Intuition ~ A Curse or Gift

According to Dictionary.com, intuition is:

1. direct perception of truth, fact, etc., independent of any reasoning process; immediate apprehension.
2. a fact, truth, etc., perceived in this way.
3. a keen and quick insight.
4. the quality or ability of having such direct perception or quick insight.
5. pure, untaught, noninferential knowledge.

I notice things. Little things that other people don't usually notice. I may notice one small thing strictly by accident which, by itself, has no special importance, meaning or relevance. But, then I'll come across one more thing, then another and wham! The whole picture falls into place. I can't remember a time when my intuition wasn't spot on.

For example, I have a very regular reader/lurker/stalker. What I should have said was my blog has a very regular reader/lurker/stalker.

At first, the reader visited only periodically and then stopped for awhile, but lately, over the last month or so, the reader visits nearly every single day, and yesterday searched at least three separate categories and clicked eight pages.

I guess I should feel grateful and honored that someone would find my writing so interesting, and I probably would if I didn't know the identity of the reader/lurker/stalker. But I do know the reader's identity and, coupled with several other seemingly random bits of other information, I know the reader's motive.

I know my amplified intuition developed in my childhood as a defense mechanism. I had to develop the ability in order to react to the instability and to help me determine whether I was in danger or safe. At some level being highly intuitive is a curse. Sometimes I would love to be blind to the small stuff, the whole ignorance-is-bliss thing. But most of the time I feel like it's a gift. It helps me see the bigger, broader picture and provides a closure of sorts. I can say, "Okay. That's what it's all about," then move on.

Moondoggie To The Rescue

I enjoy reading my horoscope every day. I don't live my life in accordance with my horoscope, but it's fun to see how accurate or prophetic it is at any given time.

Today's was particularly interesting. It read, in part...

"...There can be a sense of lost innocence as you learn that somethings are not as they appeared or you might have hoped for... You can't lose faith though, there is a silver lining in this!!"

Holy shit! That couldn't be more accurate. That is exactly what Tom and I were discussing last night. Not so much lost innocence as a realization that many things are not what they have appeared to be and definitely not what I would have hoped for.

I think I may have been deluding or lying to myself all along, investing too much time, thought, care and energy and trying way too hard with little or no benefit and certainly not even coming close to meeting any expectation I might have had. I think I need to step back, take a deep breath and re-evaluate.

I hate this part of self-examination. It's hard. Really hard. The new truth is sometimes hard to swallow. Then, of course, there is the necessity to view things with a new perspective and adjust my thought processes accordingly so I can modify my behavior. I need to keep in check that old need and desire to do and invest myself. It's necessary, but often messy.

Well, at least I've been assured of a silver lining.

Today...

I deactivated my Facebook account a few days ago. I've done exactly the opposite of what I've encouraged several friends and family members to do. Don't let them chase you away, I've said. Don't let them get the best of you. Don't give them the satisfaction. But I couldn't even take my own advice. I couldn't stay. I just wasn't strong enough.

A little over a month ago, we received an email from our oldest son informing us that he had been searching for his biological father - my ex - for a number of years, had finally located him and had every intention of contacting him. I took offense to the manner in which we were informed and sent a short and somewhat curt response, then took to my password protected blog to vent my frustration.

My son took offense to the titles of those blogs in a scathing email. I have not responded.

A couple of days later, our son posted the information in a public announcement on Facebook, then we noticed that he and his wife had "friended" my ex, his wife, his son and his son's wife, then later my ex's sister.

Over the last month, Tom and our son have emailed back and forth several times, each trying to explain his thoughts and feelings, but tempers quickly escalated and have remained high. The emails they exchanged weren't accomplishing anything. There wasn't any resolution or foundation for any sort of understanding or agreement.

A few days ago, I decided to read those emails and just a few sentences into one of them, I stopped. I stared at the computer screen. It didn't seem to matter that his revelations created more questions than answers for us. He made it clear he didn't even want to talk to us about it.

I sat there just staring at his words. I couldn't move my gaze past them. My eyes teared up. I took a deep breath and wiped my cheek. One word: Wow.

How did this happen? When did he stop caring? Why didn't I notice? How did I miss it? I felt completely disrespected and I started an emotional downward spiral I couldn't keep in check. What did I do? Where did I go wrong? Bad mom, bad mom, bad mom.

Then a couple of days later, my son posted on Facebook an old photo he received from my ex's family, a "family" portrait of me, my ex, his parents, sister and my son. I remembered it well. The negative body language was discernible and the staged "happy family" photo was almost laughable since it was taken just weeks before we separated for the second and last time and I filed for divorce. It made my stomach turn. Later that same evening, my daughter-in-law posted a photo, oddly enough, of my ex's old car at the 1970 Winternationals in southern California. I shook my head. Ironically, it was my ex's trip to the 1968 Winternationals with all of our money in hand, driving our only car and leaving me with a baby just over a year old, a half gallon of milk, 6 eggs, a few slices of bread, no money and no transportation, that was the final straw, the week I'd finally had enough, moved out and filed for divorce. Old, ugly memories came flooding back. This was exactly what I didn't want and what I feared the most - the possibility of being forced daily to view remnants of some of the worst times of my life. I immediately deactivated my Facebook page in order to detach myself from all of it.

But, last night I had a moment of clarity, or what the Greeks call an epiphany, or what my father-in-law calls a revelation, or what some of my friends might call divine inspiration.

I've had some really tough times in my life. I've written about some of them here. I've moved on and have lived a pretty damn good life with a man I love deeply and who has loved and supported me for over 45 years. A person can overcome and move on from almost anything when you have that on your side of the court.

But, it's impossible to move on or even maintain your integrity and a positive equilibrium if you're forced to sit on the floor surrounded by old yellowed photographs that constantly remind you of how miserable you used to be. It achieves nothing and disrespects any positive outcome you try to create. Yes, the key is to move on and create new, positive and uplifting experiences and memories, but it's also choosing not to resurrect the hurtful past by taking control of who and what enters or reenters your life, your space. I have to admit that I've not been really good about doing that in the past. I've allowed people back into my life repeatedly, knowing the baggage they carry with them and the memories they stir within me, only to be forced, once again, to demand their exit.

I have no idea what my ex is like today. I don't care because it doesn't matter. What matters is how I feel when I see his name or his photo. I see the person who treated me and my son with utter disdain and such neglect that it endangered, on more than one occasion, my son's health and well-being. I see a person who chose to abandon his human responsibility in order to serve his own selfish material desires. That is my bias. That is my history. I choose not to relive it or resurrect it in any form.

While I can ask others to respect my history, my personal space and my boundaries, I must first respect myself enough to control these areas in my life. Today I am saying, "Do not enter. You are not welcome here and I'm not going back there, even if it's just for a minute."

I don't know what my son will do or how far he will take this. Only time will tell. It's his life. He's an adult. I love him and I want to give him all the space and time he needs to follow his journey, wherever it leads him. But it doesn't mean I have to go with him.

I have missed my friends and family on Facebook, but to be free of the reminders and negative input has been so uplifting. I feel lighter than I have all month. I may reactivate my account some time in the future, but I'll set my parameters to weed out as much of the peripheral negativity as I can. If that doesn't work, I'll have to deactivate it permanently.

Finally, just for the record, there seems to be some confusion about what constitutes a "real dad." When a man deposits his sperm, wipes his hands clean and abandons his responsibility for the life it helped create, he's a sperm donor. When a man commits to opening his heart and raising a child, supports, gives freely of hugs, kisses and laughter, heals wounds, cleans up vomit, changes diapers, attends parent/teacher conferences, cheers at soccer and baseball games, teaches integrity and respect, and loves unconditionally, regardless of whether sperm is involved, he's a "real dad."

There Is Only Healing

I’ve been scolded for holding a 45-year old “grudge” and told I should just “get over it.”

You can call it what you will: a grudge, animosity, resentment, anger, bitterness. I own up to all of them when faced with dredging up past neglect, abandonment and abuse, whether at the hands of my parents or ex-husband.

And, my reaction to the demand to "get over it" is strong. Don’t tell me how I should feel. I know how I feel and I’m allowed to have and own my feelings, whether anyone considers them valid or not.

My internet friend, Karin @ Altadenhiker, commented a few posts ago, “I think forgiveness is vastly overrated.” I do, too, and even more so the “getting over it” part.

While some people will tell you that forgiveness is for yourself, in my heart and at the very core of my being, I cannot and will not forgive any abuser, mine or anyone else’s, for subjecting their victim to neglect, abandonment or verbal, physical or sexual abuse, regardless of how recent or distant the abuse.

It makes me angry when our society implies that the victim should forgive the abuser. I reject the group mentality that protects the abuser and blames and brainwashes the victim into believing they are the problem because they are unable or unwilling to forget and forgive the perpetrator for the neglect or abuse. Blame is placing the responsibility for the abuse where it belongs, on the abuser. S/He abuses, then moves on, leaving the victim to clean up the mess.

Still so many people cry out impatiently for the survivor to “just get over it,” which is usually followed by more invalidation and dismissive demands to then “forget it and move on.”

Is it any wonder why so many victims DON’T tell? Society has convinced the victim that the guilt and shame is theirs to bear and that they must have somehow deserved or invited this kind of mistreatment.

Getting over it or forgiveness denies the victim the permission to be angry, permission to speak, to have a voice, to vent and rage and FEEL all the emotions that he/she was not allowed to feel before as a victim.

Victims are further victimized by being required to deny their anger and pain when they are forced to interact in some way, directly or indirectly, with the abuser. Just ask the adult man who was emotionally and physically abused for two years of his young life how he feels about the man, his abuser, still being “friends” with his mom. Or ask the adult woman who was sexually molested at a very early age how she feels about constantly being confronted by her abuser because he’s allowed to continue being part of the “family” on Facebook.

I cannot and will not ever get over or forgive people who have hurt me or my children, regardless of how old they are or how long ago it was. Those people are not deserving of my forgiveness.

If there is anyone to forgive, it’s me. Forgiving the years of running and hiding and denying truths I either suspected or knew all along. Forgiving myself for not paying attention to my own needs. Forgiving myself for not walking away when I could (but not when I was unable) and forgiving myself for prolonging all the pain and neglect that was inflicted on me and my child by denying for so long that it was even there in the first place.

I had a wonderful therapist years ago. After several tearful sessions, I asked her, “How do I get over this?”

She said, “There is no ‘getting over.’ There is only healing.”

She was right.

Nowhere Safe

I don't remember anything about any of my classes the day after the beating. I was preoccupied with planning how I was going to get out of changing into gym clothes, playing basketball in gym shorts, then showering afterward. I had to create a whole scenario in my head; really think it through.

How could I change into my gym clothes without the bruises below my panties showing? It would be too weird to take my gym clothes into the bathroom to change. How was I going to hide the bruises on the back of my legs just below where my gym shorts stopped? Once on the basketball court, everyone running behind me would see the bruising. Maybe I could fake sickness.

By the time I headed to gym class, my last class of the day, I was in a heightened state of anxiety, embarrassment and shame, fighting back the lump in my throat.

I entered the locker room, trying to act normal and nonchalant. I tried to move a little slower than usual, but not so slow as to draw attention to myself. I didn't say anything to anyone and no one spoke to me. I felt invisible yet raw and conspicuous. While the other girls chatted and dressed quickly, I pulled my gym clothes out of my locker and placed them on the bench in front of the lockers and stuffed my purse and books in their place. I turned around and sat down on the bench with my back to the row of lockers, took off my shoes and sat them on the bench next to me. I was stalling.

Still sitting with my back to the lockers, I unbuttoned my blouse, pulled each arm out one at a time, folded it neatly and sat it next to my shoes. I unbuttoned the waistband of my skirt, stood up and lowered it far enough to step out of it, then folded it neatly and set it on top of my blouse.

The locker room was emptying quickly as my classmates, generally in pairs, headed to the gym. My ploy was working.

Still standing up, I pulled my slip off over my head, then quickly sat down again. I rolled it into a ball and added it to the pile of clothing. I reached over and grabbed my t-shirt and slipped it over my head.

The last two girls left my row and there were only five or six girls left in the gym besides me.

I grabbed my gym shorts, stood up and quickly pulled them up, then sat down to put on my socks and tennis shoes. By the time I finished, I was the only one left in the locker room.

I knew I was going to be late to the gym. That was my plan. I would run breathless into the gym and pretend to twist my ankle. I couldn't play basketball with a twisted ankle and Miss Derby would bench me for the whole period. That's what I was hoping. I could sit in the bleachers, hiding all the evidence.

As I left the locker room for the gym, my heart was pounding. "Stay to the right. Run toward the bleachers," I told myself. I ran through the hallway and through the door into the gym, headed slightly to the right. Just as I reached the basketball court's outside boundary, I yelled, "Ow!" in the most painful voice I could muster. I slowed my running immediately to a walk with a limp, favoring my right foot.

Almost everyone stopped and looked at me, including Miss Derby, who was standing center court.

I limped as quickly as possible to the bottom row of the bleachers and sat down just a few feet from the end, stretching my right leg out in front of me and reaching down to rub my faux injury. Just then, Miss Derby was standing in front of me.

"Are you okay, Terri? What happened?"

"I twisted my ankle, Miss Derby," I said in a pained voice. "It hurts when I walk."

"You probably should see the nurse."

Nooooo, I thought. If I get up and walk out of here then everyone will see!  

I looked up at her, trying not to look like a begging puppy. "Can I just sit here awhile and see if it gets better?"

She squatted down and gently touched spots around my ankle. "It doesn't look swollen." Acquiescing, she said, "Okay, but if you start to get some swelling, you'll need to have her take a look at it."

"Okay," I said, relieved.

I sat there the rest of the period, watching my classmates play basketball. Miss Derby looked over at me from across the court a couple of times and mouthed the words, "You okay?" I nodded affirmatively.

I was a little apprehensive about how I was going to leave the gym when the period was over, but my concern dissipated considerably when Miss Derby blew her whistle to dismiss the class and everyone ran for the door.

I stood up, but waited until Miss Derby was in front of me before heading out of the gym, then faux-limped my way along side her, back to the locker room, where she went in the opposite direction to her office. I grabbed a towel from the metal shelves near the entrance and when I reached my locker row, almost everyone was in the showers.

The shower was mandatory, even if you didn't participate, unless you had a special note from your parents. I had planned to be the last one in so I could shower alone. I would be late leaving for my walk home, but it was Friday and I didn't care. I would make up a story if I had to. I forgot a book and I had to run back to get it. Miss Derby asked me to help her pick up any towels left in locker room. Anything for cover.

Alone in the row, I unlocked my locker and removed my school clothes and sat them down on the bench. I sat down on the bench with my back toward the lockers and just waited. I slowly took off one shoe, then a minute or so later, the other shoe. Then one sock, then another. Girls wrapped in towels were filing in from the showers, drying and dressing quickly in order to catch school buses or rides home. When the showers were empty and all the girls in my row had left, I slowly undressed, wrapped my towel around me and headed for the showers.

I moved to one end of the shower, only partially hidden by the outside corner of the shower wall. I turned on the water, showered quickly with my back toward the shower head and as I turned around to turn off the water and grab my towel, I thought I heard someone walk by. I pulled my towel tight around my back and turned my body to look, but didn't see anyone, so I dried off, wrapped the towel around me again and headed back to my locker.

I dressed as fast as I could: panties, bra, slip, skirt, blouse. As I buttoned up my blouse, I breathed a sigh of relief. I did it.

As I was putting on my shoes, Miss Derby came around the corner of the locker row.

"I'd like to see you in my office before you leave," she said.

"Okay," I replied. My head was spinning. My heart was racing. Did I forget to limp? Is she going to call my parents? I'll just have to tell them my ankle got better really fast.

The door to her office was open and when she saw me, she motioned with her hand and said, "Come in." And once I was in the door, "Sit down."

I stared at her. I was terrified of what she was going to say.

"How are you?" she asked.

"I'm fine," I said. "It only hurts a little now."

"I'm not talking about your ankle," she said.

She took a breath, her eyes not leaving mine, then asked quietly, "How are things at home?"

I almost started to cry. I could feel my cheeks turn red, I could barely breath and I swallowed hard. My hands were shaking and I held them hard in my lap. I didn't know how to answer.  No one can know, I thought.

"Okay," I said finally. I wondered if she could see the lie in my eyes.

"Do you want me to call someone? I will call someone to help you."

A tear rolled down my cheek and I quickly wiped it away with my hand. I couldn't speak for the lump in my throat. I merely shook my head slowly from side to side.

"Are you sure, Terri?" She stared at me hard.

I looked down and, again, shook my head, then in almost a whisper, "I'm sure."

"Well. Okay. But if you change your mind, let me know."

I nodded, but I knew I wouldn't. "Thank you," I said as I stood to leave.

We never spoke of it again.

Leaving Abnormal

I always knew there was something different, something wrong with my family. As far back as I can remember, I knew. Even as a child in first or second grade, I remember watching how other parents and their children interacted. Relatives, friends, neighbors; their families were warm and engaging. Other parents smiled and laughed and hugged their children. They helped them dress in the morning, made them breakfast, tucked them in at night. My parents were the opposite. They were remote and self-centered and preferred to yell, slap, spank, ridicule and belittle.

That's not to say that other kids didn't get in trouble. Of course they did. The difference was their fathers' lips didn't quiver from repressed rage when he reprimanded them. Over rambunctious childhood antics weren't something other fathers became enraged over. No, that was my father.

Pushing my father over the edge from mere annoyance to anger and finally rage was easy to do. Often times, we wouldn't even see it coming. In a split second, out of no where, it was there, sucking the air out of the room, making it impossible to catch your breath. And once it erupted, there was no going back, no escape.

In my early years, I was just a scared kid. I was afraid to cross my father in any way. I tried to be careful, tried to read him, tried to avoid his wrath. It was no easy task. He was like an injured cat. At the slightest touch or provocation, even inadvertently, he would strike out.

By the time I reached my teens, the ravages of puberty transformed my fear and anxiety into resentment and defiance. I became intimately acquainted with the 3-inch thick "John Brown" belt my father used as a disciplinary tool, but it never deterred me. My anger was bigger than the pain of a beating.

I think I was a junior in high school, around 16 or 17 years old. I don't remember what started it. I'm sure I stuck up for myself and sassed my father about something or other. It escalated quickly and in nothing flat his body was trembling, his knuckles were white and his voice quivered. He grabbed me hard by the arm and spun my body sideways and attempted to hit my rear end with the flat of his hand. But, as I struggled to get out of his grasp, the wallops mostly landed on the back of my legs or hips. "I'm getting the belt," he warned and left the family room headed toward his bedroom. I tried to steel myself during the minute he was gone.

He came back with the belt folded in half with the buckle and opposite end in his right hand. When I refused to bend over and accept my punishment willingly as he demanded, he grabbed my arm once again, threw me face down over the arm of a chair and held me in position with his left hand on my back and swung the belt over and over again. It felt like it lasted a long time. Finally, my mother stepped forward. "Earl, don't you think that's enough?"

He didn't respond, but always being one who must have the last word...or the last stroke... after two or three more stinging blows, he stopped, released his hand from my back and ordered me to my room. I obliged.

In my room, with the door closed, I wiped the tears from my face with my shirt. I backed up to the mirror over my vanity table. Bright red welts and a hand print from the "pre-beating" defaced the backs of my thighs below the hem of the shorts I was wearing. I pulled my shorts and panties down to assess the full extent of the beating. Not one centimeter of white, untouched skin was visible on the backs of my thighs and buttocks. I gently ran my hand over the welts, feeling the raised edges where the belt hit my skin. It stung like hell to the touch. I pulled my shorts all the way off, took my shirt and bra off, slipped into a nightgown and turned the light off. I crawled into my bed on my knees and settled down under the blanket on my side and quickly fell asleep.

The next morning, before I dressed for school, I again examined my backside. The redness and welts were replaced with blue, grey and red bruising. My skirt would cover it, but not my gym shorts, not to mention my complete nudity when I showered after gym class.

I gathered my books and folders and headed out the door to school. For the entire 20 minute walk to school, I was consumed with gym class, my last class of the day. How on earth was I going to keep this a secret?

{to be continued...}

A Life of Contrasts

I was watching Morning Joe this morning. Paul Krugman was a guest on the program promoting his new book, End This Depression Now. Joe Scarborough asked Krugman why he called what we're in a "depression". Krugman's answer was, and I'm paraphrasing some, a recession is when the economy is on its way down, but a depression is when it's at the bottom and that's where we are now.

Maybe I've been living in a bubble and completely out of touch with reality, but I can't remember things ever being so bad in my lifetime. My affiliation with the Clothes Closet has really opened my eyes to how bad it really is and how people are coping.

A tiny blonde woman, maybe in her mid-forties, came into the Clothes Closet yesterday. She had just finished getting groceries at the Food Basket next door. She handed me her card and I noted the 2/0 in the upper right hand corner - 2 adults/0 children. 

"So, you'll be shopping for yourself and....?" I prompted.

"My twin sister," she replied.

"Identical?"

"Yes, but she's a little bigger than me," she said with a smile.

I showed her around a little, then she headed to the rack of women's pants in the middle of the room.

"We need some black pants. We have to wear them to work," she said.

"Where do you work?" I asked.

"Kentucky Fried Chicken. We both just got jobs there. They give us the shirts to wear, but we have to wear black pants with them. My sister is working there right now or she'd be here with me. I'm not complainin'. We've both been outta work a long time, but now we at least have a job. We need the money. We're gonna to move into an apartment. We're livin' in a tent right now."

She said it with a smile. They are living in a tent. It made me feel ashamed of myself. The last time I was in a tent was three years ago when we camped at Yellowstone and I vowed never to do it again.  

How can she even smile, I wondered to myself. My thoughts went quickly to the downpour we had a couple of weeks ago. I'll bet everything they owned was soaked and they were beyond miserable. And there she was smiling and happy to be working at KFC.

I live in a county with a population of about 125,000 people. As of the last census in 2010, 15.3%  - nearly 20,000 people - live below the poverty level. Two years later and well into the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression, I can only assume that the number is higher.

This same county prides itself on being a Christian community and boasts of 124 churches of almost as many denominations. Many of the church buildings are beautiful. The church grounds are immaculate. The sanctuaries and classrooms are plushly carpeted and painted soothing colors. All the buildings are heated in the winter and cooled in the summer. The massive industrial kitchens are fully stocked and at the ready to serve hungry parishioners. The children's playgrounds are equipped with the latest designs and colors. Millions are spent creating inviting, beautiful and comfortable environments in which to worship.

But, but, but....

• "But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind." Luke 14:13


• "Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy." Proverbs 31:9 
  


• "Jesus answered, If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.'" Matthew 19:21  


• "'He defended the cause of the poor and needy, and so all went well. Is that not what it means to know me?" declares the LORD." Jeremiah 22:16 


• "Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter — when you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?" Isaiah 58:6-7 


• "If you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday." Isaiah 58:10  

I'm sure there are hundreds more bible quotes like those. But I couldn't find one quote that sanctioned blatant extravagance and self-indulgence while displaying complete indifference to those who live without enough food, clothing or shelter. It's hard to care when you isolate yourself from the ugly realities around you.

I don't think sitting in a nicely padded, comfortable pew in an ornate, air conditioned sanctuary on Sunday and uttering a brief prayer for the most disadvantaged among us is what Jesus had in mind. I think we're  supposed to actually do the work.

Two More Days

Tomorrow is the last day of NaBloPoMo. I'm not sure if I'm happy or a little disappointed.

I am a procrastinator. I know, you didn't know this about me. But I am. This commitment, which I could easily have discarded at any time over the last 29 days, has been sort of a welcomed catalyst to get off my very sizable ass and actually write something, no matter how mundane, meaningless or shallow, every single day.

When I look at how I've neglected my food blog, I sort of .... very marginally sort of ... wish I had made the commitment for that blog, too.

So, here's the thing. I'm still sick since the day after Thanksgiving. Fever, head and chest congestion, headache, coughing and general all around feeling lousy. If you know anything about me, you know that sleeping until 8:30 in the morning is completely out of character, but that is exactly what I did this morning....even though Tom woke me up at 7:00am to let me know he was leaving. And, I took a nap this afternoon. I know. What a loser.

I have several things in my life that apparently need attention. Over the last 29 days, I have touched on a myriad of topics that could use some in-depth exploratory surgery, or at the very least, some commentary. However, I am coughing and wheezing and sweating and currently in no position to explore anything more than how a dose of NyQuil will effect my night's sleep.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

I was born and raised in California and lived most of my adult life there. There are very specific things that evoke a yearning to be back there, but Oceanside Harbor is one. Tom kept his sailboat in the marina there and we'd sail out for a couple of hours on a afternoon. Sometimes we'd spend the night on the boat. It was like a mini-vacation. We frequented the restaurants around the harbor and looked forward every fall to Harbor Days, a huge arts and crafts event not rivaled by anything here in Arkansas.

San Diego harbor is another. We'd drive down from Carlsbad for the day, a wander through Seaport Village, take a boat excursion, eat Crab Louie for lunch at Anthony's overlooking San Diego bay.

Of course, the Ahmanson Theatre in Los Angeles is very special to me. I can't count the number of musicals and plays Tom and I enjoyed there, including Phantom of the Opera with none other than the incomparable Michael Crawford. We've seen Phantom a number of times, but every other performance never quite measures up to Mr. Crawford.

This morning I read a new blog post by my friend, Karin, at Altadena Hiker, one of my favorite writers. It made me miss something about California that isn't entertainment or distraction. I miss the diversity.

Photo Source Northwesternflipside.com
It's weird living somewhere so one-dimensional. I grew up hearing many accents and languages everywhere around me and even more so as the influx of immigrants grew after I became an adult. It's an odd feeling to hear only a southern accent. It's feels peculiar to look out over a crowd and see almost exclusively light faces. The occasional brown face is a stark contrast and I often wonder how that person feels, or if they even notice.

When I went to work at Philander Smith College, an historically black college, my colleagues thought I was nuts. But, working at PSC was a multi-dimensional sensory experience. I think one of the reasons I felt so comfortable working there surrounded by so many people of color was because, visually, it felt familiar. I felt like I was back in California. It felt like home.

Day 30 - A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself

From Thirty Days of Truth

No chance that I am going to write a 'letter'. That's an entry level psychotherapy exercise, and Baby I am WAY beyond entry level.

What I thought about doing was just making a bulleted list. I think that will work just fine.

• I LOVE that I'm a woman. Even through the feminist movement of the 60's and 70's and the fight for equality and dealing with the sexist assholes who treated women like we were less than cattle (isn't that where that old saying came from? Why buy the whole cow when you can get the milk for free - completely demeaning), I was always glad I was a woman and not a man. Sorry, Sigmund dear, no penis envy here.
• I love that, in spite of my cruel and oppressive upbringing, I still believe in deep, genuine and authentic love.
• I love that I am a loving and committed wife, mom and grandma. My husband, my sons, my daughters-in-law and my grandkids mean the world to me and my life wouldn't be the same without each and every one of them.
• I love that I am intelligent and use that ability wisely (most of the time). I read a ton of newspapers online - big, small, local, national, international, liberal, conservative - because I think it's important to consider everyone's perspective before I form an opinion.
• I love that I am perceptive and intuitive. It allows me to see and hear beyond the spoken word even if I don't particularly like what I see.
• I love that I'm emotionally strong and resilient because it empowers me to get up and move forward no matter what life presents.
• I love that I have a sense of humor that enables me to laugh, even if it's at my expense. I love being caught off guard with something so funny that I laugh until I almost cry.
• I love that I still feel like I can change and grow; that I never feel (at least for very long) that I am a hopeless cause, even if it takes me 5 years to accomplish the simple task of making exercise a part of my daily routine. It doesn't make me hopeless. I just makes me a slow learner.
• I love that I have the ability and courage to tell the truth.

This is the last day of The 30 Days of Truth. It took me longer than 30 days, but I finished it. What have I learned from this exercise? Nothing new really. I have always known that the only limits I've ever had are the ones I place on myself. I have always known that I've had all the opportunities I need to be who I want to be and do whatever fulfills my heart's desire and my life purpose. Opportunities have always been and always will be there for the taking...the enjoyment...the indulgence...the transformation of myself. Many times I have been my own worse enemy; other times my only cheerleader. It always comes down to accepting personal responsibility for who and where I am TODAY. It's not my parents' fault. It's not Tom's fault, or my kids' or my sisters' or my boss' or ex-husband or ex-boyfriend or anyone else's... or even life. I am, right now, TODAY, responsible for continuing to create my life and will do so until my life is over.

Now if you will excuse me, I will get out of my pajamas, put on some sweats and hit the treadmill.

Day 29 - Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.

From Thirty Days of Truth

Day 29 and finally nearing the end of this 30-day exercise. Funny I should use the word 'exercise' since that will be my answer ~ my motivation to exercise, incorporate more physical activity into my daily routine, besides doing bookkeeping for Tom's business, cleaning, laundry, cooking, etc.

I do pretty well during the spring and summer. I like going to the walking trail and putting in a couple of miles in the warm sunshine. But once it starts to get a chill in the air...Phhttt!...motivation gone! I hate cold weather. The older I get, the more I hate it. And instead of going for a walk outside, I daydream about going for a walk on a warm beach. Apparently daydreams don't burn calories or make my heart pump.

Right now I'm exhausted. I can barely keep my eyes open after dinner. By 10:00pm my head hits the pillow and I'm gone, then I drag myself out of bed at 6:30am. It's a 30-year old routine...so routine I don't even use an alarm clock, but it's the dragging myself out of bed instead of feeling rested and refreshed that I don't like. I know I would feel better and more energized if I would just take a walk every day. I know it, but I don't do it because I don't want to go out in the cold.

Yes, that is what I would like to change: my motivation to exercise routinely and consistently. To approach it with an outlook so positive that it overshadows the grumpy, grouchy side of me that grumbles under my breath about the outside temperature.

The 'why'? Obviously to feel better physically, to be healthier, maybe even lose some weight.

When I began this blog in April 2007, I concluded my first post with this statement: "My problem is consistency. That is what I am struggling with now."

You would think after 4 years of hashing, rehashing, scrutinizing and self examination, I'd have that particular personal issue behind me. Perhaps if I would invest as much energy into the doing as I invest into the writing about the fact that I'm not doing...well, maybe I'd have run that 5K by now. Ya think?

Day 28 - What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?

From Thirty Days of Truth

What would I do if I found out I was pregnant? You mean after I stopped screaming? Or after I was revived and conscious? Or after I came back from my very lucrative million dollar exclusive interview with the National Enquirer who will publish a story about a woman who has been surgically rendered womb-less but somehow magically got pregnant?

Okay. I'll get serious. I'm 64 years old. I will reach my medicare eligibility birthday in four months. Having a child well into my 60's would be too risky for me and the child. Then I would have to consider the quality of life a child would have with elderly parents who could die even before his or her 18th birthday. So. Not. Right.

I would not carry the child to term and then give him or her up for adoption for three reasons, one being the risk factors I have already mentioned and two being the quality of life for the child. The third is that there are already too many children needing good homes and I would not take the additional risk that my child would become a casualty of foster home care. I don't have anything against foster parenting. We were foster parents when our children were younger. I just wouldn't want to take the chance that my child would be shuffled from one home to another. Also so not right.

The only other option would be to terminate the pregnancy. Sadly, that would be my choice.

Day 27 - What’s the best thing going for you right now?

From Thirty Days of Truth

We spent Saturday afternoon at my father-in-law's apartment, sorting through photos, travel journals, letters from grandchildren and planning for the memorial service the next day, talking, sharing, laughing, remembering.

My mother-in-law's memorial service was yesterday at the retirement community where she lived, the culmination of a very full and very emotional weekend for all surviving family members and friends.

The memorial service was led by members of a local African-American church who for 9 years have provided the retirement community with the Sunday services my mother-in-law faithfully attended. Their memories of her were loving, joyous and heartfelt.

Although I'm not a particularly stoic person, I was more emotional than I expected, but for now I think I'll blame it on the singing, which was dynamic and soulful. First Melanie, then Avery - both sang Acapella the specific hymns my MIL requested. Several times during each hymn the music was so powerful I would quietly gasp, then hold my breath, tears running down my cheek. The lyrics became personal because they were the very words I'd heard my MIL use in her everyday life in her conversations with all those she knew and loved.

So....I guess you're wondering why I specifically mentioned the "African-American" church.

In case you might have forgotten, I live in Arkansas. Although the media and some survey takers sometimes categorize our location as being in the mid-west, Arkansas is, in fact, in the south and all that frequently and stereotypically implies: 1) sweet tea is generally the house wine, 2) BBQ is smoked meat and NOT food cooked on an outdoor grill, 3) fried catfish, chicken and okra are staples at every single buffet within the state's borders, and 4) racism is not concealed or as guarded as it is in other parts of the country.

The residents of the retirement community where my father-in-law continues to call home are all white...meaning the color of their skin, not their hair. I don't believe there is one black couple or single black person residing there. The residents, many of whom still harbor the resentment of the civil rights movement of the 60's and in their old age with diminished personal filters, don't hide their aversion to any racial differences.

But, knowing full well the racial challenges facing them, the predominately African-American church members chose to provide church and bible study services to the residents of the retirement center every third Sunday. They took an unbelievably huge leap of faith and have ministered to the residents for the last 9 years. My mother-in-law became a faithful participant and loving friend, but during the memorial service it was noted that she was often the only resident in attendance. This was not surprising to me, considering the mindset of the other residents. What is surprising to me is the faithful commitment of the members of the church to continue to minister to whomever chose to attend, no matter how few.

My mother-in-law was a master of lessons, always looking for examples and opportunities to convey her message of encouragement for people to open their hearts and minds to everything and everyone around them. I believe even in her death her plan was to provide such an opportunity for her very white retirement community friends by presenting them with a beautiful, powerful and uplifting memorial service performed by loving and faithful church family, who just happened to be black.

After the memorial service, a few of the residents casually mentioned that they thought they just might attend the Sunday services in the future. It made me smile. It was my mother-in-law at work.

When the service was over and all the handshakes, hugs and condolences were exchanged, all of us retreated to my father-in-law's apartment and decided to meet in an hour or so for dinner at a local Mexican restaurant.

Tom and I came home to change into something more casual and comfortable before dinner and during a conversation with my sister Karen we learned that she had an angina attack the night before but hesitated to go to the hospital because she didn't want to awaken us in the middle of the night. Tom's response was immediate, while I was still catching my breath: "That's why you're here...so we can help you."

Are you asking yourself what does all of this have to do with Day 27's question?...'What's the best thing going for you right now?' Today? Right this minute?

Answer: My ability to breathe. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and blow it out. Breath is nourishment. Breath is a tranquilizer. Breath is a cleanser. Breath is a pause in the chaos. Breath is life and I'm lucky to be alive.

Day 26 - Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?

From Thirty Days of Truth

Okay, it's time finish this 30 day exercise.

I'm going to make this simple.

When I discovered I was pregnant with my second child and before I told Tom and told my parents, it crossed my mind.

I was scared to death. I wasn't sure how Tom would respond and even if he responded lovingly and supportively, I feared ruining his life plans...because, you see, I had no self-esteem so my life plans, which were non-existent anyway, would have been inconsequential, insignificant and irrelevant.

Then there was the issue of being, for the millionth time, the brunt of my parents' vitriol - the name calling, derogatory sarcasm, belittling and humiliation for not just one, but two pre-marital pregnancies.

As it turned out, Tom loved me as much as I loved him, he asked me to marry him and he insisted that we tell my parents together. He did most of the talking, even intervening on my behalf (imagine that??!!!) when my mother started with her derogatory sarcasm. My mother, after being mildly scolded, kept her direct disparaging remarks to a minimum and adopted her smug I-knew-it-all-along-because-that's-who-she-is-and-you-don't-know-her-like-I-do approach. Surprisingly, there wasn't any yelling. Tom was extremely calm and confident. Honestly, I think my parents feared that if they gave one indication of an impending verbal knock-down/drag-out, Tom would take me by the hand, lead me out of the house (which he had already told me he would do if things got ugly) and they would be robbed of their opportunity to berate me after he left.

Oh yes, I got it all from my parents anyway after Tom left. It was to be the last of the dozens of up-till-2:00am lectures on life and how I was screwing it up for everyone and how I was deliberately deceiving this really nice guy, intentionally trapping him into marrying me and ruining his life as well. I kept my mouth shut (a rarity) the entire time. But I was thinking, "Fuck you. You're just mad because he stood up to you and treated me with the respect you don't think I deserve."

The day Tom and I married, I walked out of my parents' home as resident for the very last time and I finally started to grow up.

Day 25 - The reason you believe you’re still alive today.

From Thirty Days of Truth

After this post, only five more to go. I'm glad. I'm done with prompts and memes for awhile. I think I'm more of a free-form kinda person.

Why do I believe I'm still alive today? My genes aren't that great. I shouldn't be as healthy as I am for a woman of my age. My father died at the age of 68 of lung cancer in 1992. My mother died at age 77 in 2003 of heart disease related issues. My sister Kim died of cancer at the young age of 56 almost three years ago.

I have three younger sisters left, all of which are battling some sort of debilitating medical and/or psychological and potentially life-threatening issues.

Some would say I have psychological issues. It depends on who you ask on any given day and the political climate at that moment.

Let's be realistic. I'm overweight. I sporadically attempt to engage in a healthy exercise routine and do yoga, but as I said it is sporadic at best. In the last couple of months I learned that my blood sugar is a little higher than normal, so I'm at risk for diabetes, making it all that more important to incorporate an exercise routine into my life. I have high blood pressure for which I take a daily medication. That, too, might be alleviated by that exercise routine and a little weight loss.

However, I do some good things for myself. After two unsuccessful attempts, I finally stopped smoking in my 30's. It was one of the best things I ever did, even though I gained some weight afterward. It was totally worth it. I write to relieve stress. And when that doesn't do the trick, I might go for a walk or walk on the treadmill. I do not sit and watch television for more than a couple of hours each evening, although music or the tv is usually on (24-hr news MSNBC) while I cook, clean and do laundry. I go to bed at just about the same time every night and get up about the same time every morning without an alarm. I drink lots of water, a minimum of two 24-oz glasses daily. I eat fresh food. I don't make meals from box mixes, except for an occasional boxed cake mix, egg roll or tater tot ~ probably less than once a month. I cook nearly every single day. I eat fast food so rarely, I could count the number of times in a year on one hand with fingers left over. Finally, I feel loved. I am in a deeply loving, very affectionate, demonstrative, supportive, respectful, considerate and often humorous relationship. You've heard of those studies about the benefits and possible healing properties of human touch. I don't doubt the significance or importance of human touch for a second and I think warm, loving hugs are, at the very least, powerful stress reducers.

Does any of that make any difference? I don't know. Maybe I've just been lucky.

Day 24 - Make a playlist and explain why you chose all the songs

From Thirty Days of Truth

According to the weather reports which began last night and continue through this morning, we are expecting snow-mageddon, snow-pocolypse, snow-tastrophe. By Arkansas standards, I suppose it is. No one is equipped for sustained winter weather. No one here buys tire chains or studded snow tires. Snow plows are few and far between and the road crews spread the icy roads with sand instead of salt, so the ice doesn't melt. I think the same is true for Oklahoma and Texas, which are the states Tom would have to drive through to get to Arizona to move Karen back to Arkansas. His trip, as well as his work day, is postponed until the roads are once again passable. So far this morning, northern Arkansas has two feet of snow - unheard of for this part of the country.

I checked road conditions this morning for Oklahoma. The entire state is at the highest "treacherous" rating and the Department of Public Safety is warning against any travel. The Texas map shows blowing snow, low visibility, ice and treacherous conditions throughout the panhandle with sections of lane closures.

The snow here is also blowing. We have snow all over the covered patio area...

but the ground isn't fully blanketed yet...



But snow is not supposed to be the subject of this post. I have to make a playlist. How many songs make a 'playlist'? Is eight enough? Is twelve too many? I have no idea. I'll just start and see what happens...

• Say...by John Mayer ~ This was the first song that came to mind. 'Say what you need to say. Even if your hands are shakin', And your faith is broken, Even as the eyes are closin', Do it with a heart wide open, A wide heart...Say what you need to say.' Jesus, I wish I could write like that.
• Blackbird...John Lennon/Paul McCartney ~ This song has been one of my favorites because it was sort of like an anthem for my life.
• Feels Like Home...Chantal Kreviazuk ~ Because of what Tom did for me 'If you knew how lonely my life has been, And how long I've been so alone, And if you knew how I wanted someone to come along, And change my life the way you've done, It feels like home to me, it feels like home to me, It feels like I'm all the way back where I come from, It feels like home to me, it feels like home to me, It feels like I'm all the way back where I belong'
• Golden...Jill Scott ~ At the highest points in my life, this song, upbeat and joyful, represents how I feel. 'I'm taking my freedom, pulling it off the shelf, puttin' on a chain, wearin' it 'round my neck. I'm takin' my freedom, putting it in my car, wherever I choose to go, it will take me far. I'm livin' my life like it's golden."
• Woke Up This Morning...Alabama 3 (Sopranos Theme) ~ 'You woke up this mornin', Got yourself a gun, Mama always said you'd be The Chosen One.' God, I miss that series. And I thought the way David Chase ended the series was stupid and cheesy. There. I said it.
• Smooth... Santana/Rob Thomas ~ Somewhere toward the end of February 2000, I headed out for Kansas on a business trip. Similar to this February, it was snowing. I wanted so bad to make it home before the start of the Grammy Awards program. 2000 was an exciting musical year for me because some of my favorite artists of that time were nominated: Sting, Marc Anthony, Backstreet Boys, Dixie Chicks and Santana. But as luck would have it, my flight home was delayed due to weather. I got home just as the program came to a close. Needless to say, I missed Sting's performance of Desert Rose (a huge hit that year) and Santana's performance and huge wins in the top three categories. I tried in vain to find a tape or DVD of the performances, but luckily Tom reminds me periodically that it was, in fact, the best Grammy Awards program he's ever seen and what a shame it was that I missed such AWESOME performances.
• Dance with my Father...Luther Vandross ~ I think the only person my mother ever truly loved was my father. Most of the time, they were pretty much inseparable. They did everything together. When I was in high school, they took ballroom dance classes and became members of a group called "The Swingsters" (which, as a side note, had nothing to do with wife-swapping). The group would meet a couple of times a month at different dinner/dancing clubs in the San Jose, California area and have dinner and dance the night away. They took their dancing very seriously and it was the one thing, as a couple, they did pretty well. God, they loved to dance. I had never seen my mom and dad happier than when they were dancing. When my Dad died in 1992, my mom stopped dancing, but even with dementia, when she heard music she'd smile a little and move her head back and forth in time with the beat. In her minds eye, I think she was dancing again with my Dad. My Mom died in 2003. Dance with my Father was released in 2004 and to this day, I cannot listen to the song without shedding a tear. The end of the song rips my heart out: 'I know I’m prayin’ for much too much, But could You send back the only man she loved, I know You don’t do it usually, But Lord, she’s dyin’ to dance with my father again." *sniffling*
• Men in Black...Will Smith ~ My oldest grandson, Zak wasn't even a teenager yet. He loved the movie. He even carried an MIB business card in his wallet. Besides the music being totally cool, it always reminds me of Zak.
• She Hates Me...Puddle of Mudd ~ It's a stupid song, but it makes me smile every time I listen to it. Typical teenage angst but sung by grown men.
• Big Poppa...Notorious B.I.G. ~ This song was my ringtone for a long time. It was featured in the movie 'Hardball' with Keanu Reeves, whose character was forced coach an inner-city Little League team from a housing project in Chicago as a condition of getting a loan from a friend. We were living at Lake Tahoe and Chris and his family flew from Savannah to visit. All three of my grandsons, Zak, Jacob and Thomas, came down to our apartment and they laid on the floor together and watched the movie. The song will always bring back that memory.
• Allstar...Smash Mouth ~ Memory...Zak, Jacob, Thomas in the back seat of my car. This song comes over the radio. Zak and Jacob are "singing" along, both of them know every single word, but are so far out of tune I can't help but laugh.
• Thriller...Michael Jackson ~ Quite honestly, I like anything by Michael Jackson: Thriller, Man in the Mirror, Billie Jean, Smooth Criminal, Rock with You, Earth Song. We have the movie, This Is It. I think I've watched it at least a half a dozen times. I think he was brilliant, powerful performer.

You think twelve is enough? I think so.

Day 23 - Something you wish you had done in your life.

From Thirty Days of Truth

As I said in yesterday's post, I don't have many huge regrets ~ maybe two ~ one of which was either not moving to Florida or moving from California.

Last week, a friend of mine posted a question on her Facebook page which asked, "if you had a time machine, where would you go and when would it be?"

My answer: January 1993 to unpack the moving truck and move everything back into the house I left in California and scratch the Arkansas move from the agenda.

That is something I wish I had done in my life.

Day 22 - Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.

Well, the question assumes I have regrets and that assumption would be correct. Some of my regrets are small...you know the sort of regret where you say to yourself, "Oh, darn, I wish I hadn't done or said that!" and then just let it go.

Other regrets are big. I don't have many of those, but I have one that stands out heads above all else.

After seriously considering and almost relocating to Florida, we moved from California to Arkansas at the end of the Bush-41 recession (I swear, I think the Bushes have a recession gene!). We'd visited here about half a dozen times to visit family, loved the landscape and housing was cheap. Tom opened his business here and I started work, first at Planned Parenthood then at the local university. We both did really well in our chosen careers, but, as much as we tried, socially we have never really fit in. Our lives don't revolve around a church, we don't hunt or fish and we are very liberal Democrats. We love live theater, fine dining and entertaining friends and family...but not here.

In California, we had season tickets to a local outdoor community theater whose productions were more professional than anything I've ever seen here at Robinson Center or the Rep (both in Little Rock), with the exception of the Broadway show, Stomp. That's one performance in almost 20 years. For several years we had season tickets to the Orpheum Theater in Memphis for Broadway quality productions, but the downturn in the economy required that we relinquish our tickets for the time being.

We used to enjoy an array of independently owned restaurants of every ethnicity. We knew the chefs and servers by name and they knew us and what we liked. Here fine dining is limited to two or three places in Little Rock, but none here in our town, which is overrun with fast food, buffets and chain restaurants with more to come. Oh, how I miss Henry's (continental cuisine), C'est La Vie (cheese and fruit tray with a fresh baguette or the roast duck), Anita's (all things authentic Mexican), Vinny's Cafe Prego (all things Italian - his Mama taught him to cook), That Pizza Place (the best pizza I've ever eaten in the most fun atmosphere), Chin's Szechwan (obviously Chinese, fresh, made to order) and I could go on and on.

Going out to dinner with friends only served to highlight our differences. We were used to a leisurely, prolonged dining experience. We are never, ever in a hurry and love to just sit, talk and laugh before, between and during courses. Everyone else wants service and food NOW, wouldn't be offended if all courses (appetizers, entree and dessert) were served over-lapping each other and can't wait to get the check and leave. And they want separate checks! I had never ever asked for or asked if I wanted a separate check before moving here.

But, it's not just theater, dining or entertaining. There is just so much more to do in California and Florida and the population and environment is so much more diverse. No one is considered an outsider because, for the most part, everyone is from somewhere else. I miss hearing different languages and dialects spoken by people of many different nationalities in grocery stores, restaurants, events or by my neighbors. I miss huge festivals and fairs that occupy acres or many city blocks, take hours to browse through and feature real artisan vendors and other master crafters. I miss a politically progressive environment that considers access for walkers, runners and bicyclists paramount when designing roadways and intersections. I miss the beach, the ocean, the smell of salt water, sunshine, palm trees, tanned skin, FRESH seafood, avocado or orange or lemon or lime or grapefruit trees, healthy outdoor lifestyle, warm winter temperatures.

I guess I'm simply bored out of my skull. Moving here was absolutely the one big thing I wish I hadn't done. We are now working to rectify our mistake.

Day 21 - (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?

From Thirty Days of Truth

Friends argue. Spouses argue. Siblings argue. Relatives argue. So what?

If my best friend is in a car accident, I am by his/her side as quickly as I can possibly get there because that's what friends do...because that's where friends want to be.

Day 20 - Your views on drugs and alcohol.

From Thirty Days of Truth

I suppose I need to bring you up to date since I haven't posted for a week.

We were supposed to go to Arizona to move my sister back to Arkansas to live with us, but she wound up in the hospital. Long story short: Lost her eyesight (temporarily) quite suddenly, went outside for help, had a seizure, went to hospital, blood pressure 200+/100+, EKG, EEG, MRI and assorted other tests. Determination was high blood pressure caused temporary blindness and seizure, no brain damage, blood pressure down, medication changed, released from hospital. She is currently resuming packing.

The trip to Arizona has been rescheduled to begin tomorrow morning. Tom is making the 4-day whirlwind trip. I have no idea how I will ever get to sleep at night without his arm around me. I know, it's a nasty habit, but I wouldn't try to shake it even if I could.

So, on to Day 20.

My views on alcohol. I love a lemon martini or a glass of smooth, fruity merlot or cold chardonnay. I've even been known to slam down a couple of shots of gold tequila preceeded by a drop or two of Louisiana Hot Sauce on my tongue. And I've self-medicated with a drink or two when I feared my head would explode as a result of stress.

However, in my humble opinion, drinking alcohol to merely to get drunk is just plain stupid and can also have dangerous and sometimes devastating consequences.

Further, too much alcohol too often by a person prone to addictive behavior can lead to alcoholism. It's a horrible addiction and I've seen first hand what it can do to a person physically, mentally and emotionally as well as the devastating impact it has on a family, particularly the children of alcoholics.

But alcohol is legal for those 21 years or older, and in some states as low as 18 years. Except for some counties in the south (like mine) where liquor stores (they call them 'package stores') are not allowed because the county is 'dry'. That's not to say that they are really 'dry'. One can merely drive over the county line to any number of liquor stores in the adjacent county, pack the bed of your pickup full of beer and bourbon and bring it home. Liquor stores used to have huge plastic barrels of crushed ice and plastic cups set outside the store exit if someone absolutely could not wait to partake and needed a little nip on the rocks for the drive home (they have since ceased that practice within in the past five years or so). Our 'dry' county now has a few restaurants that have been given 'private club permits' which allows them to serve drinks by the glass, although this exception is quite the sore spot with many of the native county residents.

But I digress.

I think there are two categories of drugs and society's view of them are different.

With the exception of marijuana, which I think is on the same playing field as alcohol and should be legalized, I don't want to see any person use and abuse illegal drugs. I've also seen what illegal drugs can do to a person. The addict becomes a person you don't recognize - physically and mentally. It's quite scary.

Besides the illegal use and abuse of them, prescription drugs is another issue. I personally think magazine, radio and television ads for prescription drugs should be prohibited and the decisions for prescribing these drugs should be the sole responsibility and discretion of a physician in consultation with the patient without the prodding from the patient who has seen an ad on television and is certain it will be a panacea for whatever ails him or her. When we are bombarded by drug ads featuring happy, healthy looking people in meadows full of butterflies and flowers, we are desensitized to the risks of the drugs and encouraged to use drugs instead of other drug-free methods of healing. It's easier to take a pill than to change one's lifestyle or diet.

That said, I also think most physicians too quickly and easily prescribe medication instead of working with a patient to develop and use drug-free methods that can be just as effective though they might not bring the desired result as quickly as just ingesting a pill. Now, I'm not talking about antibiotics to fight infections or anything of that nature. I realize those are necessary. But I read this week that upwards of 60 million people are taking Lipitor or some other kind of cholesterol lowering drug. That is astounding to me considering that a significant percentage of those people probably eat some sort of pre-prepared or fast food laden with fat nearly every single day. It's tantamount to enabling.

I probably should have started this by simply saying the following: Alcohol and grass in moderation or grass for medicinal purposes. No illegal drugs...ever. Prescription drugs only after other drug-free methods have been exhausted and no prescription drugs at all that are not prescribed specifically by your physician.

Okay. I'm done. Is it martini time yet?