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.

Paying the Price

My niece and her three kids left yesterday morning after a six day visit. We parted after three very long, very emotional hugs, neither willing to succumb to the tears just below the surface.

We had a wonderful time with lots of conversation and laughter. Most of the time was spent relaxing around the house, watching the kids play in the kiddie pool we've had stored in the shed and in the hot tub pushing the control buttons for the pump.

The employees at the water park enjoyed our company on two separate afternoons.

I got my first sunburn in years from sitting in 1-1/2 feet of water in the kiddie area playing with the 3- and 5-year old. Even my lips got sunburn. My knees, thighs and shoulders itch. Without a shadow of a doubt, I am going to peel. Given the scope of the sunburn, it's not going to be pretty.

The Narrative Continues

I am in the process of doing my own laundry. Yay, me!! One load in the washer and two more on the floor of my bedroom. I have seriously neglected my own personal requirements.

There's another load of laundry in the trunk of my car from the Clothes Closet. Really nasty, dirty stuff. I left the stuff in the box it came in and I might even wear gloves to go through it. Yep, it's that bad. I was tempted to just toss it all in the trash, but I thought better of it. It's that "good steward" in me.

On another subject, a thick legal sized envelope arrived in the mail last Saturday. It was a lovingly handwritten chronicle of my past from my father's only living sibling, with photos and copies of other typed letters from distant family members. Not my past specifically, but that of my fraternal PATERNAL grandmother and great-grandparents. The information I've been seeking for the last three or four years.

My aunt's letter is very warm and personal. It describes in detail my grandmother's family history, with many anecdotes about her sister and brother, an aunt and uncle I didn't even know I had. My aunt describes her own childhood during the great depression, including the three years during high school when she lived with her grandmother and grandfather in North Dakota and, after high school graduation, working her way through college. She didn't hold back expressing feelings about my dad and, in particular, my mom. When you're almost 90 years old, you don't have any reason to hold back.

When I finish with my late mother-in-laws cookbook, I think I might just sit down and write my family saga. It won't be in the realm of Tolstoy, Melville or Steinbeck, but there are enough characters in our family to make it somewhat interesting.

Everything's Coming Up Daze - y

A little over an hour ago, after a 35-minute conversation, I replaced my telephone back in it's base, stood very still and quiet for a few seconds, then at the top of my lungs I yelled, "Oh! My! God!"

Then....just dazed. Amazed. Stunned. Touched. Dumbfounded. Calm.

It was sorta weird. My cousin and I don't know each other at all. She doesn't remember visiting our family when we were children. Understandable since she was only about two years old at the time. That was 58 years ago.

I have no concept of how long they visited - a week or two, maybe longer. I remember vignettes from their visit.

My parents moved all five of us girls into one bedroom and arranged the newly emptied bedroom to accommodate my uncle (my Dad's brother), my aunt and my two cousins.

Aunt Donna would give my cousin Maxine a bath nearly every morning. It always amazed my 7-year old self, since we only took weekly baths.

My mother was a mediocre cook at best and by comparison, my Aunt Donna was an amazing cook. I loved watching her in the kitchen because she seemed to really like being there, even cleaning up. My fondest memory was her Prune Whip. I'd never had anything like it in my whole seven-year-life. She boiled prunes until they were very soft, mashed them to a pulp, then mixed them with sweet whipped cream. I can taste it to this day. Oddly enough, I've never made it.

Before bedtime, Uncle Lyle would sit on the bed with Aunt Donna and their 2-year old and 4-year old girls and talk to them before Aunt Donna put them to bed. I stood hiding behind the door jamb of my bedroom across the hall and watched the nightly ritual, envious of the relationship they had with their father and mother.

Wow...and the conversation. Sandy called from her mom's house, my Aunt Donna's. She's visiting her mom in Montana, helping to renovate her basement. We talked about the year since my uncle died, families, grandkids, family history - what we remember and what we don't. Then I talked to my aunt.

When I heard Aunt Donna's voice, I almost cried. It sounded exactly as I remembered - young, happy, vibrant with that distinct Minnesota accent - even though she is well into her 70's. She's sending more photos. I can't wait.

I learned more about my grandmother. She died in 1955 from a brain tumor. I was nine. I learned a little about her ancestry - Scandinavian and Pawnee Indian. I have the information to contact my dad's only remaining sibling and I'm hoping she will fill in the gaps.

This adventure has just begun.

Back In The Saddle Again

I don't know why it is so hard to get back in the groove after an extended blog silence, but it is.

It probably has something to do with my health. I'm sick again. Although I am finally starting to recuperate, it has been a long, very slow process. I was almost completely well by the time we made our Christmas trip.

Our trip to Reno to visit our oldest son and his family was awesome. Their house is so cute and those decks that wrap all around their house, front to back, and the trees that will shade them in the spring and summer are just phenomenal. I'd spend every waking minute out there during the summer and never get anything done.

Mike is using their garage for his wood shop. I think it's even bigger than the oversized garage we had when we lived in the country. It's huge and he's so proud and thrilled to be able to work at home.

The night we arrived, 7-year old Zoey was in a Christmas performance at her school. She was Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, with antlers and flashing red nose. Near the end of the play, Zoey - er, I mean Rudolf - led the other reindeer on a jaunt around and through the audience and back up to the stage. I smile again just thinking about it. She was so cute. It was a rare treat for us, since we live so far from all of our grandkids.

Of course, the next evening we were off to Sushi Club where I watched in amazement as 9-year old Lily packed away copious amounts of mussels laced with firery Sriracha and crab rolls. Whew! And we were so happy that grandson Zak and his girlfriend Shelby could join us for dinner before they made their trip to Utah for the Christmas holiday.

Before Christmas, we busied ourselves with introducing the girls to Secret Santa. Zoey tore up pieces of paper and wrote on each piece a person's name - Mommy, Daddy, Grama, Grampa, Lily and Zoey - then we picked our person's name without looking. We would purchase a gift for our person which could not cost more than $15.00. We were not allowed to say who our person was because it was a secret.

The mall was packed! The girls were so excited! They learned quickly to calculate the costs of little gifts that did not exceed the dollar limit. "Grandma! Look! This is $14.99! That's less than $15.00!!" It was fun, but exhausting. I hadn't been to a mall that big since our last Christmas in Savannah. We walked and shopped, mostly in the larger department stores, to the very end of the mall and back again.

The next evening, we wrapped our Secret Santa gifts and the girls got really giggly when they decided to play a prank on their dad. After they finished wrapping the Secret Santa gifts, they laid them carefully underneath the tree towards the back. Then they carefully wrapped the well-used Sharpie marker and etched out their plan for Christmas Eve. They would give their dad his "prank" Secret Santa gift first {giggle, giggle, giggle} so he would open it in front of everyone {giggle, giggle, giggle}.

When Tom heard what the girls were doing, he decided to play a "prank" on both of the girls. He wrapped a raw hot dog for Lily, who, of course, hates hot dogs, and a can of tuna for Zoey, who likewise hates tuna.

Christmas Eve the girls could hardly contain themselves. We gathered in the family room and the girls, according to plan, retrieved their dad's joke gift first. Mike smiled as he opened it and as he held up the Sharpie, the girls burst out in giggles, yelling, "It's a prank! It's a prank!"

Tom then retrieved the girls' prank gifts. As each of the girls unwrapped their gift, they smiled and yelled, "Grandpa!!" Gypsy, their dog, does not have the same aversion to hot dogs that Lily does and happily devoured Lily's hot dog in little more than one gulp.

Christmas Day Lily woke up with a runny nose and sneezed and coughed all day. By the next day, she was running a fever. Four days later, the day we were to leave for home, I woke up with a runny nose and sneezing, which continued throughout the day. During our four hour flight to Chicago and our connecting two hour flight to Little Rock, mothers sitting near me gave me the stink eye and cuddled their babies to protect them from my obviously infectious presence. All I could offer between germy sneezes and nose blowing into one kleenex after another was a shoulder shrug, the unspoken "sorry, but I can't help it."

That was on December 29th. Two days after that, Tom got sick, too.

Today, the sneezing has stopped, but I'm still blowing my nose. I take Nyquil every night to keep my nose from running all over my pillow. I wake up with dark circles under my eyes every morning. My ears are plugged. I have a sinus headache. I feel like I need a nap every afternoon. Tom had to escape to the guest bedroom two nights in a row because of the snoring....mine, not his. But it's getting better every day. I'm hoping that some day...one day...this year I will feel like I'm back to normal.

On second thought, maybe I should set the bar a little higher this year. ☺

The Growing Family Tapestry

Mail is generally a non-event in our house. It's mostly bills, donation solicitations, junk mail and various catalogs. Today it included two Christmas cards.

One was from a cousin who recently moved from Oregon back to California. She and her husband are planning to drive up to visit us while we are staying with our oldest son over the holidays. Her card just confirmed that. I'm thrilled. I haven't seen Jen in probably 20 years.

I didn't recognize the name on the other card. I thought it was one of those "handwritten" card advertisements and almost didn't even bother to open it. I glanced again at the front of the envelope. The return address was in Colorado. At second look I thought it was an old friend of Tom's who had moved to Denver in the 70's. But the last name was different, so I knew it wasn't from Pete.

I decided to open it.

Under the printed holiday greeting was the usual handwritten message, With Love, followed by the names of all the family members, names I did not recognize. Thinking I had inadvertently opened someone else's card that had been incorrectly delivered to our address, I looked on the front of the envelope to make sure it was addressed to us. It was addressed to me "and Family."

I opened the card again and read the handwritten note on the left hand side:

"Hi Terri,
I am your cousin. I am Lyle's daughter. My mom said you were working on family history. I can give you a little info......call me. I would love to talk to you and get to know you."

I was stunned. As I wrote in a previous post, I hadn't seen my uncle and aunt and their family for at least fifty years when they and my parents parted ways. The last time I saw my cousin, she was probably four or five years old.

When Tom got home, I handed him the card and said, "You will never believe this."

When he finished reading, he looked up, "Wow. After all these years. Are you going to call her?"

"Yes."

"Good for you. Maybe in the future, we can take a trip so you can reconnect with your family."

"Maybe we can," I said with a tear in my eye.

Weaving the Past to the Present

Spending the morning paying bills and catching up on business bookkeeping is not the most exciting I've ever done.

It was later this afternoon that I took the opportunity to catch up on my correspondence.

During the summer, when I was doing some genealogy research, I came across an obituary for my uncle (my father's younger brother). The last time I saw or spoke with my uncle and aunt, I was about 10 or 11 years old. My father and my uncle bought a pet shop together, but their working and personal relationship faltered and my uncle and aunt moved back to Minnesota. With a little more research, I found my aunt's current address and sent a card expressing my condolences. My aunt not only responded, but she called my other aunt (my dad's sister), who in turn also wrote me a letter. After all these years, neither harbors any ill-will and both seemed genuinely thrilled to reconnect.

Today, I finally sat down and responded to both of them.

I love catching up on the lives of people I'd thought I'd lost forever.

You're As Old As You Feel

Tom has been feeling every single day of his 66 years for the last month or so. Maybe it's the constant noise from the construction behind us that has him so stressed that he doesn't sleep well. Maybe it's just his age and he's experiencing his diminishing capabilities. Maybe it's just these last two years of the economic downturn and the financial stress it has brought to our household. Maybe it's all three.

Our visit to Chris and Kelly's a couple of months ago didn't help. It just made Tom want to move to Florida even more than he did before.

Now, when something cool is happening down on Anna Maria Island, Chris sends photos or a short text to remind Tom what we are missing. The beach at sunset, fresh fish for dinner every single day if desired, shorts and a t-shirt as the uniform of the day, STONE CRAB SEASON!!!!, a dip in the pool when it's warm, palm trees, sand between our toes, warm Gulf waters and wonderful community activities, such as Bayfest 2011 on Anna Maria Island last weekend.

Bayfest on the beach featured a classic car show, arts and crafts, great food, bike riding, entertainment and an awesome sunset at the end of each day. Tom was hoping Chris and Kelly would send lots of pictures so he could, as I told my daughter-in-law, "feel completely jealous and beat himself up for not being there to enjoy the entire weekend on the beach. Perhaps you could provide just a photo or two so he could at least beat his head against the computer screen? I'd hate to see him so completely disappointed."

Sadly, Kelly was working and didn't get off until just about dark, but she did let me know that a photo of Chris and my granddaughter Hagan were in the local newspaper, a great shot of him in a Jelly Belly costume at the Grand Opening of his friend's new candy store on Anna Maria Island.

Source: The Islander

Being the kind and always thoughtful person that I am, when I found the article about Bayfest I immediately posted the link on Tom's Facebook wall with the note: "Yay for Kelly! She alerted me to a photo of Chris (as the Jelly Belly) and Hagan standing behind him in the Islander (Anna Maria) newspaper in an article about Bayfest. Also some photos of the cars and sunset. Begin banging head. ☺"

When he came home for lunch, I didn't notice right away. He bent down and petted Joe, then bent over and gave me a kiss (notice the priority there), then walked over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands.

Finally as he stood at the end of the kitchen island getting ready to make his sandwich, I noticed two large band-aids on his forehead. Not that Tom is accident prone or anything, but he runs into the ends of long pieces of lumber a lot. In a rather chiding tone, I asked, "What did you do to your head now?"

"It's from banging my head," he replied with a grin, and pulled the the band-aids off of his forehead to reveal perfectly uninjured skin.

I hadn't laughed that hard in over a week.

Just When You Think You Can Take a Deep Breath...

Two and a half months ago, shortly after I started my private, password protected blog on Wordpress for a place to vent, I received a comment to a post I had written about Karen's "lifestyle," my concerns for her health and my motivations to help. She wrote in part:

"The problem is Karen. You are allowing her to live YOUR life....you need to live your own life. You can't help someone who does not see anything wrong with what they are doing to themselves or those around them."

I knew that was so true. It was a realization or awakening of sorts for me, and later in the comment, she wrote:

"...you and Tom pick up HER pieces. Before that, Robert probably did. After you, there will be someone or something else that continues this task. This is the path she has chosen and continues to take."

Indeed. I wasn't surprised as much as I was a little envious of Tom's predictive skills.

"How did you know?" I asked.

"How did I know what?"

"How did you know that she would catch a bus back to Las Vegas or California?" The evening Karen left, we were discussing what possibilities Karen had and Tom predicted (and wanted to bet me) she would just wind up hopping a Greyhound bus back to Las Vegas or California. Why? "Because that's what she does," was his rationale.

I continued. "I was reviewing our new cell phone bill. Karen made a one minute call to Kathy's house the evening of the 10th and then a seven minute call on the 11th to Greyhound Baggage at the San Diego depot. I'm guessing that the one minute call to Kathy was to say I'm here, pick me up and the seven minute call to the bus depot baggage department the next afternoon was to ask where's my stuff? I think she's in San Diego at Kathy's."

"Told you," he said.

So let me back up. Karen walked out of our house for the last time Wednesday, July 6th. For two days, I cleaned the room where she and her cat lived for five months.

Neither of them ventured out of the room very often. Karen would come out to eat, watch a little tv in the evening, go outside to smoke a cigarette or walk the block and a half to the grocery store for yet another prescription refill...and, of course, the nibbles (cheetos, fudge and the like) she'd keep in her room that she didn't want anyone to see.

For fear of invading her privacy that she so closely guarded, I rarely ventured into Karen's room. Once when she needed me to take some things to her when she was in the hospital and another time to vacuum her room at the same time I was vacuuming the rest of the house. The third time was when she was in hospital in March.

Her cat only really began venturing out of the bedroom the last month or so they were here and only at night when there was little chance of encountering a living breathing person besides Karen. Initially, we had the cat's litter box in the laundry room. In the morning, Karen would feed the cat in the laundry room and, a couple of times a day, she would carry her cat into the laundry room and make her stay there until she used the litter box. Otherwise, the cat was in the bedroom, generally hiding under the bed covers. But in March, when Karen was rushed to the hospital the first time, her cat refused to come out of her room. We wanted everything to be clean and neat when Karen arrived home, so while she was in the hospital, Tom and I stripped her bed to wash her bed linens and dusted and vacuumed the room. I folded the bedspread and laid it on the floor while I washed the sheets, pillow cases and mattress pad. When the linens were clean and dry and we attempted to make the bed, we found the cat had crawled into the bedspread and peed and pooped inside the folds. So, while I washed and sanitized the bedspread, Tom moved the litter box and food and water dishes into the bedroom. The litter box remained there until the day Karen left.

The morning after Karen's departure, I filled a bucket with hot water and heavy duty cleaner. I added water and deodorizer to the water basin/dust collector reservoir on my Rainbow vacuum and set the vacuum in the corner out of the way. Tom had thrown the litter box and food dishes in the trash the night before, so I started by throwing away trash, electronic cords, envelopes, anything and everything she left behind. The smell in the room was horrible and made me a little nauseous. It reminded me of those episodes of "Hoarders", not so much because of the accumulation of stuff as the unhealthy grime and uncleanliness underneath it all and the odor that develops from it. When I finished discarding all the trash, I started wiping down the ceiling fan, removing 5 months of accumulated dust and cat hair, rinsing the rag in the bucket at least twice, sometimes three times, for each blade. I was about half way through the task and reached up to wipe another, when the edge of the rag fell off the top side of the blade and, as it did, dislodged a mass of dust and cat hair that fell on to my face. I dropped the rag into the bucket, stepped down from the footstool and went into the bathroom to wipe the stuff from my hair, face and eyes. I went into the dining room and stepped out the back door for a second to catch my breath. My chest was congested and hurt. I decided I needed a dust mask, so I headed back into the house, through the kitchen, den and laundry room into the garage. Tom uses a heavy duty mask when he's sanding and luckily he had left one on the shelf next to the paint brushes. I grabbed it and on my way back into the house, I pulled out my rubber gloves from underneath the sink in the laundry room. I retrieved the bucket from the bedroom, emptied and refilled it with fresh hot water and cleaner. I donned the mask and my rubber gloves and I was ready to tackle the room again.

I finished wiping down the ceiling fan and turned it on to circulate the air (thinking back, that probably wasn't the most brilliant idea I've ever had; I probably should have left it off until I was done). Surrounding the spot where the cat's litter box previously sat in the corner of the room was dried cat pee and poop splatters. A drying pool of cat pee lay three feet away at the end of the bed. Clumps of cat hair floated on the surface of the floor around and under the bed, under the dresser, tables and window, in all the corners of the room and in the closet. I vacuumed those up first, then on my hands and knees I started scrubbing the painted cement floor, starting in the "cat box" corner and working my way outward, using a scrub brush. When I finished with the bare floor, I emptied and refilled the bucket again, then wiped down the window blinds, tables, dresser, and finally the head and foot boards of the bed, all of it covered with a thick layer of dust and cat hair and dander.

I moved the chair, foot stool and bucket into the hallway and started to vacuum the carpet. It was so thickly covered in black cat hair that the deep green border around the edge of the 5'X7' carpet looked grey. I made one pass over the surface and when it appeared like I wasn't making any much progress, I checked the water basin/dust collector reservoir. It was completely filled with cat hair and dirt. I emptied it, cleaned the reservoir out with sprayer on the hose outside, added more water and deodorizer and started over again. When I finished with the carpet, I used the upholstery attachment to clean the mattress, and when I was done, the reservoir was full again. I finished day one by spraying the mattress and carpet with Febreeze. The next morning, I vacuumed the whole room one more time and again sprayed it with Febreeze. The odor has slowly dissipated, but the linens we thought might be salvaged could not. Cat hair clung to the pillow cases even after washing and drying and we finally threw them away.

That was just a week ago. I was glad it was over. I felt relieved and ready to move on with my life, vowing to never, ever do it again because it is too darn easy for me to be sucked in and be the only responsible party in the room.

Then I received an email from her last night. She is, in fact, staying at our sister, Kathy's (in the immortal words of Gomer Pyle: Surprise. Surprise. Surprise). Karen took her suitcases with her, but left everything else behind, including four large and small packages of items she ordered online and were delivered here throughout the two days after she left for the "cheap motel" last Wednesday. But, instead of taking responsibility for those packages before she left for California, she would now like me to load those very important packages into my car, drive across town to the single UPS facility that is only open for three evening hours per day, schlep the packages up the ramp to the UPS receiving trailer and have them shipped to her in California. She is, of course, sending me a check for the "shipping and handling charges I paid to the sellers."

Do I seem a little snarky? Well, I am. I'm just a little more than irritated by the arrogant expectation that, once again, her lack of responsibility somehow becomes my responsibility, no matter how large or small the task. I think back to the commenter to whom I referred earlier when she said...

"Have you ever been in a situation where everyone else takes responsibility for you....me either but it sounds heavenly for a while at least, doesn't it??"

You know what? I've decided I'm not going to give up one more ounce of energy to anything concerned with Karen that is absolutely NOT my responsibility because when I do, my energy is wasted and I feel resentful. If I say, NO, she becomes responsible and accountable for her decisions and priorities, no matter how big or small, life altering or insignificant they might be.

Karen's packages were delivered and were waiting for her before she left for California. They apparently weren't a priority before she boarded the bus and she chose to do nothing about those packages before she left. I guess she'll just have to put her big girl panties on and figure out how she's going to get them to California without me.

Closing This Chapter

I am sitting on the patio in my backyard. It's humid but breezy. The morning clouds are preventing the sun from assaulting me as it rises over the wisteria covered pergola. I am feeling a little melancholy. But really all I can think about is how lucky I am to have people in my life who love me, support me and make me laugh.

Make no mistake, those people could not have given me so much had I not LET them into my heart.

The drama is over. With an almost inaudible, "Here's your key," she walked out the door, got into a cab and headed for a "cheap motel" somewhere here in town.

We waited a while before going into her bedroom and when we did we found the unwanted remnants she had left behind: faded pink pillows; dirty sheets; green pillow cases; electronic cords; two purses, a box of envelopes; a dead, moulting fern; and a litter box, water dish and feeding dish for the cat she took to the animal shelter yesterday morning. Dust and cat hair hung from the ceiling fan in long clumps. Dust on the tables so thick you can write a note in it. Piles of cat hair all over the floor and a pool of thick cat pee lay drying at the foot of the her bed. And the sickening sweet smell of dirt, dust, cigarette smoke mixed with the body odor of a person who is clearly not well. Weeks of neglect. It is a room once occupied by someone whose cognizance of her surroundings is as remote as she is. I felt disgust and deep sadness all at once.

We started purging the obvious, stripping the bed, stuffing the linens, pillows, purses and dead fern in the trash bin to be emptied this morning. I opened the window, even though it was still in the low 90's outside. I sprayed the bed and rug heavily with disinfectant spray, pulled the large clumps of dust and cat hair off the ceiling fan and turned it on to circulate the air in the room, then we walked out of the room closing the door behind us.

This morning, I sprayed the room heavily again with Febreeze spray and I will tackle the cleaning this afternoon.

Until then, I will bask in the beauty of the morning.

I Suppose You're Wondering....

WARNING: LONG POST AHEAD

As I mentioned in a previous post, I have another blog...a very private blog that is password protected with access given to a very small number of people I trust implicitly. The beginning of last April on that blog, I started a post entitled 'The Most Self-Destructive Person I Know." I had the title, but I never wrote the blog post, but even back in April I knew as some level we were headed toward exactly what we are going through today.

I even started this particular post on that private, password protected blog and was about half way through it when I remembered the words I wrote on my Facebook profile last week: Tonight I have realized that I have held my tongue in several situations so as not to offend 'family', but I am ashamed of my lack of forthrightness. No more.

Sunday night I received a message from one of my nieces that sort of sent me into a spiral. It reminded me all too well of why I completely severed my relationship with my sisters. Tom and I sat in our "cool tub" later that evening and as I cried and talked about my feelings and lack thereof for my sisters and my feelings for the nieces and nephews and what they've had to go through and what Tom calls "collateral damage", he stopped me. He took my shoulders and said, "You need to write about this. All of it, because that is what you do. You know the quote on your blog about writing? 'There's nothing to it. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.' That's you."

I started this blog in order to write about the truth...MY truth. I can't write the 'truth' here and the 'real truth' somewhere else and pretend that I am being forthright. My 'truth', of course, is from my perspective, but the facts are accurate. Someone could draw a different conclusion from their perspective. They are free to do so. If my truth makes me appear shallow, uncaring, bitchy, immature, neurotic, psychotic, or whatever, I have to be okay with that. If someone doesn't like "my truth" or thinks it is full of lies...well, I suggest they go write their own blog and stop reading this one.

The post below is copied from my private blog. It is my truth:

As you can imagine, it has been a turbulent weekend since we brought Karen home from the hospital. When Tom saw Karen sitting at the edge of the patio smoking a cigarette within a couple of hours of being released from the hospital after major vascular surgery, he was in complete disbelief and all he could say to her was, "Great choice, Karen." Her response? "so you need to spy on me?"

We were both in disbelief. All we could think of was: She wants people to care about her and be concerned for her well being, but why should anyone bother?? Why should we/they waste their energy and concern? She doesn't even care. The more I thought about all the texts and messages of concern from other family members and friends, the madder I got.

When Karen came back in the house, she went straight to her room without a mention of the short interaction she had with Tom. In complete frustration, Tom went to her room, stood in the doorway and tried to tell her how he felt about the choice she just made and what he thought it meant. She was sitting in the chair, focused on her computer screen. She didn't look up. She didn't respond. Tom finally gave up and came back into the living room.

A few minutes passed and I became more agitated and headed for her room. In complete frustration, I asked her why she would do what she did, then asked her the same questions we'd been thinking. She remained silent and focused on her computer screen. I called her a self-absorbed bitch and told her she didn't care about anyone but herself. Yep, I did it. And the only thing going through my head as I watched her sit there mute, motionless and unresponsive in front of that damn computer screen: Dammit, I did it again. I handed her yet another easy opportunity to never have to engage or interact with anyone....the damn internet.

When Karen moved in with us in 2009 after her boyfriend, Bob, died, I felt sorry for her and her loss. I wanted to make her as comfortable as possible. We set up our spare room for her and when I brought her back from Las Vegas, I arranged to have a television hookup installed in her room. And from November through the following May, her room was where she spent nearly every waking minute of every single day, lying on her bed watching television, often dozing off for nap a couple times of day. I didn't know if she was sick (she was taking most of the same medications she is taking now and popping nitro a couple of times a week) or grieving or both. I really didn't know what to make of it. If I was truly honest with myself, I'd have to admit that I should have known....I should have recognized it. But I didn't. I chose to ignore it. I excused it by telling myself that people grieve differently and this was her way of grieving...to isolate herself. I didn't know how to draw her out. Jesus, I hadn't seen her in 18 years. I had no idea who she was.

It was after Karen moved to Kingman and some time had passed that she started having more health issues, beginning last October: angina, 4 stents, then the mini-stroke and seizure. I felt the same way I felt about my mother when I saw her declined state and her living conditions in Las Vegas: Good Lord, what if she dies and no one knows and they find her days later when the odor of decomposition becomes strong enough to be detected outside her apartment??

I have a serious confession. I don't think I did things for the right reasons. I think in my effort to be very different, in fact opposite, from my parents and my sisters, I invited Karen to live with us more to feel better about myself than to help her, so I ignored every single hint leading up to that moment. There were two incidents that should have provided me with enough insight to make an informed decision. One small comment in passing and another major, very ugly event.

The first hint happened when I went to Las Vegas for Tony's (Kim's husband) funeral. My sister, Kim, was in chemotherapy. She, too, was dying of cancer. She was emaciated, on oxygen, lips swollen, weak and almost unable to stand up by herself. I saw her for the first time at Tony's funeral. Robin was walking in with her, almost holding her up. I was stunned by how frail she looked and taken aback by the almost sickening sweet odor of a very sick person.

Karen had volunteered to take Kim to and from chemotherapy each week. I was at Kim's house the day after Tony's funeral fixing her some lunch when Karen arrived to visit. She sat down next to Kim on the sofa and after a couple of minutes of conversation, Karen asked her when her next chemotherapy appointment was. Kim told her that she had to be at the doctor's office at 9:00am a couple of days later. Karen, stood up, shook her head and said in disgust, "Jesus, doesn't anyone ever make afternoon appointments? I don't usually get out of bed until noon!" I wanted to say, How can you be so insensitive? She just buried her husband! She has cancer, not you! You volunteered to do it! No one is twisting your arm! I wanted to slap her face. It took everything I had not to say a word.

The second more dramatic event should have been the biggest warning.

A month after her husband's death as her health declined, Kim was taken to the hospital. She was dying. I flew out to Las Vegas and Karen picked me up at the airport in a white compact car. "Did you get a new car?" I asked. No. It was Kim's. Kim gave her the keys to drive her to and from doctors and run errands for her.

We were driving to Kim's house, where Karen had apparently been staying. Karen said she had made arrangements for me to stay there, too. I asked her if she was sure it was okay because Tony's sisters and mother were staying at the house, too. Yes, she said. No problem.

When we arrived at the house and the door was locked and she tried to put the house key in the lock. It didn't work. She knew someone was home because all the cars were in the driveway. She knocked on the door. No answer. Then Karen said, "They've changed the damn locks! It's Phillip! (Tony's son from a previous marriage).

Karen was furious and started knocking on the door repeatedly. It was clear something was going on between Karen and Phillip, but I didn't know what. Before Tony's death, I hadn't seen Karen or Kim and her family since her kids were little. Now 'little' Kimmie was 20 and Tobey was 17.

I turned away from the door, grabbing the handle on my suitcase behind me, and said, "Can't I just stay at your house?" Karen said, "If you want to sleep with my three dogs." I said no I really didn't and asked if she would just take me to the hotel I stayed at the month before.

She said, "Kim gave me permission to be here. My stuff is in there. They will let me in."

God. I did not want or need any drama. I felt almost sick to my stomach. I did not want to be in the middle of some bull shit family thing. I took a deep breath. Karen continued knocking on the door and finally I saw a figure through the glass. Kimmie opened the door and her brother Phillip was standing next to her, blocking the doorway. Karen went ballistic, screaming how she had the right to be there, Kim was her sister, blah blah blah.

Kimmie, a 20 year old young woman who had just lost her dad to cancer the month before and whose mother was in the hospital dying of cancer, stood steadfast and tried to explain that she was trying to take control of things, that Karen had just bullied everyone and told them what they could do, where they could sleep, acting like the house was hers. She finished up by telling Karen that this was her mother's, hers, Tobey's and Phillip's house and while her mother was in the hospital, the house was their responsibility, not Karen's. Karen just started screaming at Phillip. I stood there aghast at what was happening. All I could see were these two grief stricken people defending their need to control the out-of-control world around them and Karen was screaming at them because they changed the locks.

I tried to step between Karen and the two in the doorway. Over and over I said to Karen, "Stop Karen. Please stop. Calm down!" Finally, completely exasperated, I said, "Please take me back to the airport. I can't do this," and I turned away and headed back to the car, pulling my suitcase behind me. Karen was still at the doorway, yelling.

I was already at the curb, putting my suitcase back in the car when Karen finally followed my lead. I was crying as I opened the door and sat down in the passenger seat. Phillip came to my window and I rolled it down.

I looked at him and said, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

He touched my arm and said, "You can come in and stay. She cannot."

I told him I thought I should just go to the airport, that I didn't want to be in the middle of something like this. He said, "It's over. You are welcome to stay." Karen sat in the drivers seat and continued to rant, but in a lower tone, with no one responding.

I sat there for a second thinking, Would Karen think I was being disloyal to her if I stayed with them? Why should I care what she thinks? I'm not here just for her. I'm here for Kim, Kimmie, Tobey, Phillip and me, too. I'm here to offer my support to whomever needs it the most.

I wanted to stay and see Kim for one last time. I looked at Phillip again and touched his hand. "Are you sure it's okay?" He opened my door, then went to the back and pulled out my suitcase. As I closed the door behind me, I said, "Sorry Karen." She replied, "I will not go to the hospital when Phillip is there." I said, "You have to do what you have to do."

She held true to her word. She never came to the hospital when anyone else was in the room with Kim. Because of it she was not present when the nurse removed all the tubes except the IV and Kim became quite lucid one last time. And she was not present when Kim passed. She missed the beautiful bedside memorial given by Tony's sister, Kim's sister-in-law. She missed it all because of her anger over her 'rights' as Kim's sister and her martyrdom.


What does that say about me? I completely ignored the clues. They were there. Clear as daylight.

Back in the 1980's I was seeing a therapist periodically. It was during the time when my sister's ex-husband had filed for sole custody of their two children. Tom and I had talked to him on the phone several times, relating some very horrifying incidents that we thought he should know about. He asked if he filed for sole custody, would we testify on his behalf. We agreed to do so. The rest of the family stood behind my sister and I was furious. I felt like they were all abandoning the well being of her children to hide the shame of my sister's alcoholism. What disgusted me further was my father's completely selfish attitude: If their dad got custody, he and my mother would actually have to fly across country to see their own grandchildren.

I spent several sessions talking with Mary, my therapist, about my family, our dysfunctional interactions, the continued combativeness and constant drama and I was finally ready to consider the idea of severing ties with my parents and siblings. Every time there was a new drama, I'd allow myself to be drawn in, take sides and my life would be in complete upheaval, but then who was going to be an advocate for the children? If I severed ties, would I not be abandoning them, too?

The court date came and went. Prior to the court date, the social worker called me on only one occasion. I never heard from her after that. We were never called as witnesses. I can only surmise that the rest of the family/witnesses were able to convince her that we were the 'wackos' of the family and our version should not be trusted. My ex-brother-in-law, one of the kindest, funniest, nicest men I have ever known, the man whose only desire was to provide a loving and stable home for his children, lost his custody fight. The children remained in Mexico with their mother, who merely continued her downward spiral.

In my next therapy session, I told Mary the news. I was still ambivalent as to whether to cut ties. Mary said, "Terri, I'm going to give you some advice...and I don't ever give advice. Just be very careful what you step back into." She knew I wasn't strong enough, and until I was, I would always allow myself to be sucked in. To this day, obviously this is one of my biggest weaknesses.

Not only have I held my tongue, but I have stepped back into it all over again. If nothing else, I have learned that I'm still not strong enough and I may never be. Acknowledging that, I really have only one choice left.

It's Official. I'm Done.

Karen plans to move out of our house this week. Now I am going to get back to enjoying my life.

What happened? My sister, Karen, had major vascular surgery Friday to clean out a carotid artery that was 90% blocked. We brought her home from the hospital yesterday. She laid down for nap and slept an hour or two and when she got up, she went outside and smoked a cigarette.... oh, for fear of telling more lies (Karen thinks I lie about her and my other sisters on this blog), I must clarify. Karen said she didn't smoke a WHOLE cigarette...just a few puffs. Doesn't matter a wit. She smoked. Just 24 hours after fucking vascular surgery. It was the last straw for me.

So why was this the last straw? Well, I have another blog that is password protected where I have sort of chronicled the whole drama, but I will try to bring you up to speed while keeping this short. In my view, Karen has done nothing to help herself get any better. Even with the 14 different medications she takes daily, including a new one, Advair, that is prescribed for asthma and COPD (I have no idea why her doctor prescribed it for her), she continues to smoke cigarettes, does not attempt to get any regular exercise to help strengthen her heart and lungs and she continues to eat crap. She seems quite content to just take the meds and hope for the best. Of course, she won't think any of these things I've written are correct. She thinks I am lying about them.

In addition to her lack of physical well being, Karen has also completely isolated herself from nearly all human contact, except when she walks to the store (smoking her cigarettes) and goes to doctor appointments. She gets up in the morning (and I use the term "morning" very generously) anywhere from 11:00am to 2:00pm. ~~ I have to add here that 2:00pm has been my personal limit. If she didn't arise by then I would check to see if she was still alive because...well, that's what I expect to happen because of her lifestyle. ~~ She spends most of her day in her room in front of her computer, coming out for meals and maybe watch a little television in the evening, then back to her room, on the computer until about 2:00am to 3:00am, then starts the day all over again. She has done this since she first arrived here in February. She did the very same thing when we moved her in with us in 2009 after her boyfriend Bob died, except then she just laid on her bed and watched television all day and all night. At that time, I just thought it was grief, but now I realize that it is merely her choice and nobody and nothing, no matter how drastic, is going to make her change her lifestyle because she doesn't want to change.

Today she told me I lie on my blog. I don't.

Today she told us that we are trying to characterize ourselves as the victims, when in fact she is the real victim. Nope. I take full responsibility for what I got myself into and I'm ready to take full responsibility for changing it. We have asked her to move out. I will no longer accept any responsibility for her life or her eventual death.

My nephew made a literally brilliant statement: "When charity turns into enabling, you know the person is toxic." How the hell did these young people grow up to be so smart in such toxic environments. I am in awe of their insight and capacity to love.

In This Cornerrrrr.....

Ladies and Gentlemen, we are privileged to be in the presence of one of the most physically fit athletes of our time.

In this corner, all the way from hot and steamy central Arkansas, weighing in at a solid 6.2 pounds, ready...no eager... for his next challenger...... Joe...."The Dude".... Maltese !!!!! **loud cheering and clapping**

Yes, to keep Joe's svelte physique and encourage my physique to trim down, Joe and I are walking. Two miles. His head down and determined, eyes straight ahead, legs going a mile a minute...okay, actually it's a fifteen minute mile, but c'mon, his legs are short. If he walked any faster, he'd take off like a kite. But he does well. He's very focused and not easily distracted by other walkers, runners, bike riders, kids or other dogs. Little to no tugging to stop, not even to pee or poop, until we get near the car where he waters the shade tree I've parked under. His fierce determination dwindles rapidly once he reaches the confines of the car and he doesn't even make it all the way to the passenger seat. The center console is as far as he'll go and I get the "look", which means

I ain't movin'


He's done for the day.

Like the rest of the south, midwest and east coast, it's freakin' hot.

Tom keeps checking The Weather Channel app on his iPhone every hour or so for the current temperature and weather conditions, but really there's no need to be so obsessive. There's no need to view radar video. No need to look at the weather map. No need for the meteorologist to assign a number...92 degrees at 8:30am, 94 degrees at 10:00am, 97 degrees at noon...it doesn't matter. It all feels the same. All you need is four characters... H O T !

We reduced the temperature in the hot tub to around 90 degrees, so we now have a cool tub. Ahhhhhh. Some relief anyway. Nice for a cool down before bed.

So what else? Well, the obsessive internet stalking of my blog has subsided considerably. I guess they finally got a life elsewhere.

Tom's cataract surgery on Tuesday went well. He had a follow-up appointment Wednesday morning and another this coming Thursday. I had an appointment with the ophthalmologist last Friday. These floaters in my eyes are driving me crazy, but apparently they are quite normal for a person of my advanced years age. I can expect floaters to remain in my vision path for a few more weeks to months even. But my eyesight is still good, very negligible changes in the past ten years (yes, that's how long it's been since I last had an eye exam) so no new prescription. My 10 year old reading glasses are just fine.

Karen's surgery to cut open and scrape all the crap out of her carotid artery is scheduled for this coming Friday. We head to the hospital about 4:45am to arrive at 5:30am for her to be admitted, prepped and surgified. The doctor says the surgery should last about three hours and she could be released the next day. I wonder if he'd be so optimistic if he knew her history of hypoxemia (low blood oxygen). The last time she had surgery - an appendectomy - she was in the hospital three days because of it. Funny...we just finally got rid of that oxygen machine she required after the last surgery and she'll probably have to get it back again after this next one, since apparently low oxygen levels are a routine byproduct for her during and after surgery. Of course, it doesn't help at all that she continues to smoke. Go figure.

Yesterday Tom and I took his dad to church for a mass in memory of Tom's mom. Holy cow! If the priest was any slower, he would be moving and talking in slow motion. He'd say a sentence, then pause for at least 15 seconds, palms raised heavenward- for drama, I imagine - then say another sentence, then another pause and on and on and on. Then there was the chanting - a responsive prayer four pages long...in small type. I had no idea what was going on because they don't provide a program or bulletin. I suppose they're thinking is that if your a "good Catholic" you should already know all this by heart. I'm not Catholic. I didn't know shit. I felt like a person on speed in the middle of a crowd of people on Quaaludes. An hour - a very sloooowwww and painful hour - into the service, they started communion, which meant in Catholic that we'd be there at least another 30 minutes and Tom's dad was ready to leave. "Too much talkin'" he said.

Today, I am blogging outside on the patio, in the shade, and it's 97 degrees. My pits are dripping (I know, TMI), my palms and fingers are clammy, but I'd rather be outside than sitting inside in air conditioning. Tom will go pick up his dad later for a barbecue this afternoon. Everything is pretty much ready to go, but I need to go in and make some deviled eggs. After that, I think I'll be ready for a quick dip in the cool tub. Hoooo baby, this is going to be one very long hot summer.

"Own your words! Anonymity is cowardice, and cowards aren’t known for their wisdom."

I've never met the person who wrote those words (Peter Friedman, Associate Professor, Legal Analysis & Writing Case Western Reserve University School of Law), but I think he is an insightful man, probably because I agree with him. I believe people who hide behind user names and monikers want to be anonymous so they don't have to take responsibility for their words. My real name is Terri and these are MY real words.

That said, as you might have already seen on the post I published yesterday, I received a pretty nasty "Anonymous" response. Given the self righteous, sanctimonious tone of the "Anonymous" comment, my response to it and the propensity for aggressive and abusive behavior of other family members, I changed my blog settings in order prevent further comments from posting automatically, which allows me to decide which comments to publish and which to delete. And, since I've made that change, I have received four subsequent comments. Two more from my sister and two more from my nephew "J." How do I know who they are?

Let me back up just a little bit so I can give you some information about the statistics/hit counter and tracker that I use. Like most hit counters, the information I can view is multi-layered. Mostly what I find interesting is a reader's location in the world, but in this particular case I have found it extremely useful to be able to determine the date, time of day, the browser used, operating system, the specific post a visitor has viewed, the number of pages viewed, their location, host and IP address. In addition, for each individual visit from a specific IP address, I can get the specific address of the host.

So, back to those "Anonymous" comments I've received. How the hell did I specifically identify two of them as being from my sister and the other from my nephew? Easy. In the past, I've consistently had two separate visitors from two specific IP addresses from the same host (Shentel.com), one reader in one city and one in another city. Coincidentally, my sister lives in one of those cities and a niece lives in the other city. But how do I know it's really them? Simple. My niece has left comments on my blog in the past. Her comments are time-stamped and originate from one of those IP addresses, so I have labeled her IP address with her name so I know who she is when I view my stats. I love that about my stat counter....I can put a name to an IP address so I'm not just looking at numbers. Anyway, I did the same thing for my sister. I cross-referenced a comment she left in the past with the time-stamp, exit page (which was the comment box), city, host and IP address. Now her name appears along with all the other information so I know when she visits my blog.

Yesterday, I was able to identify my nephew "J" as another commenter. How? This one was sooooo simple. Using the date, time-stamp, host and IP address associated with the two comments, it could only be my nephew because the host for the IP address is the USAISC - United States Army Information Systems Command - my nephew's employer!! (I wonder if his boss knows he's using his work time to read and comment on blogs).

I allowed several comments to be published yesterday. The following is what transpired since I published Monday's blog post:

• Early Monday evening, I received the first anonymous comment to my blog post. I attributed that comment to my sister by location, IP address, time-stamp of the comment and the exit link (the pop-up comment window) in the navigation path.
• I responded to that comment and changed my settings in order prevent comments from posting automatically and allow me to moderate any further comments.
• The next morning (Tuesday), after my comment identifying the anonymous commenter as my sister, I received another anonymous comment (which I did not publish) implying that he (the commenter) was the previous anonymous commenter and informing me that I was incorrect in what he later called my "assumption". That comment was, in fact, NOT from the same IP address as my sister (the previous anonymous commenter), but using the time, date, military IP address and exit link (the pop-up comment window), I was able to attribute this subsequent comment to my nephew "J".
• Later in the day, another anonymous comment (again not published), again from my sister informing me in her ever so scripturally (a word??) nice way that I would probably experience a "tragic end" i.e. most likely be going to hell.
• Then, just before he left work yesterday, "J" posted yet another comment which I also chose not publish - a lengthy sanctimonious, self-righteous tirade laced with bible quotes since I am, as noted above, going to hell - also stating, in part, that my "assumption" that the identity of the original anonymous commenter was my sister (his mother) was incorrect, that communication is two-way street and then went on to attempt to justify his previous abusive, bullying behavior (which, of course, is never justifiable in any circumstance) of my sister, Karen, referring to this post. In his last comment, he signed his name with his initial, validating my determination of his identity in his previously anonymous post. Whoop-see
• And finally one last (so far) unpublished anonymous comment left last evening by my sister which simply said, "Fail".....Original and clever, don'cha think? My guess is she wants me to anguish over the meaning and settle for worst case scenario. But that's just a guess.

I have NOT, in fact, deleted the aforementioned "Anonymous" comments. They are still sitting in my "in basket" for...well, you know, just in case.

Amazingly, in addition to their four comments, the two of them racked up 66 hits on my blog from Monday at 1:11pm to yesterday at 7:15pm. Can you say Extremely. Obsessive. Behavior??? It's so bizarre it's almost comical.

So, I will continue to moderate comments and withhold those posted by [**wink, wink**] "Anonymous" ... not because I have anything to hide, but because I simply refuse to allow myself and/or my blog to be monopolized, harassed, intimidated or bullied. You want a door mat? They're available in array of designs and colors on sale at Lowes starting at $12.98.

Just another manic Monday, ooooooooh oh oh, Wish it was Sunday......

Yesterday (Sunday) was a good day. Very casual, laid back, lazy....sitting on the back porch in the shade. I took my laptop outside in the morning to write a post for my food blog. Tom was smoking a brisket. It was the best Sunday we've had in a long time. Sitting there quietly together, enjoying the outdoors and each other. It was a rare treat that only made me yearn for more times like that. I've missed those times with Tom lately. We've been too busy or too preoccupied. It's time to make time again.

There's lots to write about, but broaching the subjects are touchy at best. Let's just say that watching Tom's family at the wedding over the Memorial Day weekend really contrasted differences in the way families interact with one another. Watching all five of them (Tom and his sisters and brother) and their father (my father-in-law) love, laugh, support, listen, compromise, COMMUNICATE or simply appreciate being in each others company....it was a joy to behold. Not one of them is afraid to tell the truth and not a secret anywhere. Not one of them is afraid show emotion, whether it be joy, sadness, irritation, silliness.

I realize all families are different, but one would hope that the most basic human skills - love, support, listening, compromise and COMMUNICATION - would be present in all but the most dysfunctional families.

Have I mentioned COMMUNICATION?

Last week, I posted this status on Facebook: I'm done. I can't deal with another family bull shit thing. What started the journey to that realization began with an argument I had with Tom weekend before last and culminated with a discussion Tom had with Karen in which I chose not to participate. Yes, folks, I'm finally tired of all the drama, drama, drama. I'm tired of the lies and half-truths. I'm tired of excuses and the whole "I'm a victim" psychology. I'm tired of the pretending and facades.

Years ago, I separated myself from my siblings because of it. I had better things to do than to constantly be drawn into useless, petty arguments and rivalries or competitions to determine which one of us does Mom and Dad love most, completely orchestrated and manipulated by my parents I might add. I was sick of always seeing myself as victim...of my parents, my siblings, my circumstances, my life...whatever the situation might be. I wanted....no, needed....to grow up. I had (have) a husband that I loved deeply and who loved me unconditionally (something I'd only ever felt one other time in my life...thank you Aunt Sally) and I wanted to make my marriage a good one. I had two beautiful sons to raise. I had a rewarding career. But I was tired. Jesus, I was tired. I needed to take a long, deep cleansing breath. I felt toxic. I needed to take responsibility for myself and stop blaming my parents and my upbringing or my "lot in life" and move on. And I did.

After over 18 years, I reconnected with two of my sisters over Myspace, then Facebook. One sister has succumbed to cancer (another family member gone due to smoking). I have another sister that I still have no contact with at all. Why? I don't know. It just seems too messy to step into that one. Then I think, But, they're all messy..., then I think, I know, but I don't need any more messy. And the honest to God's truth is I just can't handle any more messy. I have to set boundaries. I spent my first 40 years trying to balance love, honesty and personal growth with ugly, abusive and messy. It doesn't work. There isn't a balance...ever.

Anyway, what I have realized is after reconnecting after over 18 years, I don't know these people...at all. Some of them have made some progress and have changed in some areas, but others have merely stayed stuck and stagnated, almost like drowning in quicksand. I have one sister who lives with me and I can honestly say I don't recognize one thing about her except that petulant, defiant teen-20-or-30-something. Another sister who has completely isolated herself from everyone, including her children and grandchildren. Another who, to this day, fears rejection by her family.

So my question is...why did I invite it, and almost welcome it, back into my life? I struggle with that question every single day. Was I being too much of an optimist? Was I still caught up with trying to maintain that old, phony "family facade"? Maybe I thought it would be different because, after all, well, people change don't they? Maybe it was all of it and probably a lot more.

I only know I have some work internal work to do, but as of today I can say my boundaries are clear and I will no longer be sucked in. If there will be drama, it will not include me.

Okay...Okay...Okay....I'm Back....

TOM: You should do a blog post today.
ME: I know.

That's a conversation we've had every single day since I've been home from vacation. Tom knows I have a lot on my mind, but I'm not sure that I want to share much. Maybe I'm still in vacation mode. If that is the case, frankly, I'd like to stay there....not just in vacation mode, but really on vacation.

So maybe I'll get my bitching about the weather out of way first. It's been nearly 100 degrees every day for a week. Tom heard a report this morning that we've been at least 10 degrees above average for this time of year. But we've turned the temperature down to 90 degrees in the hot tub to create our own "cool tub" and this past weekend enjoyed taking a leisurely dip and cooling off a couple times each day. We're eating our meals outside in the shade in spite of the heat...mostly because we are outdoor folks and prefer being outside to sitting in an air conditioned room 24/7.

What else? I miss my sons, my daughters-in-law and my grandkids. Just that little bit made me want more.

Our Congress...are they all tone deaf? I'm at the point where I mostly just shake my head. Someone is going to mistake me for a bobble-headed doll and throw me on the dashboard of their car. Palin, Trump, Bachmann and then this morning Santorum announces his presidential candidacy. I was hoping for a circus for this 2012 election, but this is going to be 3 rings of non-stop verifiable wacko nut-job entertainment.

Over the Memorial Day Weekend we attended our nephew's wedding. All of Tom's sisters and brother attended and it was great to be able to spend time with all of them.

The morning of the wedding we all gathered in one of the rooms off the lobby of the hotel to go through a plastic bin filled with memorabilia gathered together after my mother-in-law passed away in late February. I wish I could remember who mentioned it that morning, but my mother-in-law was the original recycler. Cut up cereal boxes, cardboard inserts from pantyhose, underwear and other packaged goods became her stationary for taking notes, writing recipes and making lists. I brought home two little boxes filled with these recyled morsels.

One box is full of her handwritten recipes, each one carefully and meticulously noting any and all changes in ingredients, oven temperatures and yields, even changes to a recipe I had given her. I chuckled at that. Most of the recipes were handed down to her by her mother and mother-in-law, some of which she had made since she became a bride; recipes that have been precisely written and rewritten to include the most minute details to be handed down and executed by children and grandchildren...and even a daughter-in-law or two. There is a family history in that box.

My mother-in-law also loved words, but not in an academic, structural sense. She was more interested in the impact words can have on a person psychologically and spiritually. She penned her fleeting thoughts on more of those recycled pieces, sticky notes and miscellaneous pieces of paper reclaimed from envelopes, binder paper and whatever else she could salvage for space to write just a few words. The second box is filled with her notes, thoughts, quotes, life lessons, mostly about God, but always about love, perseverance and joy. She enjoyed the words others shared as well and she cut out and kept newspaper and magazine clippings of quotes that spoke to her in some way.

I volunteered to compile the contents of both boxes into two books to share with family members. I can't wait to get started. It will feel like I'm sitting down to visit with my mother-in-law every day.

The Final Wrap Up

My vacation visits have come to an end. I experienced two completely different lifestyles. One surrounded by and involved in a beach community - the Bradenton/Anna Maria Island, Florida area. The other a more metropolitan/suburban community - the Belmont/San Francisco area.

Honestly, I'm still too tired to detail the horrible flight delay, stranded in Dallas in the middle of severe thunderstorms that included 1-inch hail, thunder, lightening, torrential rains and tornado warnings. Not much different than here, except that I was alone.

I was one of the lucky ones. I found a hotel room. Many folks slept on cots, or worse - on the floor, at the airport. Except that my hotel was rather isolated and not near any eating establishments and I hadn't eaten all day. I foraged through the hotel **grocery store** and purchased frozen lasagna to cook in the microwave, but discarded it after two bites. I was reminded why I cook.

On the advice of my **friendly** [I'm being very sarcastic here] American Airlines ticket agent, I left my bag at the airport...with my change of clothes and my toothbrush...and the next morning brushed my teeth with a wash cloth slathered with toothpaste, which was in my purse inside the required one plastic zip lock bag with my other liquids and gels which were less than 3 ounces, of course, in order to proceed through airport security.

I was up at 3:15am to catch the shuttle back to the airport. I was on standby that morning for an early flight and was fortunate enough to be called to board. My plane touched down in Little Rock at 8:15am.

But it was all worth it.

We walked out on to the Golden Gate Bridge until we were over the water

We walked the girls to school, which was downhill...then walked back home, up the most brutally steep hill imaginable

Lily read her play, "When Rosa Parks Said NO"

Although Lily gave Zoey a bit part, she had plenty of time to pose for my camera...

I decorated flip-flops for Zoey

And Lily

I watched while they danced to Lady Gaga

Then Mike bought the Lady Gaga mp3 download for me :)
The girls picked out their own nail polish colors

Zoey decided one hand would be pink and the other orange

Lily liked green and orange on every other fingernail

And where was Zak? Mostly he was at work with his Dad. But when he was home...well, he was trying to avoid his obsessive photo-taking grandmother...


I'm home. I'm still tired and catching up on sleep. But it was all worth it. The long drive to and from Florida. The delayed and cancelled flights to and from San Francisco. Every second I spent with my sons, daughters-in-law and grandkids made it all worth it.

I Got My Wish

I'm taking a vacation.

Tomorrow morning I am leaving for Bradenton, Florida for a week. My youngest son, Chris, and his family live there. I can hardly wait. It's a two day drive, but I'll take it easy, both going and coming home.

After my visit, I will drive home and rest for a couple of days, then head to San Francisco to visit my oldest son, Mike, and his family for a week. The drive to their house takes three days each way. It's worth it.

I'm going to get in some serious mom and grandma lovin'.

I'm just about completely packed. Among others, I am taking these flip-flops...

I call them my Hagan flip-flops because my granddaughter Hagan has a similar pair. Her aunt (her mom's sister) made them for her by tying balloons around the straps of ordinary rubber flip-flops. I thought they were so original, so clever and so cute, I made a pair for myself. Of course, they look much better on 8-year old feet than 65-year old feet. As a matter of fact, they look rather silly on me. But I don't care. I like them anyway.

I'm taking my computer with me, so I hope that I will have a few minutes here and there to update my blog.

Helen Powers, Born March 4, 1924, Died at the Age of 86 on February 26, 2011

My mother-in-law passed away suddenly this past Saturday night. It was a shock to everyone because she was not ill. They (meaning the doctors in the emergency room) believe she died of a heart attack. She is survived by her husband of 67 years. My father-in-law will be 91 this Friday.

Her youngest daughter, Christina, and I started going through some of her things yesterday. We didn't know it, but she was fanatical organizer and  'saver'.

We found:

• The obituary she had written for herself. The only changes we had to make were to the number of great granchildren and living siblings.
• Hand written instructions for her memorial service, including the praise team she wanted to lead the service, the songs and the specific people she wanted to sing them, and the scripture (Psalm 23) she wanted read.
• A poem from a magazine printed sometime in 1950's  ~  an ad for Modess Tampons, which disappeared in the late 50's, is on the back of the magazine page.
• A paper notebook which contained pages of names and addresses of every person from whom she'd received a Christmas card for every year from 1996 to 2010. Beside each name is a red check mark indicating that she had reciprocated with a Christmas card. Christina noted that the list started out with over 100 people and dwindled to around 50 over the 14 year period. 
• Every single Publisher's Clearing House receipt for every entry she ever mailed, back to the 1980's. She always said, "Somebody has to win. It might be me!"
• Hand written single sentence words of wisdom and life lessons written on post-it notes.
• Thousands of return address labels, like the ones sent by Easter Seals and other organizations, all with different pictures, logos and designs for every holiday and event imaginable, so she could personalize every single envelope to the person receiving it.
• Every single card and letter she received from Emad, the Middle Eastern foreign exchange student who lived with them for a year in the 1970's. She even kept his airline travel papers and luggage tags.
• A desk drawer full of note and post-it pads because she was a consummate list maker.
• A zip-lock bag full of assorted pens, in addition to 3 or 4 individual boxes of "good" pens.
• And, above all, her highly organized system for remembering birthdays and sending birthday cards ~ not just to her children and grandchildren, but great grandchildren, nieces, nephews, and even great nieces and nephews, some of whom she'd never even met....yet.

Everything in every nook and cranny of her room spoke about who she was. A woman who had a great love for her family, no matter how far away or how many generations removed. And she was a letter writer and a card giver and pens and paper and cards were her only modis operandi. She never touched a typewriter or computer. Her penmanship, even into old age, was fluid.

She sent birthday cards, always with a little extra personal note. No plain "Love, Mom & Dad" or "Love, Grandma & Grandpa" or anything else. She took every opportunity to let you know how special you were to her. The same with Christmas cards. No quickly scribbled signature for her. Always...always a personal note. Can you imagine how long it took to write all those 100 Christmas cards?

She sent thank you notes and used the entire open space inside the note to convey her enthusiastically thankful message....for a gift, for a special dinner, for the ride to the grocery store, for that special box of cookies she loved, for the tray of Christmas goodies she was able to share with the other residents at their retirement center.

Over the years, she has shared her recipes and techniques for all the dishes she learned from her mother ~ nut roll, stuffed cabbages, apricot cakes, Easter cheese ~ all handwritten on white stationary or lined binder paper.

For nearly her whole married life, she shopped, cooked, cleaned, mended, organized and loved it, until they moved into the retirement home about 10 years ago; a large white building with a carpeted lobby furnished with over-stuffed sofas and chairs and a large fireplace flanked by a dark stained and carpeted stairway to the second floor. They ate their meals, prepared by kitchen staff, in a large dining room with round tables and upholstered chairs and a woman cleaned and vacuumed their apartment once a week. She said she felt like she was living in a fancy hotel and often declared, "I've died and gone to heaven!"

She was the most cheerful and grateful woman I've ever known and I will miss picking up the phone and hearing her say, "Terri! Isn't this a beautiful day?!"

Rest In Peace Mom.