You’re The Reason God Made Oklahoma (It’s A Song, Google It)

This is the story of how I met and married my first husband. It is a personal story and a true story. It is also a family story, because not only did it affect my family it also affected his, plus the marriage produced my oldest daughter.  So while it is my intent to be honest and maybe even thought provoking, I have to be sensitive to the feelings of everyone involved. This will be some of my most intimate revelations to date.

At the age of 19 I was a very restless teenager. I also fancied myself somewhat of a gypsy. I never really believed I fit in the small country town in North Carolina where I lived. Even though we had moved there when I was still young, I basically always felt like an outsider. And I felt poor. I know, that sounds awful. I had a good life. But at the time, that is how I felt. I didn’t have the Aigner purses or the preppy clothes or those Add-A-Bead necklaces. (I really, really wanted one of those necklaces.)  Sounds trite now, but it wasn’t then. Not to me. I just sorta lost my way a bit. Spent about a year with my sister in St Louis right out of high school. Got a taste of the big city. I had planned to go to college. NC State. Design solar panels. But I couldn’t get my act together enough to make that happen. I wanted adventure and experiences. What I got was a waitressing job back in that small town in North Carolina.

I worked every day at this little diner called Kathy’s. I didn’t have a plan, but I knew it was only temporary. I was looking to get away again. Did not see myself settling there. The world was too big.  I knew, because I had been outside those confining rural walls. It was only a matter of time before something or someone happened. That someone was a construction worker from Oklahoma named Larry. My life story changed the day he and his crew walked in and sat down at my counter.  And the events that followed; both good and bad I would not change with any amount of Magic Do Over Dust one could buy.

Larry and his band of buddies built water towers. (You know, the ones made famous in country songs?) They were in town for six weeks and would be in the restaurant every day of those six weeks. Three decades ago there was no other place nearby for them to eat.  He was 30 years old. In my eyes that made him wiser and experienced and mysterious. Way more mature than the ‘boys’ I had been around. Of course he was ruggedly handsome in that Midwestern Cowboy kinda of way.  He had been married before, even had two children. That insured that my parents would distrust and dislike him immediately; which as a young, restless and rebellious teenage girl just made him all the more irresistible.

He apparently found something desirable about me as well and we started ‘seeing’ each other. It was not an easy romance to cultivate. They were all staying together at a local motel. Our dates consisted of sitting around with everyone watching TV or driving around those back roads in my truck. Some days I would just go to the work site and watch them.  It would amaze and terrify me to see them run and jump back and forth on those scaffolds way up in the air. I was impressed, in awe and head over heels. How intoxicating.

I decided one night to make supper for the entire crew. A homemade meal! They were ecstatic.  I went home after work and cooked a huge pot of spaghetti. As I was walking up to the motel room I dropped the bowl and spaghetti went everywhere all over the sidewalk. I was devastated and embarrassed. But those rough around the edges tough grown men came out to where I was crying over my disaster with forks in hand and started to eat off the ground. I’m not kidding. I know, it sounds weird and disgusting. Quite honestly one of the most bizarre yet sweetest moments of my life. Maybe Larry threatened them if they didn’t. I don’t know. But I know from that point on he was my hero.

The six weeks flew by and they had to leave. I was devastated.

Then one day they came back. I honestly don’t recall if I knew they were coming back or not. I probably did, but I don’t have a recollection of being excited or any anticipation. I just know he came back. This time with an offer. As I mentioned in an earlier post, the first vehicle I bought was a Toyota 4-Wheel Drive Truck. I LOVED that truck. Well, the offer was simple. I could become part of the ‘crew’. I would let them use my truck to haul materials. My “payment” was I could travel all over the country with them and the company would make my truck payment. I would get to live the life of that gypsy. Different town every few months. Living out of motels and greasy spoon restaurants. Glorious! (I WAS only 19 keep in mind.) It was the perfect get out of jail (I mean, town) free card. The next jobs were in Wyoming and Chicago and New Orleans. I could not get home fast enough to pack.

Oh yeah, home. Where my parents were. Not a good scene. My father was having health issues. I was sadly and forever regrettably oblivious. I was hitting the road! Freedom awaited me. But it came with a price. For as long as I live I will never forget my father saying. “I guess I can’t stop you. You’ve made your bed.  Now you have to lay in it.” I will give Larry credit. He came with me to tell them. And help me pack. I mean, it was immediate. One day I lived in North Carolina with a full time job and the next day I was an unemployed drifter.

The problems started almost immediately. The only place we drifted to was Oklahoma which was theirs and the company’s home base. No Chicago. No Wyoming. No New Orleans. Suddenly without warning, the company dissolved. It appeared to surprise everyone, not the least being me. So I knew right away that Oklahoma was my new home. And while I know there are opulent and meager sections in every region, this area was particularly economically challenged. Gave me a whole new perspective on what I had previously considered poor.  But pride would not allow me to turn back and retreat. Plus I was still in love. Or what I thought was love.  The second problem was living arrangements. Larry had been on the road for so long he had no permanent home. We moved in with his parents. I have since wondered what they must have thought; their 30 year old son bringing home a 19 year old girl from halfway across the country. To their credit, they were welcoming and gracious. Especially his father. He was a dear sweet man. It was his mother who proved to have fortune telling abilities. She was the one who told me I was pregnant even before I had noticed anything to be concerned about. (You know how I mentioned earlier that the marriage produced my oldest daughter. The time line of those events weren’t exactly in that order. If you know what I mean.)

So here I was pregnant at 19. Not married. No job. Basically living with strangers, in a strange place. So why, do you ask, did I not just go home? Because my father was a formidable man. A mean-what-you-say man. And the last thing he said was “you’ve made your bed, you have to lay in it”. My mother told me years later that all I had to do was pick up the phone and they would have done everything necessary to get me home. A comment I didn’t fully appreciate until becoming a mom myself. I am absolutely sure now that would have been the case. Being a scared and stubborn kid back then though, it did not cross my mind as an option.

The details of what followed in the next several months would take pages to tell in full. I found a job at a newspaper. We got married. My boss gave me away. (How many fairy tales have that twist?) We lived in several different places, including a house with his sister and her family. A house with no glass in some of the windows. Just curtains. There were always a variety of creatures and critters to dodge or pretend I didn’t see. I woke up one morning to find a pony in the kitchen. (Of course he didn’t come in through a window. The back door was left open.)

We also lived in a small cabin on a lake. He found a job doing maintenance on a group of rental cabins. One of the perks was they offered us a unit. That is where we spent our first Christmas. I hosted the family Christmas dinner. We had finger foods, a table cloth and matching paper plates and cups. I was embarrassed at our sparse offering; they thought I was Martha Stewart. It was mind blowing and eye opening. I don’t think I had ever consciously stopped to count my blessings before. Didn’t realize that ‘rich’ means more than money. The blinders were coming off.

Through a series of decisions and mistakes I lost my truck and we lost the cabin. We ended up back at his parents. This time with me being very pregnant and pretty much over everything having to do with Oklahoma. (I mean no disrespect to the people or state. It was just the particular position I found myself in.) I had a falling out with his mother and I chose to live in a camper in the back yard. It was in that camper one night that I had my Prodigal Son (Daughter) moment. I concluded that whatever restrictions or conditions were given to me, I would comply if my parents would let me come home. It was with great relief that they did. And the cutest and most precious little red headed baby girl, who would become one of my two proudest accomplishments, was born shortly thereafter safely tucked away back in North Carolina.

Needless to say the marriage did not survive those pressures or obstacles. I hold no hard feelings towards Larry or begrudge those circumstances. Looking back it was a relatively short time span in the grand scheme of my life. However the impact was significant and long standing, and not just because of my daughter. I learned some valuable lessons.

While eating off the ground might be romantic, it does not necessarily make for a good life partner.

Consider your blessings. Appreciate what you have. There will always be those who have more and those who have less.

Never be too proud to ask for forgiveness.

Family, especially the love of a mother, is priceless and unconditional.

Even with all the above said….be prepared to lay in the bed you make; even if it is in Oklahoma.

 

Hope Out

Damsel In A Dress (Distress Is For Furniture)

**The sound of a dark and calamitous saloon piano plays in the background** A woman is tied to the railroad tracks in an old silent movie with a nefarious villain rubbing his hands gleefully at his handiwork. She is helpless and frantic. When along comes the hero, her hero, who rushes in, unties her just before the train arrives. He rescues her and puts an end to the villain’s evil plot…. BAM, the blueprint for the Damsel in Distress is born. Ok. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.  If it is an inherent female trait, it skipped me. If it is learned or taught behavior, I failed the class. I totally understand the concept. I completely, if albeit grudgingly, acquiesce to the fact that the concept exists. I just can’t manage to pull it off. I know these distressed damsels exist. I have met one or two. It is with curiosity and sometimes a twinge of jealousy that I watch them operate. But it’s not for me.  Honestly I am proud to say that most of the amazing single women I know today it also does not work for them.  

The theme is repeated over and over again in relationship books and talk shows. (I admit I was an avid watcher of Dr Phil until I stopped buying cable.) Guys like to feel needed. They need to know they have contributed something worthwhile. Performed a service. Helped. Fixed something, anything. It is hard wired into their DNA. I applaud that DNA. Trust me, I am not a feminist. I have no real problem (I can already hear the groans starting) with traditional gender roles. I will cook supper if you cut the grass. The problem I have is ASKING you to cut the grass.

I am not a tomboy, but I have done stuff. Non-girly stuff. I had a rifle and went hunting with my dad. I drove a tractor and helped on our small farm. My first paying job at age 13 was putting in tobacco. If you don’t know what that means, well you just wouldn’t understand. If you DO know what it means, then you DO understand. The first vehicle I bought was a 4-Wheel Drive Toyota Truck. (Ok, looking back, maybe I was somewhat of a tomboy.) But I never considered myself to be one. I was just a country girl. But a girl none the less; with the same sappy, dreamy ideas that most girls have. I had a life size poster of Scott Baio on my wall….yes I did. And the stair steps of my adolescence were meant to lead to college, a career, a husband. With that husband, create a partnership. My parents had a partnership. In the early years of their marriage they owned a restaurant, a gas station, a boarding house. (They did all that cool interesting stuff before I was born.) They worked together, united. When my father went to work at the shipyard, my mother went back to school to get her cosmetologist license. My father turned our garage into a beauty shop. Teamwork. After retirement and the move back to NC, they both worked together to tend a small farm and keep an immaculate yard, flower beds and fruit orchard. They didn’t have a chore chart. They didn’t flip a coin. They just did what had to be done. Worked in conjunction with each other. So it is their fault that I went into adulthood thinking that was the design for a healthy marriage/partnership.

I kept those ideas and thoughts and beliefs….right until the age of 28, when through no fault of my own (Well, that’s not a true statement. I do own some fault); I became a divorced single mother with two daughters.

What do most single mothers do? EVERYTHING! (Now for all the single dads out there, please do not get up in arms. I very much applaud you for also doing EVERYTHING. However for the purpose of this particular train of thought, I am sticking with the female side.)

Financial decisions, discipline decisions, car decisions, school decisions, vacation decisions…. The list is endless. Skinned knees. Science projects. Sibling brawls in the kitchen (and bedroom and front yard). First heartbreak. My obvious point is that being a single mom creates a situation where you have to be in charge. Become strong in areas that you really didn’t want to be strong in. When you are accustomed to those things it is then difficult to turn the tide. We can’t go from being an independent, self-sufficient woman and then fall to fainting on cue. Do we feel like fainting? Yeah. Sometimes we do. Or at least I know I did. I had an amazing support system with my parents, couldn’t have done it without them. But some nights after dinner, homework, and all the little problems are handled, you lock yourself in the bathroom, turn on the shower and cry. And pray. And wonder if there will ever come a time when you will not feel broken, inadequate and exhausted.  

Ok, I know that’s a downer. Where’s the happy blog? Who is in charge today?? I just had to write all those dismal words to point out that we as single women and moms DO have distress. But we don’t LIVE in distress. We live in HOPE and COURAGE and LOVE. And when we meet a guy, those are the attributes we display. We don’t want you to feel sorry for us. We are proud of ourselves. So we can plan dinner, but would LOVE if you did it first. We can take the car to have the oil changed or tires rotated, but it would melt our heart if you offered to handle it. We can pay a plumber to unclog the toilet, but….well maybe we should just pay the plumber. My point is, just because we have risen to the occasion and CAN handle life, doesn’t mean we would not relish the chance to sit back, let go of the reins and let someone else do it from time to time. But some of us (me) just have trouble asking for help.

So for the men who are looking to be needed, resourceful, handy, generous in time and affection, please by all means DON’T LET US STOP YOU! We do not mean to get in our own way. Open the doors, bring the flowers, pick up the milk, make the reservation. Untie us from the railroad tracks. 

Hope Out

Time Lapse Photography - (My Date with His Future Self)

This actually happened to me several years ago but a good friend of mine was telling about a very similar incident she experienced more recently. Who knew both of us would experience time travel.

When I first started online dating I was fairly naïve. (I would like to think that coincided with me being fairly young.) I do have a basic trusting nature and want to believe the best about everyone. I assumed that what I saw and read on those profiles was the truth. I have since been relieved of those notions. I also was the type of online dater that wanted to give everyone a fair shake. (Naïve, again.) Sometimes it just doesn’t go well. So there was this guy. Let’s call him…..(seriously, I really don’t remember his name.) Ben. Let’s call him Ben.

I was living and working full time in NC. Single mom with two young daughters. Online dating wasn’t as popular as it is now, but I was going to give it a try. I read and reviewed the options. No rash decisions.  Ben had a great profile. Nice looking. Good job. Lived in the next town over. Hey, I could do this! So after a few emails, we talked on the phone. Still good vibes going out. (As a side note, I won’t meet anyone who will not talk to me on the phone first. There is a wealth of information you can learn simply in a short ten minute conversation. Does he have a potty mouth? Are there more than three letter words in his vocabulary? Can he actually carry on a conversation? Vital tidbits to help determine if a first date is actually a desired next step.) Ben and I had good phone repoire, so we then set up a day/time to meet for dinner. We were going immediately after work on a specific day. Now this was the time before constant communication via text message, Facebook, etc. We made a date and then waited. (Instant access to everyone has eliminated the process of anticipation. I’m not sure that is entirely a good thing. I, for one, am a very impatient person. The art of anticipation is typically lost on me anyway. But as a general rule, I believe it can play an important role in the wistful, expectancy of an event.) 

Sometime after lunch on the day of our first date, I started to get very ill. It was bad. While I knew I did not feel like meeting anyone and certainly did not look my best, I did not want to cancel. I was sure if I backed out on the premise of being sick, he would not have believed me and I would not have gotten a second chance. So I made the decision that since it was right after work, I would go, meet him, let him see how pitiful I was and then send me on my way with a second date scheduled.

I get to the restaurant first and settle in my chair. I don’t order anything at all because I am sure nothing will stay down. I am just waiting for the quickest meet and greet of all time. Now let me just say that in all my years; before or after this incident, I have never been approached in a restaurant (or public) by a guy. No one sending me drinks from across the room. No one ramming their grocery cart into mine. Nothing. But this day, while I’m waiting for Ben to show up, here comes this old, paunchy guy up to my table. He proceeds to start talking and ask how I’m doing. I try to ignore him. But he isn’t deterred. In fact he sits down. I become frustrated. Ben cannot see me talking to another guy on ‘our’ first date. That would just not look right. Then somehow through the nauseous haze I hear him say my name and how nice it is to finally meet me. I try very hard to focus on him and then it hits me.  This IS Ben. Not the Ben in the handsome photographs on the dating site. Not the Ben who is 33 (remember, this was many years ago) who likes to stay active and take care of himself. Not the Ben who talked to me on the phone and not once mention that he was sending his FATHER to have dinner with me!

I rallied. Pulled myself and thoughts together. Put on a smile and said all the ‘proper’ things one would say when meeting someone for the first time. I wish I had a ‘call you out’ gene. The DNA strand that gives you permission to look someone in the eye and call them out on whatever they have obviously tried to swindle you on. Something like, “Hello Ben. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you standing there. Your pictures must have been from at least ten years ago. Those years were not kind. It is sad that you felt the need to be dishonest in order to meet me. I will not continue our dinner and please do not contact me again.” No. I didn’t say those things. I wish I had. They would have been more honest. As weird as it sounds, at that moment I was GLAD I was sick. It was my most obvious and reasonable exit strategy.

No. I never heard from Ben again. No idea what his thoughts were about my reactions or the meeting itself. But in case you are reading this Ben, here are MY thoughts.

I understand the bottom line of an online dating profile is a picture and a headline. Both sides of the gender aisle. Is it right? No. Is it fair? Not by a long shot. But it is never a good idea to misrepresent yourself. Age. Weight. Missing Limbs. Be honest! I know it is scary. We all want to be appreciated for our personality. Our kindness. Sense of Humor. But a sense of humor does not include the joke’s on me because your phone’s camera has a photoshop app that turns Archie Bunker into Bradley Cooper. (My apologies to Archie Bunker fans.)

When all is said and done, we singles live in a precarious, ever shifting landscape. It is hard to maintain our balance. We know we have options. We know we ARE options. But we have to be real. We do not live in the computer or on a phone screen. We have to be careful to present ourselves as the best and most honest selves that we can. So don’t hide in yesterday. 

Make TODAY the very best version of yourself.

Hope Out

Yes, I’m Really Wearing This -- Part 2 - Here’s What You Can Do With Your Approval Rating

Let me just start by saying that I am fully aware my fashion sense sometimes borders on gaudy with a first cousin to “hmm, that’s not what I would choose”. Most days I am completely OK with that. I don’t always dress age appropriate. I don’t always dress to mimic current styles. I almost NEVER dress solely for comfort. I do try to dress so when I walked out of my house I am unique. I appreciate a well-planned out, organized, color coordinated ensemble. I blame this on my mother. Not ‘blame’ in a bad way, I loved my mother beyond measure. And not ‘blame’ in the sense that I am trying to emulate her. No, I blame her because she chose to dress me like we were living in the Great Depression when in fact we lived on Rich Road in Virginia in the early 70s. (That’s not a metaphor. That’s just the name of the road we lived on when I was a young girl.)

My parents actually WERE raised in the Great Depression. (If you read “Heritage” than you are already up to speed.) It was an extremely difficult time for them and the take away for my mother was that store bought clothes were expensive and handmade ones worked just fine. A bolt of cloth and a working sewing machine kept my youthful closet interesting. Now I know the term ‘homemade’ nowadays conjures up posts on Pinterest or Etsy. There are even websites where you can BUY tags that say “Home Made by…” (Does anyone else see the irony of buying a label to proclaim something homemade?) Let me assure you however, that what I am referring to would not make it to an Etsy site.

Please don’t find me ungrateful. My mother was a good seamstress. As a toddler, I had some very cute outfits. As a young child I didn’t even notice that my clothes were not the ‘same’ as the other kids in school. But then the day dawned where all that changed.

We moved from Rich Road in Virginia to a little farm in rural eastern North Carolina. (My parents wanted to move back to where they called ‘home’).  I was 11. We moved sometime during the winter, so it was an already established school year. So picture this, on my first day of school in this new town at a very sensitive and awkward age I walked in wearing homemade purple plaid polyester elastic waist pants. Yes, they were that bad. I know. I just cringed a little myself thinking about it again. What I didn’t know at the time was as I was walking in to be introduced, some of the kids thought I was a new teacher! That’s not exactly the impression a pre-teen at a new school is hoping for. I would like to say as life events go, it wasn’t that traumatic, yet here I am 40 years later talking about it.

Shortly thereafter I started to have a little more input concerning my wardrobe. I still didn’t own my first pair of store bought blue jeans until I was 13, but my closet had less and less contributions from the sewing room. I worked hard to develop my own personal style. Sure, maybe over the years I have gone a little overboard at times. I don’t intentionally set out to look distracting, but I have probably done it from time to time. I know it has cost me dates. Some guys just don’t get me. Truth be told I very much envy the women who pull off a very simple, classic look. It’s timeless and chic. And it escapes me.

Well meaning counsel might even suggest that I use bright colors, textures and layers to distract from or hide the ‘real’ me. That boots and scarves and dangling earrings provide an emotional camouflage. That is an interesting concept and has actually crossed my mind before. A painful self-realization that I will leave as fodder for another day.

Part 1 of this ‘series’ was how we often stress about the opinions of others. And look for ways to measure those opinions. While I am often guilty of doing just that, I have chosen to frequently rebel against the conventional. My line in the sand of individuality is my fashion statement. Where is your line? What is so YOU? Make sure there is something distinct in your life that no one can come through and erase or diminish it. Maybe it is a sport. Or an artistic talent. Even your career. Maybe you can finish every crossword puzzle you come across. (More power to you on that one. I am awful at them.) Whatever it is that makes you unique, celebrate it! Be magnificent at it! In this one area tell the world what they can do with their approval rating system. Because you own it!

So while I admit that I still want you to like me, I am ok if you occasionally shake your head at my outfit du jour. Maybe there are times when I look more like that 11 year old in purple polyester than I should. But for me, it makes me joyful. Plus I can never get lost in a crowd.

Hope Out

Heritage

You know when you go to hear a band play and the music is fast and upbeat and everyone is dancing. Then the lead singer walks up to the microphone and says “Ok folks, we are going to slow it down for you now….” And they play this slow song that brings everything into a tender, softer mood. Well consider this entry my slow song. Not romantic, just more calm and hopefully touching. (I waxed sentimental after being snowed in for two days.)

I want to write about my family (parents) today. My family name is a source of great pride to me. I’m quite sure it is the same for most people. We place value on our heritage. I actually looked up the definitions to both legacy and heritage to see what the distinct differences were. Legacy being something handed down through the generations. A trait. Maybe in our family that trait would be stubbornness. Or I could be kind and say tenacious.  I love the definition I found for heritage; “events or processes that have a special meaning in group memory”. That term ‘group memory’ is so moving to me; like the very interpretation of FAMILY itself is an ensemble of group memories. We had a family reunion a few years back. It was awesome. My parents are both deceased, but I have three siblings and all (or most) of their families came. We represented from all over the country. And altogether we embraced and celebrated the often quoted ‘rich heritage’ of our parents/grandparents. It was heartwarming.  It saddens me when I hear about families that are fractured with jealousy or hatred or biases. Don’t get me wrong, we are not a perfect lot. But by and large we are a pretty tight crew.  

My parents’ story is of more value and note than a brief blog entry. However I feel drawn today to record some of it here. My father was born in 1915; my mother in 1921. (Yes, they had me later in life, your math is correct.) Their respective families actually lived in very close proximity even though there was a time when they did not really have much to do with each other. As you can tell from the date, my parents were young children being raised in the Depression. They lived in a poor, rural corner of eastern North Carolina. Times there were very, very difficult. In a far reaching turn of events my mother’s mother died and my father’s father died. Out of financial necessity and practicality more than any actual romance, the two households joined up and my mother’s father married my father’s mother. (When I actually tell that story to people and say it quickly without giving them time to truly digest the information, they will invariably tilt their heads a little, squint their eyes and produce the most perfect perflexed expression.) My parents became step brother and sister. True, it has been the source of a cute joke or two. A raised eyebrow here and there. But in reality it was a grueling existence.

My father did not live at the ‘homestead’. He and his brothers had to quit school and go live on another’s farm to work to help support the family. He only saw my mother when he came home to visit his own mother. I believe with all my heart there was a protective, sheltering characteristic about my father who wanted to rescue this scared young girl thrust into a very unfamiliar and harsh living arrangement after losing her mother and her home. It didn’t happen immediately of course, because they were still growing up themselves. Their story is quite remarkable and I am unable to chronicle it all here. However the time did come when he would return to take her away. Carve a new road.  Begin a new future. Start a new family. Our Family.

I wrote at the beginning that this was not going to be a romantic entry. But I think I was wrong. My thoughts, which then became words, took a different path as they tumbled out of the keyboard. What started as just a toss of gratitude at my family legacy turned into the telling of a love story. Not traditionally romantic. Not commercially romantic. But at the end of the day and at the core of every little girl’s dreams is the prince rushing in to save the day. I’m quite sure my mother had no time for fairy tales and would never consider herself a princess. My father probably didn’t quite fit the mold of a prince either. But for today, for this entry, that is exactly what they both are in my eyes. And their ‘fairy tale’, born out of grief, poverty and pain turned them into the ‘tenacious’ matriarch and patriarch of MY heritage. One that has taught me to stand strong, persevere, love unconditionally, value people more than things. It is a new light on an old story; even for me today. I feel very blessed to be the one sharing that story, their story, the beginning of MY story. 

Hope Out

Do You "Like" Me? Part 1 - Know Your Approval Rating

Ok. I admit it. I want you to like me. ALL of you. Well, maybe not all of you. But most of you.

Why is that? Why is it so important for people to like us? Accept us? Approve of us?  I don’t like asking questions that I can’t answer. Other than acknowledging it is a universal human condition, it stumps me. Sure, people all the time are heard saying…”I don’t care what anyone thinks” or “If they don’t like me that’s their problem”. Bravado all around. We care. And we do tend make it our problem if we think they don’t.  The pack mentality is strong and there are very few true lone wolves.

The angst begins building in early adolescence. I remember in Junior High (They don’t call it Junior High anymore. It’s Middle School now. What happened there?) passing around Slang Books. To be honest, I didn’t remember they were called Slang Books. I had to ask one of my best friends from that era what they were called. Thanks Sandra! Anyway, for those who didn’t have this ritual, it began with a simple spiral notebook. Each page had the name of a kid in the class on the top line. The notebook was then passed around and everyone took a turn writing something about each person on their ‘page’. (Pre-Facebook much??) Yikes! What a concept. Who thought that up? Of COURSE when it reached your desk, the first thing you did was to see what the others had written on your page (or was that just me?). The group hierarchy was formed within those cardboard wire-wrapped walls. Of course, that was many (many) years ago. As adults, we no longer formulate methods of comparisons. Do we? We wouldn’t do that to ourselves. Would we? Unfortunately even maturing past those hard bound copies of Slang Books, I’m afraid we have still discovered many ways to size ourselves up.

LIKE ME ON FACEBOOK……..FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER……ADD ME TO SNAPCHAT…… Our entire social networking landscape is built around being connected to everyone on every level. He (or she) who has the most ‘friends’ wins. (I don’t really have a twitter account. And just the name snapchat freaks me out for some reason.)

Humor me……you post a picture on Facebook then go back in a little while to see how many likes you got. Right? Oh, is that just me again??

Look, it’s natural to want to be accepted and fit in. To belong. The key is to not get bothered by it. Not change who you are to achieve it. Never double cross yourself to be included. Without sounding too philosophical and lofty, we each have to discover what it is about ourselves that WE like. Be your own biggest fan. It isn’t vain to have attributes and gifts that you are proud of. When we can celebrate who we are as individuals and enjoy our own company, then we will attract others who will complement our lives and not just fill a slot on a roster. (Ok, that does sound philosophical and lofty. Sorry.) It is true none the less.

I still have a few good friends from high school. Not because of words on a slang book page, but because we have maintained a genuine interest in each other’s lives. I have a few very good friends here in South Carolina. Friends that I know would have my back. I hope they view me as someone valuable to have in their corner as well. Quality certainly trumps quantity in this area. So while my ‘friend’s list’ might not be as impressive as others, I wouldn’t trade the ones I have for anything.

Of course, there’s always room for one or two more….So come on.....You know you like me. 

POFA - Hello. My name is Hope and I’m addicted to Online Dating

I was doing so well. My resolve was solid. This time was going to be different. Then we had to go and have a stinking snow day. I got up, washed three loads of laundry, cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom, checked Facebook and my email a dozen times. It was only 10am. *Sigh* Then that pesky little voice in my head started whispering…..You can handle it…. Only a simple little profile…. Everyone else is doing it…. You can stop anytime you want….Just see who is out there…. STOP THE MADNESS!

It’s like a drug. Seriously. I don’t want to do it. And yet I DO want to do it. Maybe if this blog thing doesn’t work out for me I can start my own Plenty of Fish Anonymous; (POFA). J (For those of you who may be wondering, Plenty of Fish is a free online dating site. I have used it off and on for, well, let’s just say a while.) I googled to see if there was such a thing as Online Dating Anonymous. (I know, that’s really, really sad.) Turns out there isn’t. There are sites to tell you how to online date anonymously, but that was the extent of the help. It would appear that I am the only person on the planet with this problem. I did, however, discover there are plenty of other conditions that apparently need a 12 step program. Seriously, these are real organizations. Well, if you consider having a website a real organization.

-        Co-Dependents Anonymous. Hmmm. No Comment.

      

-        Over-Eaters Anonymous. Hmmm. Again. No Comment.

       

-        Gamblers Anonymous. Wonder how many people joined last week when they didn’t win 1.6 billion dollars.

     

-        Liars Anonymous. Wonder if they take referrals.

-        Shopaholics Anonymous. Do thrift stores count?

-        Hoarders Anonymous. When Shopaholics Anonymous doesn’t work.

-        Romantics Anonymous. I thought I had found something here. But it was just the name of a French movie.

-        UnderEarners Anonymous. Seriously. This is a thing. A legitimate 12 step program. It stems from the premise that under earners are time drunks who waste their life with frivolous activities instead of pursuing legitimate goals. Hmmm. Double Hmmm.

This one is my favorite. I don’t know why. It just is.

-        Kleptomaniacs Anonymous. I love it. Here is part of their official statement “..counseling for shoplifting addicts. (CASA) is a unique, independent and secular weekly self-help group”. I find it interesting that they feel compelled to throw in the word ‘secular’. I mean I understand it is because traditional 12 step programs require acknowledgment of a higher power, but it still stood out to me. I went to their website. This guy offers a weekly phone counseling service. There is even a testimonial with an unidentifiable person holding a hair dryer. I’m not making this up.

And I guess I shouldn’t be mocking it either. These groups could be helping real people with genuine problems. The good news for me is that while I spent all that time researching ‘anonymous’ groups, I didn’t take the time to put back up my online dating profile.

I am not against online dating as a concept. I have met some very interesting and quite nice men through the process. You may even get to ‘meet’ some of them here at a later time. However there is quite the pull on me to fall back on it like a crutch when I get lonely. That does bother me a bit. It’s like a quick fix. A temporary buzz. Overall though it is mostly meaningless (frivolous) banter and does actually waste time (instead of pursuing a legitimate goal). Maybe I should go back and bookmark the Under-Earners Anonymous website.

Hope Out

Prairie Dogs Are Not House Pets - Compromise VS Concession

If you know me, then you know I am not really an indoor animal/pet person. I wish I were. I know that pets bring an enormous amount of joy and companionship to many. I am just not in that group yet. They stress me out. I inherited this from my mother, so take it up with her if you have an issue. And let’s not start with the hate mail, I love animals. I am just not a big fan of actually owning, housing, or cleaning up after them. Except for the brief amount of time I opened my home to two prairie dogs.

I dated this guy…...Let’s call him……wait, maybe I shouldn’t actually give his real name. I’m not sure what the rules are with blogs. I’m pretty confident that he, nor anyone he knows, will ever read this so I guess it doesn’t matter. Plus most of you already know his name anyway. But to operate on the side of fairness…..let’s just call him Charles. J

Now Charles was an avid animal lover. In fact he actually worked at an animal sanctuary and had his own animal business. He was serious about them. Which was great. I had no issue with that. In fact I even tried to help him. We actually appeared together on a local TV morning program to promote his business. I stood there with a Veiled Chameleon on my finger like I was Marlin Perkin’s daughter. (For you youngsters, Marlin Perkins was the Pre-Jack Hanna/ Steve Irwin guy who hosted Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom that I watched as a kid.) Sounds great, right? Team Work. Good girlfriend brownie points for sure. So what became the problem?

Ironically, the chameleon is a pretty accurate description of the problem. A chameleon will change its ‘colors’ to blend (or fit) into their surroundings if they feel threatened or insecure. Hmmm…That stings a little! Obviously my motivation was not fear of actual survival, but it was fear of rejection or more accurately desire for approval. If I became the best animal assistant on the planet, then of course Charles would love me. Right?? That’s how it works….Tell me that’s how it works...

So let’s get back to the prairie dogs. One was a rescue from the wild and one was a companion for the rescue. And on the cuteness level, they were a pretty solid 8 ½. But prairie dogs prefer to live underground; which means they dig, a lot. The floor in my home is not dirt. So you can see where this would present a problem; both for the prairie dogs and my floor. In addition, apparently when prairie dogs are stressed, they chew. On anything. So, again, you can see where this would present a problem, for well, anything in my home that was on or near floor level....furniture legs, shoes, etc.

Why, oh why, do you ask, did I allow them to run loose in my house? To wreck havoc on my belongings? My Good Girlfriend answer is ‘compromise’. They weren’t there all the time; only visited when he did. Wasn’t fair to keep them locked up in a cage. Took precautions to mitigate the damages. Look, I wanted to be seen as amenable; understanding, compassionate. Oh PLEASE!! I was a sell out to myself! I see that! All under the guise of hoping he would think I was cool. Shame on me. Ok, let me dial back the self-harshness a bit. I am a sensitive girl after all.

Now all of you are probably out there screaming at your screen shaking your head…”I would NEVER do something like that”. Maybe not. Maybe a wild animal habitat was a bit extreme. J  But what would you do.…What have you done….To try and impress someone. Or is it just me?

So how should I have handled it? (Obviously allowing prairie dogs to run amuck in the house was not it.) But seriously, when you enter a new relationship, you have to find a happy medium. No one is going to agree on everything. Have exactly the same interests or hobbies or boundaries. There has to be a melding of the two worlds. So when does compromise become concession? When does  ‘it’s ok’  turn into a betrayal of your personal beliefs? I guess it is different for every individual. No one can be seen as so rigid and cold as to not allow for their partner’s passions; but surrendering your needs or values is not the road to travel either. Ultimately it was not those cute little cousins of groundhogs that did us in. Our problems ran deeper than that. But an important take away from that relationship was I should have managed that particular matter differently. I wish I could say I have learned my lesson. Truthfully I struggle with this particular concept, a lot. But as reminders go, I have a bare spot on my carpet that should help drive it home. 

Are You In?

That question posed to 99.9% of you would seem like a very innocent inquiry. However for one of you, and you know who you are, it stirs up a whole host of  “oh no, what is it this time?”  or  “really…again?”  or  “insert your own SMH comment” . (I just recently learned what SMH stood for. I have seen it all over Facebook but really didn’t know what it meant. Being somewhat old-fashioned (aka squeamish) in the unknown vocabulary department, modern acronyms scare me a little. If I don’t know what it means, I can’t be put off by it. Turns out ‘shake my head’ isn’t very off-putting, so it’s all good.) 

(Are You In?) is the standard subject line to my life-is-falling-apart emails that I send my sister; let’s call her Judy. J  Now Judy and I have a very unique email dance routine we do every week. I’m quite OCD about it. It is her job to email me first on Monday mornings, give her life/family update and then I respond with mine. She lives several states away, so this is our main source of contact. On the rare occasion that something detains her I will kindly send out a reminder. I don’t send my full update, just a note that she still has to go first. And because she loves me and I’m her baby sister, she plays along and humors me. She humors me a lot actually. And she will probably never know how much it means to me. Now the (Are You In?) emails are completely different from the (State of Our Lives) emails. No, those emails are reserved for my emotional rantings, or problem du jour, or “do you think it’s crazy that……” What is so great though, is that no matter how many I send, or how crazy she really thinks ‘it’ is, she always comes through for me. Why is that important to write about??  Because we all need an (Are You In?) person.

Regardless of how strong we are, or emotionally stable we are, or are not; there is a real basic need to have someone to turn to. Obviously I am not breaking revolutionary ground here. Having a great friend to lean on is not a radical concept, but sometimes we are afraid. Afraid of exposing our insecurities.  Afraid of admitting a stupid decision. Afraid of being seen as not having it all together. But let’s face it; sometimes we don’t have it all together. Every now and then it is so far from being together the pieces aren’t even in the same hemisphere. And for those days, we need someone to shore us up. No judgments. Probably not even actual solutions, but just stand there among the scattered pieces with us.

I have a friend….let’s call her Susan. J Now Susan and I met on a blind date of sorts. (Another story for another day.) But literally met for the first time in a parking lot to ride together to an event.  I had never seen her, talked to her, knew nothing about her. Just a few written exchanges and BAM…rode with her to a completely different town for the evening. Our respective teenage daughters were quite concerned about our naïve trust in each other, but we went anyway. And you know what? BAM…another  (Are You In?) was created for me. Now I don’t even know if she can say the same thing about me, which is sad and something I will have to work out with her later, but for me, no matter what, she is there. I am sure it is not always easy for her either. She has her own struggles for sure. But she has never failed me.

Quite honestly I am blessed in the (Are You In?) department. More than I even realized before I sat down to write this.  I can even count my two adult daughters in that category, even though as progressive as I believe I may have become, there are limits to THOSE conversations. J

I hope the take away from these few paragraphs is that it is OK and even recommended that we all have someone or a group of someones that we can be ourselves around. That we can feel safe to share our fears and screw ups to. And in turn we all need to become that (Are You In?) to someone we care about too. Will you be that for somebody today?  

Hope Out

So Here I Go>>>>

The Struggle Is Real. It Is. I know the phrase is generally used in an ironic and humorous manner, which is my ambitious objective as well. But make no mistake, the struggle IS real. The struggle of being single. The struggle to fit in and be accepted. The struggle to make ends meet. The struggle to find my place in the world.  So let’s start with the basics. Since this is my debut post, let me introduce myself. My name is Jackie. I am a middle aged single woman living in the South. Actually I guess it is very generous on my part to say I’m middle aged. Unless I expect to live to be 102, which it pains me to say that I don’t, then I’m actually somewhat past middle age. However, I’m thankful for every year and the wrinkles and gray hairs that came along for the ride. I have been single (as in unmarried) for over 20 years. (I know, that in and of itself is worthy of its own separate entry.) In recent years though I have doggedly (No pun intended. I promise that is the first word that popped out. I can’t speak on behalf of my subconscious however.) pursued online dating. It produced adventures and even some relationships that may or may not make it on this site, but suffice it to say I am still very much an unattached individual. The living in the South part is just a birthright and while it definitely impacted decisions and perspective, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with writing. I love to write. Sometimes the words just flow and everything I want to say just lays itself out perfectly; grammar and spelling not included. But that’s just sometimes. The rest of the ‘times’ the words are jumbled and chaotic and frustration causes me to leave the laptop closed. Nevertheless, this time it is important for me, and important to me, to try again. To put my ‘struggle’ on record. Hopefully not just the struggle, but the progress and the triumphs. And it is scary. This isn’t a private journal. I can’t just record every little thought that comes into my head. I have chosen, for some yet undetermined reason, to bare my heart and soul on a public forum. True, the ‘public’ is limited to the kind friends and family that choose to read it, but it is still emotional exposure.

The thought of a blog is not new to me. In fact, almost every New Year Resolution from the past several years had something about writing in it. I didn’t realize until I went to do this one that I already had started three other blog sites that had never been completely set up. I’m already ahead this time around. Yay! But honestly, this was not a 2016 resolution. In fact on January 1st I was in a new relationship surrounded by family and no thought was given to ill-fated proclamations to eat less, work out more, send birthday cards to people. (That is actually a real honest resolution I have EVERY year, and I fail at it EVERY year. Just ask any of my many family members who have never received one; ever.) But on January 15^th I found myself not in a relationship in a rather abrupt manner. So even though I am late with the resolution talk, here I am. Maybe my tardiness will ward off the resolution gremlins that dissolve good intentions.

So in the closing of my first, but cross my fingers not last, entry, let me state the goal. I don’t believe that these are just my struggles only. There is a positive possibility that this sharing process will benefit more than just me. Lofty goal? Maybe. But check in periodically and let’s see how I’m doing. 

Hope Out