth was, that neither of us were ever that great at celebrations. Too much pressure. A simple dinner out, a cuddle, a single rose, a coupon for a back rub. Maybe that's what makes the day so awkward. I can't very well give him a back rub.

For the kids, its even harder. The date, no matter how much warning I give them, still doesn't mean much. And they are at a greater loss than I with how to celebrate. When I mention it, the usual reply is "are we gonna have cake?" which is funny, because none of really like cake all that much.

I have some bulbs I got at one of Carter's school's fundraisers. If it stops dumping with rain, perhaps we will plant them, so that Arron can bloom again in the spring, all shades of fushia and lavender. He would have appreciated the Latin names: Ixiolirion Tartaricum and Allium Aflatunense.

I know its weird, but sometimes I still read his horoscope. Here is what it said for today:

Making discoveries

This is an excellent day for engaging in new activities and for making discoveries about yourself and the world around you. Your life now has an exciting quality that is not always present. Take advantage of this excitement to learn about yourself in ways that are not usually possible. Your heightened perception of your world will help you make changes with a complete understanding of how the various parts of your life are interrelated. This is a good influence for studying any discipline that can reveal new and stimulating aspects of the universe. It favors the study of science, technical disciplines, astrology or other branches of the occult. You want to broaden your understanding, and the more exciting your study, the more actively you will pursue it.

Excitement, heightened perception, stimulating. Really, you couldn't ask for more on a birthday.

The "Why Bother" Syndrome

I received an email recently from a guy with a blog who wanted to share links with me (what's that called in the blogging world anyway? co-linking? heyheyhey... No really, we are talking BLOGs here people!) I was expecting a blog about widowhood or loss or single-parenting. I did not expect a blog about dating. I had to giggle a little thinking the guy must have done a Google search on "Frustrated" and "Dating" to find my site. Of course I had to browse Evan's site, as there seems to be quite a bit of interesting info and advice there. That's when the "Why Bother Syndrome" jumped out at me. Apparently, I am afflicted with something that actually warrants the title of "Syndrome." Great. But I do have to wonder, have I really given up? Evan says he dated 300 women over ten years before he met his wife. So at 30 dates a year, that's about 1.5 dates a week? Whew!

It begs the question, how did people ever possibly meet before the Internet? Was the advice then still about the numbers -- success comes from dating many frogs? I can't imagine people dated 300 times over ten years when they had to deal with newspaper ads and P.O. boxes.

I know I am justifying my single status, perhaps pretending I am cool with being single, relieved even. I am sure many of you know how much mental energy it takes to do online dating. At every turn, it seems I am either disappointed or I am disappointing someone. And can you really get to know someone in one date? In the 40+ dating pool, you hear tons of "we're old enough now to *know* right away when someone is right." I know because I used to say it myself. But now, I'm not so sure.

Arron and I took years before we actually fell in love. We liked each other and enjoyed hanging out, but it wasn't all rockets and fireworks after the first date, though I was intrigued. I can't help thinking that if I were to meet him now through online dating, I probably wouldn't give him a second glance.

But I won't lie and pretend I don't lie in bed at night imagining some cute sumthin, sumthin lying in my arms. Or waking up in the morning all languid... OK, better not go there! I do. Every night. There is still a gaping hole that Arron left behind, sort of like a phantom limb. But my reality is limbless, and I think that after 8 years I am finally coming to terms with it.

Of course, it won't stop me from checking out Evan's site from time to time. Who knows, maybe with a little dose of Evan's rah-rah dating optimism, a little sumthin, sumthin will come our way.

The Advantages of Deprivation

I have been undergoing a little experiment with regards to dating, which is to not date. To not actively seek, to be content in my single-dom. I am so tired of the online thing. And I have given up trying to make eye contact with any guy in this city. Possibly, I am purposefully creating a little hedonic adaptation in my life, something I just read about over at The Happiness Project, a sort of law of diminishing returns, where you adapt to new circumstances until they become normal. You get a certain amount of time before something new becomes something old. Dating, for me has definitely fallen into that category. It has, after all, been y.e.a.r.s.

I have this theory that after a loss (divorce or death), you kind of go through a wild, animalistic stage. I think it has to do with trying to replace intimacy with sex. Eventually you realize it doesn't really work, though I have to say it sure is fun for a while. It is possible of course, that I simply got through my thirties.

What I am finding now though, is this kind of "settling in" stage. I am content with almost all aspects of my life. I am over my wild stage. It got old. And now, as Gretchen talks about, the best cure for hedonic adaptation is deprivation. I figure if I deprive myself of dating, then perhaps when something really great comes along, I will appreciate it all the more.

The odd thing is, I am finally feeling OK with being single. Before, I would moon on and on about wanting someone in my life, someone to share experiences with, someone to give me The Look. But these days I am beginning to understand why many women, once widowed, remain that way.


I get to avoid:

1. juggling of kid schedules
2. suspicious kids who don't trust anything that happens after they go to bed
3. ricocheting emotions
4. swooning over love horoscopes


Plus, I get

1. super buff by virtue of the crush on the trainer at the gym
2. to watch Grays Anatomy (or whatever girly show I want) without interruption
3. the sonicare all to myself
4. the two-person closet all to myself
5. to avoid ever having to watch a football game


Of course, if someone were to come along who could deal with my kid/widow/9-11 circumstances, liked Grays Anatomy, had his own toothbrush, and didn't like football, then perhaps I would consider giving him a drawer in my closet. Just one.

Don't Drip Tea in Your Belly Button

Last week, we got into a nice little routine. Olivia discovered Get Some ZZZ tea (Republic of Tea) and convinced me to buy it. I have been having trouble staying asleep as my brain seems to think its perfectly reasonable to awaken at 4:25am and worry about any number of things. Things like missing that blog radio interview in September, making sure I remember to get on top of middle school applications, remembering to vote, writing another chapter about my dead narrator in my head, the chapter I will forget by the time I get up, bugging myself to get moving on removing the thousands of tiny yellow tomato plants that took over my garden this summer, even though its too late to prevent all those unpicked tomatoes from falling off the vine and planting themselves for next year. Apparently this is all important stuff.


Olivia kind of begged for the tea in the grocery store, and I relented, almost as anxious as she was to try it. We made the tea at 9pm and I dripped some honey into each cup and then loaded them onto the psychedelic pea green tray and carried them to my bed. We all crowded in there and sipped our tea. I found myself saying: "Carter, stop dripping tea into your belly button," which I am pretty sure is a once-in-a-lifetime thing. I bet his belly button slept well.

At 9:30, the kids went to bed, and I crawled into my covers and was asleep by 10. and I didn't wake up until 6am! A miracle. We did it every night. The kids almost got along.

Halloween happened (see Ice Queen above). Carter, as a banana trick or treated with a friend and had a sleepover. Olivia (a ring leader) went to a party at some big sports dude's mansion (it had its own theater WITH a box-office! She could totally be on "Teen Cribs" if she wanted...), but then bailed on the sleepover, something she had been doing with regularity of late. I danced my poor high heeled feet off, ate about 5 lbs of smoked sausage, worked hard not to find too many excuses to visit the cute Ozzie bartender, was accosted by some weirdo who kept wanting to "kiss" and finally went to bed (alone) at 3:30am, surprised to find Olivia already there. I was very glad the clocks fell back. I think they must have been at the same party.


Last night, Carter and I went and saw our friend in the last night of "Cannibal, the Musical," which was highly entertaining. When we walked in the house, I looked at the kettle and decided we didn't need the tea, since we were already so tired from our various late nights, sleepovers, mansion parties, trick or treating, etc. I guess I should have. Olivia was already in the bed, watching some kind of schlock like "The Hills," so Carter had a massive temper tantrum, suddenly freaking out that Olivia was part of his "cuddle bunny" time. Olivia stormed off, effectively giving Carter exactly what he wanted. I woke up at 5am again, I guess because I still haven't voted, or gotten rid of those damned tomatoes, or applied for any of those middle schools.


But I have learned my lesson. Tonight, the ZZZ tea is definitely making a return visit to the bedroom and hopefully peace will reign once again.

A Quickie

To let you know that I haven't fallen off the face of the earth. I've enrolled in another writing class - literary fiction. I'm trying to write fiction, another first. I am one of those rare, and exceptionally lucky authors who starts writing and gets her first work published. I don't think it will be that easy with fiction. But its fun. Its fun to make stuff up and mush it together with things that really happened. But its consuming. I have a piece due today for the class to critque, but I have read it over so many times, I can no longer tell if it makes sense. I got so consumed with it, that I lost track of time and missed having coffee with a friend. Why do I keep doing that?

Carter has been home all week with the flu. 38 kids in his school have it. I am told its not Swine, which I am happy about, but that makes it an ongoing threat, as it was on Monday when I thought he might cough up a lung. Being sick, some of his old anxiety seemed to return, and he has confessed that he is frightened of Halloween, and wants to come with me to my party, not let me out of his sight. I hope it will pass with the flu. How can I be a Victoria Secret Angel with a giant 10 year old Banana clinging to me all night?

He said last night, "I wish daddy was alive so he could stay with me while you went to the party." I broke it to him that daddy probably would have gone to the party too. I think it was one of the first times he realized that daddy wouldn't solve all of his problems.

Ok, back to fiction.

What the Hell is Entropy Anyway?

Arron used to have this thing about Entropy. In the film that his friend Rob made from Arron's stag, the one that was played at his memorial service, he tells his friends, "Entropy is all there is." I honestly don't know what the hell Entropy is other than a measure of randomness. If you want to learn more, here is the Entropy page on Wikipedia. Yea, I didn't get it either. But I still wonder what his fascination with it was. Knowing him, he just liked saying the word. Entropy. It's a good word. And it makes you sound smart. He was smart and did probably actually know what it meant.

I got into a discussion with one of Arron's cousins who knows I go in for all that "psychic/ghost hooey." He's read my book and knows I believe that Arron is around somehow, hanging about in some other-worldly place, drinking martinis and looking after Olivia while she goes under the knife. Davey thinks I am full of crap. He is one of the many who claims to be of the scientific ilk and he needs scientific proof that an afterlife exists. In the meantime, he is happy with the "lights out" theory of afterlife. He doesn't care that its grim, lacks any kind of imagination, would do away with any good ghost/horror movies and kind of puts a damper on life. Or maybe, as he claims it doesn't. Living life to the fullest takes on new meaning. I get it, sort of.

Part of his argument, is that the human brain is capable of so much more than we will probably ever understand (and I just LOVE that kind of irony!) and that it is capable, if not instinctually pre-wired to believe in an afterlife. Our brain is our very own self-soother, rationalizing any old pesky fear we can come up with. SO... with that in mind, our brain does all these kooky things like believe in psychics and signs from our lost loved ones in the form of lights turning on and the smell of smoke and make us think, of COURSE there is an afterlife. But what if its just our brains making us believe there is, because, well its a whole lot more interesting than that silly "lights out" idea, right Davey?

I guess the huge brain theory is just as viable as the afterlife one. Who am I to say? If there is one thing I know in this random world, its that anything is possible. Still not sure how the entropy thing fits into all of this, but boy, it sure sounds good, doesn't it?

Amuse Bouche

Man, one little birthday can sure throw off a whole week. But its been fun. We celebrated my rapidly advancing age (where does the time go?) at a fancy restaurant where we indulged our new "foodie" cravings. My kids, thanks to the help of The Food Network are becoming quite the connoisseurs. They were introduced to the idea of an "amuse bouche" ("happy mouth" we decided) with a spoonful of yummy goodness: bacon infused creme fraiche, topped with salmon roe and a few other little niblets that I can't remember because I was so busy swooning. All spoons at our table were licked clean.

Carter had a caramelized onion risotto with seared scallops and Olivia had a grilled chicken dubbed by the waiter as "the Kobe beef of chicken" with handmade potato gnocchi. Enjoying-the-Moment Man joined us which was super-sweet, and I hope it didn't cause too much strife with his girlfriend. Its nice that we have become friends after our ill-fated romance. He too is a serious foodie and we once again shared the most amazing foie gras, something we have shared on several occasions before. I know, I know, its entirely politically incorrect, but I am sort of addicted. Its so darned GOOD!

Dessert is not something I ever order, as I am not a big sweets person, but they figured out that it was my birthday and brought out this amazing dish layered with meringue and a peach compote that was light and not too sweet. Heaven.

I don't know why it always astounds me how much pleasure I get out of the smallest of moments, in this case incredible food, and fun company.

Crunches for the Cause

An article on Sunday in the New York Times profiled an empty-nester who got divorced after her kids went away to college, tried dating, but discovered the sad state of affairs out there in the dating world for the older woman.

“I don’t bump into eligible men my age,” she said. “They’re nowhere. Not in church, not in restaurants, not walking the dog. We’re not in college anymore with an unlimited supply of men our age.”
The article goes on to state that 41% of women over 50 are remarried, where almost 60% of men are.
And if that wasn't enough:
"And if she’s tall on top of that,” Dr. Adler-Baeder said, “the pool’s even smaller.”
Great. I'm 5'10."

I know I shouldn't be looking at statistics. But in a weird way its like vindication that maybe, just maybe I am not crazy, wondering if there is something wrong with me due to my apparent inability to connect with men. I have lost my impetus to date for the moment, the online thing just doesn't do it for me these days. And so I am once again left with the question of how to meet men. And not just any men, but ones that I might actually be interested in meeting or who might actually be interested in meeting me. There is something to the "Seattle Freeze," a sort of apathy in people that seems to get in the way of people in Seattle connecting in a meaningful way.

With all these marks against me, how do I beat the odds?

Today, I went to an athletic club called ZUM. I am going to try it out and I might just join. I love my pilates classes, but I take classes at 9:30am, when all the other stay-at-home mom's take them. I will try a couple of ZUM's noon classes and see how it goes. Even at 2pm, there were a couple of non-gay looking hotties skipping rope (in a very masculine way) who actually smiled at me.

I am also going to take another writing class. I know, I know, why would a published author take a writing class? Well, as a novice writer I still have a ton to learn. Plus, I want to try writing fiction and feel pretty clueless. I need to get back into the writing groove and the motivation of a class, where each week an assignment is due, works for me. The added bonus? There might be an honest-to-goodness man in the class.

I do still need to check out those rowing classes again.

I may never have another romance, but hopefully I'll do some kick-ass writing and be fit as hell.

10 Things I Love About September 11th

I know how weird that must sound, to love anything about September 11th, but here goes:

On this day:
1. I am comforted in knowing that I will hear from friends and family from far and wide and know they are thinking about me, Arron and the kids.
2. I am reminded of Arron in all his Fabbo-ness*. It keeps the good memories alive.
3. I am grateful for all that I/we have.
4. I can feel Arron's pride in his children.
5. Everyone remembers that sense of community that we all felt in the days following that sad day with smiles and small kindnesses.
6. I reflect on new ways to "pay it forward"
7. Its usually sunny with a bright blue sky, a hint of fall in the air.
8. TV viewing is banned in our house
9. I often do an interview or two where I can talk about making "lemonade" from grief and loss
10. I notice the little things

*A small reminder of Arron's Fabbo-ness:

Till Death Do Us Part

I attended the commitment ceremony of my Pilates instructor and his partner last night. There was beautiful music: cello, four handed piano pieces, and two male opera singers. The symbolism wasn't lost on me. Each partner then had friends and family stand up and say a few words, a sister running back and forth across the stage handing the mike from one partner's group to the other's. She made us laugh when she reveled in her "Vanna White moment". Then, in a lovely act of simplicity and ceremony, they mixed water and soil from each of their respective homelands.

Two rows below me one of the partner's parents sat and I could see his father with his head in his hands, as though trying to not see. His mother stared stoically ahead, like a stone statue. But they were there. Despite their apparent disapproval they were there. I lamented the newlywed's lack of freedom to marry, but was awed by their bravery to do it anyway.

All in all, it was a very moving ceremony. The woman beside me was weeping freely. Another woman on stage kept wiping her eyes. Weddings do that to people. Witnessing true love does that to people.

I found myself flinching at the "till death do us part" moments. My Pilates teacher said as part of his vows "your name will be the last words out of my mouth." Something deep down inside me knotted up at these words, and made me swallow to keep it down. I didn't want to think it. I didn't want to leap ahead in my mind to what this new couple might have in store for them. I wanted to believe that it doesn't have to be "till death" because those words give it a finite end, and I know now that it just isn't that simple.

I wish I didn't fear for every happy couple I attend the wedding of, but weddings I realize now, are often a difficult reminder of the happy bride I once was, of the certainty I had that I would grow old with my husband, that when "death did us part", we would somehow be ready.

But no one is ever ready.

Not Ready

Apparently, I am so darned busy being peaceful that I can't quite muster the energy to post. Actually, its been really crazy since the 4th. This past weekend we drove up to Vancouver and spent time with friends and my sister. I spent an evening with an old high school friend that I found on Facebook. It was nice to see where she lived and to get to know her kids a little. The next day, I met with the sweetest girl from Russia who I am helping to write a personal essay for Chatelaine Magazine, a Canadian fashion magazine. She truly was lovely. And young. And I realized the amount of time covered in her essay was much less than I supposed.

I arrived at my sister's house and helped her prepare for a party of Realtors that night. Turns out Realtors like to drink. A lot. And laugh. A lot. Toward the end of the evening, when it looked like things might get a little sloppy I pulled a big sister and started cleaning up. Its like turning the lights up in a bar. Soon, everyone was stumbling away (in the company of a DD, have no fear).

The next day, Carter, my niece and I wandered the steamy streets of Whistler which I discovered stay quite warm, protected from cool mountain breezes by 4 floors of condos. As temps reached 90 degrees (30+ in Canadian), it got darned hot. So it was strange to be buying ski gloves, goggles and snow pants for Carter's sojourn in a couple of weeks to snowboarding camp on Mount Hood in Oregon. Yup SLEEPOVER camp. He has managed two sleepovers now, without being driven home at midnight. Could he really be growing up? We watched the BMX bikes come leaping down the scariest looking downhill course on the mountain. Then they loaded their bikes onto the chairlift and went up for more. Fascinating, until a whole family came and stood in front of us, as if we didn't exist. So rude.

Another night of frivolity was spent with friends whose daughter is going to the same camp with Olivia. This will be their third year. In past years the camp has been just outside Victoria, a lovely, but oddly difficult excursion from Seattle. This year the camp found a new location just around the corner from my sister's house. An amazing new University in the town of Squamish, BC that is like staying in a swank ski chalet in Aspen. Big huge glass and timber buildings, surrounded by green with snow-topped mountains on all sides. Olivia looked like she had died and gone to heaven when she discovered her room had a microwave. And a fridge! She was to share a room with 4 other girls, 2 girls to a bedroom that each shared a bathroom. And a balcony. When can I go to art camp?

It was a strange feeling leaving her there, as though she was actually about to spend her first day at University. Suddenly it doesn't seem so impossible or more to the point, that far away. I have to admit that I was just a little bit glad when she hugged me tighter when I suggested I should go. "I'm not ready yet!"

No, and neither am I.

Peaceful

Its funny. Sometimes by simply putting a problem out there, rather than listening to it in your head over and over, it kind of seems to shrivel up a little, as though exposure to daylight causes it pain. I am told the meds will take 4-6 weeks to begin working, but for whatever reason, they seem to be doing the trick already. Could be psychosomatic, or as I said, the fact that I have finally acknowledged that things aren't quite right, but my mood has been way more upbeat. Could also be summer. Had a large gang of people at the cabin on Vashon, my little magical haven. The 4th was spectacular. My sister insisted on crab and although we both had visions of paddling out on the kayak with a crab trap (something I have no idea how to do, being from Great Lakes land, but something that would be fun to learn), the reality was $7.99 a pound at the Thriftway. They even cut them open for us, so they would be easier to get into. We are such crab wimps. I can only hope they were at least locally caught. A huge group descended via shuttle trips and gobbled everything in sight before heading off to watch the big fireworks in town. The rest of us opted to head down to the beach where Carter was blissed out as the resident pyromaniac, lighting all the fireworks that we had bought at the stand (a first for me). I prayed that he wouldn't lose an eye, but stayed cool and only said "be careful!" a half a dozen times. I guess there is something about being on an island that makes fireworks legal, whereas in the city they are not. Up and down the beach, groups were creating amazing displays, all going off in harmonious succession. Across the water, looking towards West Seattle, it was hard to know where to look, there were so many different bursts of light and colour. And to think they weren't even legal over there! The kids (5 in all) gobbled 'smores and I was content. Dare I say happy even? None of the cloud looming, just nothing in my head really. Hard to imagine feeling peaceful amidst all the noise and chaos, but there it was.

Calming the Mind Gremlins

Well, I've done it. I took my first Wellbutrin today. I know its going to take weeks before I know if its helping, but it does feel like a step forward. I seem to have gotten my head around the idea of taking something because I sure was quick to pop that little purple pill. I look forward to having a little more energy, being a little more upbeat. I have also been advised to seriously increase my levels of vitamin B, D and to take a liquid fish oil supplement, all of which have been shown to improve mood. I came home with an arsenal. I'm lousy at remembering to take meds at regular intervals, so that is going to be my challenge in all of this. Oddly (or probably not so oddly), in the process of meeting with the therapist and taking the steps toward making this move, I have been feeling a little more positive. Just the very act of admitting there was a problem seems to have had an effect on my mood. Your comments to my last blog entry about this have also helped in making me realize that I am not alone and that many people have been down this road. All very reassuring, so thank you. Besides meds, the therapist recommended Feeling Good, a book on cognitive therapy. I'm still plowing my way through it, but essentially its about recognizing those nasty mind gremlins who undermine everything you think, understanding how they relate to your moods and then how to eliminate them with more positive thought processes. Its going to be an interesting learning experience, if nothing else. I am sure there will be several tie ins with The Happiness Project, something I am fascinated with. The last thing that has added to my upbeat mood has been my conversation with Simone, the intuitive I mentioned in my last post. I know a lot of people are pretty skeptical about the whole psychic/intuitive/medium thing, but I am always amazed by how peaceful I feel after a reading. Simone saw Arron bathed in a powerful pale blue light who showed his concern for Carter with an image of his hand on Carter's shoulder. The message seemed to be that he wished he could help, be a part of Carter's life. He wished he could be there for me. I know, all stuff anyone would want to hear. But so what? How can a sense of someone being nearby, but on the other side, helping, guiding you somehow be a bad thing? So here are a few of her predictions. I will post them here, so later perhaps we can look back and see if any of them come true (which would be ever-so-peachy): - I am going to have a much more balanced year, beginning after my birthday in September. Hallelujah for that! - I have a lot of books still to write. She described "shelves and shelves" of stuff behind me as well as a lot of throat images which I guess indicate having much to say (well, she picked up on my blabbermouth quality anyway). She mentioned the possibility of writing something from Arron's perspective, about his passage into the afterlife. I have to admit its an intriguing idea. - In November/Dec, at some kind of social event, I will meet a man that will apparently become my husband. At the very end of the reading, she got the name "Jim" from Arron. Not sure if this was meant to be this dude's name, or if there is some other reason for his mentioning the name Jim to me, so who knows. Apparently "Jim" will be tall (6'2" - how can it be THAT specific about his height yet not give me something useful like a profession. Ah the afterlife works in mysterious ways), dark, handsome and have salt and pepper hair, be highly empathetic toward Arron and the whole dead husband thing. I say bring it! There was a bit more, but those were the highlights. Who knows, perhaps she is simply picking up on my desires. And there they all are plain as day.

Fairy Dust

I have been lamenting the lack of magic in my life lately, something that is somewhat hard to define. I think for me, it can be any of the following: 1. Reading a book, that perfectly describes how you're feeling or gives you an answer to a question you have been asking yourself 2. Meeting someone through complete happenstance that is meaningful in some way, again because of what you learn from them, or who they in turn connect you to. 3. Getting some sort of sign (butterfly sighting, music on radio, smell) that reminds you of something you had long forgotten. 4. Meditating and coming out of it with a clear idea, or thought or answer. 5. Waking up early in the morning knowing what you are going to write or create or do that day. On Saturday night, #2 happened for me. I got an email through Match.com from a gentleman from California who was visiting Seattle for the weekend. He asked if I wanted to join him for dinner. I had no plans, and so on a whim I did. It didn't feel like a romantic meeting as much as he seemed to just be a guy hoping to meet someone interesting to talk to. That was about my speed as well. We met, and at first I was dismayed. He seemed a little slick, an aging surfer type, with a dark tan and very white teeth. But as we chatted I relaxed. I even told him how Arron had died, something that is the death-knell of a first date. We talked about psychics and he told me about a friend of his who I should connect with. Someone he described as an "intuitive." We even talked about the fact that perhaps that was the purpose of our meeting, so he could "introduce" me to her. She turns out to be incredibly interesting, and I am looking forward to trading books with her, at the very least. The surfer and I had a gorgeous dinner at a wonderful restaurant and I drove him back to his hotel. I don't know yet what will become of my now scheduled phone call with her, but I am ever so grateful for the tiny amount of fairy dust.