The pursuit of happiness

Our local news this morning reported two more teen suicides at a nearby high school. While I don't pretend to know the reasons behind what happened, I can say with certainty that these kids weren't happy and saw suicide as the only way to achieve it. I'll save you the diatribes on mental health, counseling and psychotropic drugs (I'm too exhausted to tackle that discussion twice in one day), but my earlier discussion did bring up a good point on Facebook this morning.

We believe that we've got the right to be happy.That regardless of whatever comes our way, happiness is the God-given right we possess.

Sadly, that's just not the case.

In a world of immediate gratification, fast food, microwaves, smart phones and the internet, we're taught that we can have anything we want the minute we want it. We don't have to work for it or wait for it and as a result, we also don't know how to appreciate what we have already. I'll admit that I'm as guilty of this frame of thinking as the next person.

What I'm not guilty of, however, is believing that I'm going to be happy all the time.

I've battled with depression since I was at least nine years old (possibly earlier) and have done almost every possible kind of treatment. I'll spare you my own personal experiences for now, but suffice it to say, it wasn't until I embraced the fact that life isn't always sunshine and roses that I finally got better. I know there are going to be days when I just don't feel like getting out of bed. Days when the last thing I feel like doing is smiling or laughing. Days when it's all I can do to shower or brush my teeth. Days when I'll cry.

Unfortunately, we're taught that sadness isn't normal. That sadness is clinical...medicinal...mentally debilitating. We're taught that crying is bad, that feeling blue isn't healthy. And that a pill (pick a pill...any pill) will fix it all. Unfortunately, as long as we believe those things, we will NEVER overcome depression. Because a pill isn't going to pay the bills or find us true love or land us the perfect job or make the annoying neighbors move. We're always going to have stressors in our lives that make life a little tough sometimes. We have to make a conscious decision that regardless of what happens that may not be good, we can still choose to be happy.

Now, I'm not talking about cheering and celebrating when a job offer falls through or your car breaks down, but those things also aren't the end of the world either and we have to keep that in perspective. Given my irritation last week when I missed my flight to Minneapolis, you know that I have as hard a time with perspective as anyone else. It's a struggle for all of us. We can only keep trying.

Remember, we're not guaranteed happiness, only the pursuit of it.

So go pursue it already!!

A vessel revisted.

About eighteen months ago, I wrote a blog called The Vessel. In it, I wrote "I can't wait to see how it all pans out for her."

And get to see it, indeed.

I wrote this blog about Sherri Shepherd and the role of "Lula" in One for the Money. I'd been tipped off about the casting call by my bestie and I immediately sent a DM to Sherri alerting her to it. When I'd read the book a few months earlier, I couldn't picture anyone filling that role but Sherri and as far as I was concerned, nobody else needed to even audition. Little did I know, Sherri'd had "Lula" on her Vision Board for years. She'd wanted to play this role since she'd read the book seven years earlier.

I've said before and I'll say again, I am so blessed to be a part of Sherri's life and to have her as part of mine.

I love you, girl and I'm so proud of you. Let's go rock that Red Carpet!

What she needs

As the mom of two teenaged children, while I'd never let them know this, I frequently wonder if I've done the right things. Have I taught them right from wrong? Do they truly understand Stranger Danger? Will they "just say no" when offered drugs or alcohol? When the time comes for sex, will they have the courage to abstain and if they don't, will they be smart enough to protect themselves? These worries are constantly on my mind, especially as they become more and more independent.

Midget (who's fourteen for those of you who are new) and I had a little heart to heart tonight and the topic came up about what a good kid she is. She's got a bad habit of lying to me from time to time to get herself out of trouble, but fortunately for me, she sucks at it and I can usually tell when she's trying to pull one over on me. So anyway, we were talking about how she's a role model for the younger kids in our neighborhood and that I've been told more than once by parents around here how much they appreciate her sticking up for their kids or mother henning them if/when the situation arises. It's always a proud moment for me when someone sees her with me and says "This is your daughter? You should be a proud mom because she..." and they proceed to tell me that she defended someone or ratted out a neighborhood bully or whatever the case may be. And it makes me happy to see the smile that Midget gets when I tell her about these instances.

For whatever reason, as we were talking, she brought up a situation that happened a few months ago with some friends of hers. They were all hanging out at somebody's house and they were smoking. We're a non-smoking home, so to be around cigarette smoke isn't something Midget's used to. Anyway, one of the girls offered her their last cigarette. Midget took it and looked at it and asked the kids, "Why should I smoke this?"

One of them replied, "So you can blend in with us." (Apparently the little thugs watched After School Specials to see how it's done.)

She snorted, looked at them and said "I don't wanna be an idiot." She then proceeded to go outside, toss the cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. Her friends were pissssssssed.

Her mother, however? Proud.

I've taken a lot of flack about not providing my kids everything they want: computers, gaming systems, closets overflowing with designer clothes, blah blah blah. And it's true. I don't give my kids everything they want. I don't believe that sets them on a good path for their life.

But what I have done is given them exactly what they need.

My daughter is already a better person than I was at her age. I gave into my friends. I took the cigarette (and many more after that -- from my mom's stash, mind you) and smoked every damn one of 'em. I lied to my mom about it. Fortunately, I had the brains to stop smoking before I became addicted, but the point is, I gave into peer pressure.

My baby girl didn't.

I won't win every battle as a mom and I know that. But I won this one.

Thank you, Jesus.

Tape over my mouth

Since Blogger is being a pain in the ass and won't let me edit my page to reflect my stance on Blackout Wednesday, I can only post the link to explain why I'm "Censored" today and what it means to you.

SOPA Strike

Love Eternal

Fifty years ago, in this dress of Chantilly lace and satin, a young girl of eighteen pledged to spend her life beside one man.

Until death do they part.

Not until the stress of kids got to be too much. Or until the bills got too high. Or until they got bored. Or until someone else came along. Or until one of their careers led them away from the other. Or until the nagging got too frequent. Or the snoring became too annoying.

Until. Death. Do. They. Part.

I'm once-divorced. It's not something I'm proud of, mind you, but it's the truth. Just like this girl promised, so did I. Until death do we part. Little did we know "death" was just five years away. We knew nothing about lifelong promises and felt we were above the vows we made. So we walked away.

Like most people of divorce, I took my lessons with me and much to even my own surprise, within a year of my divorce being final, I met a man and married him.

That man and I have been through hell and back. We've seen the dark and we've seen the light. We've seen the tears and the anger and the frustration. We've seen what rock bottom looks like and we've come close to throwing in the towel.

So close.

Closer than we ever care to admit and closer than we'll ever be again.

When we got to that point, it was only then that we realized if we gave up, we'd never have what his parents have. We would be just another statistic...just another failed attempt. What we realized is for better or for worse really meant just that. We'd seen the "worse" and it wasn't pretty.

So we made a decision, however subconsciously, that we were going to find the "better."

And I'm so grateful we did.

We still have bills we can't pay, days when I can't stop nagging him and I rarely get a full night's sleep without the interruption of his snoring, but we're here and we work every day to get it right.

And we have his parents to thank for giving us a living example of what it means to love eternally. Their compassion for each other reminded us of the compassion we still had in ourselves to push through.

Happy 50th anniversary, Mom and Dad.

Julia

Anyone who knows me knows that I speak in song lyrics and movie quotes, so it rarely comes as a surprise to anyone when I pull out a favorite Julia Roberts reference.

There's this scene in My Best Friend's Wedding where Julia and Michael are on the boat in the Chicago river and they're juuuuust about to kiss, but before that can happen, they talk about moments passing you by.

That, my friends, is where I am right now: my moment has passed me by. Not for good, by any means, but for now, it's gone.

For many, many reasons, most of them having to do with my husband's current situation at work, our New York move is on hold. What that means is no pretty brownstone on a sleepy Brooklyn street - no subway ride into the city at dawn - no Macy's, Bloomies or Saks - no view of the ESB.

As I've swallowed this bitter pill, I've tried to keep perspective and figure out what I'm able to do here in Iowa that can prepare me for the eventual move out East. Most of it involves classes and lots and lots of writing. I have to start treating my writing like a full-time job if I'm going to get better (read: published). It means turning off my phone, disconnecting the internet (you have no idea how damn appealing Pinterest is to someone with an easily distracted imagination) and shutting my office door. It means late nights and early mornings. It means scrapping complete manuscripts and starting over because I know down deep, there's a better book in me.

So while right now it feels like I'm stuck here, I'm not. I'll travel. I'll research. I'll observe. I'll ask questions. I'll drill my author friends for advice. It feels a lot like treading water, but in reality, I'm strengthening my swimmer's legs.

And, as Julia said in Eat. Pray. Love., "It won't last forever. Nothing does."

So there's that.

2011 - a look back

I noticed, as I was preparing this year's slideshow, that my life has become busier. I'm doing more, seeing more, traveling more, enjoying more. I adopted the mantra, "Live out loud" a few years ago and ever since then I've been doing just that. I grab life by the horns and I tackle it head-on. This year was no different. Though it would be virtually impossible to list every highlight from 2011, I did come up with some of my favorite memories and listed them here.

• "Oh my God! YOU. TWO. DID. NOT!"
• A moment amidst the chaos
• Thanks-forbeingmyfriend-giving with Tara and Ann Marie
• Green beans that tasted like nail polish remover
• Welcoming Weston James to the world
• "You got any o' that Franzia wine?"
• Trying elk meat for the first time.
• Floating around the Caribbean with my Alphas #ItsaTSQthing
• Riding the Tilt-a-Whirl four times in a row with my bestie
• Meeting Adam Bouska
• Welcoming Lacey to our family
• Big Man getting his permit and realizing how far that little "runt" has come since he first started out in this world
• Baking cinnamon rolls for the guys and their band, only to have Brian Littrell accuse me of making him a FatStreet Boy
• Having two of my photos featured on display at the Iowa State Fair
• Sharing Sherri & Sal's special day with them
• Driving a golf cart for the first time (and NOT wrecking it)
• Getting the opportunity to meet Maisy & Loki (Oh, and that Lancaster chick)
• Being reassured I wouldn't run into the people who were Occupying Wall Street (and running into them anyway)
• Helping warm-up the audience at the View in Tom's absence
• Going for a carriage ride in Central Park
• Making Santa laugh and wiggle like a bowl full of jelly

In 2011, I learned to breathe. And trust. And forgive. And stand strong. I loved and I lost. I finally comprehended what it means to show tough love. I rebuilt and knocked down walls. I made friends and lost some. Above all, I lived. I lived out loud.

And I will continue to do so.

2001 in pictures

You're not gonna die.

Well, as they say about the best laid plans...they get screwed up. Or something like that. (Sorry, John Steinbeck.)

Our holidays plans were just that: best laid. And screwed up.

Midget got hit with a moderate case of the flu Thursday night and spent all night Thursday curled up in bed or hovering over the toilet. Friday morning, I sent Hubs and Big Man off to my in-laws so at least they could enjoy the holiday festivities (and so they, too, wouldn't get sick). I wasn't worried about myself because I never get sick, save a sniffle here or there. My immunity is top-drawer, so I don't get too worked up about being exposed. We got through Friday fairly well and by the time 8pm rolled around, Midget was able to keep down solid food and was on the mend. Fortunately for her, she didn't run a fever for more than a couple hours and wasn't hit with worse symptoms.

Then came Saturday.

And the end of my health as I knew it.

I will save you the graphic play-by-play, but to say that I was sick is the mildest understatement of the year. I haven't been that sick since 2006. It's now Tuesday and I'm still running a low-grade fever. Because I don't get sick very often, I forget the longevity of illnesses and what's serious and what isn't. Also, if I don't have to take meds, I won't. I believe in letting the body heal itself when it comes to illness, so unless I'm absolutely miserable, I won't take anything.

Fortunately for me, I have great friends to keep me grounded. The following series of texts took place Saturday night between my bestie and me:

Me: I'm gonna take some Tylenol.  If I can't get this fever to go down, I need you to take me to the hospital.

AM: *blink* How freakin' high is it?!

Me: It's over 102° now. I'm most worried about dehydration.

(Keep in mind, I took a bath, drank a LOT of water and used cold compresses for the prior four hours, trying to get the fever to come down naturally.)

AM: Oh. No need to panic yet til it hits over 104 but drink water or suck on ice cubes.

Me: I'm trying but its not doing any good.

AM: Is this the first dose of Tylenol?

Me: Yes.

AM: K. Keep me posted.

A half hour later (Tylenol, ice, cold compresses and water).

Me: Gonna try to sleep. Fever's 101

Shortly before 2:30 a.m.:

Me: Still 101. Dunno why it's not coming down more. Tylenol, ice chips & water.

AM: Mel...its only been an hour since you took the Tylenol.

Me: Two.

AM: It was only an hour since you told me.

Me: How long does it take?

AM: Depends, but 101 is nothing. 106, on the other hand. Well, that's when it's time to talk hospital. Keep taking fluids and try cold compresses on your forehead and the back of your neck.

Me: (dying) K. I'm sorry for being paranoid. I don't get fevers very often.

AM: (no doubt, sighing loudly and rolling her eyes) LOL Its okay love.

Me: My normal temp runs at 96.8, not 98.6 like most people, so my 101 is everyone else's 103.

AM: Rabbit's had chronic fever syndrome since she was a baby, so I'm a little more lax when it comes to fevers.

Me: Big Man did too.

AM: Then you should know you're not gonna die. (I sense more eye rolling.)

God bless her for putting up with my paranoid ass.

But, just as she predicted, I didn't die. I still feel pretty rough (thanks to that fever I still can't shake), but I did, in fact, live.

And...I got to watch my Celtics play on Christmas day. Not that I could actually focus on the game, but I heard Marv Alpert's voice, so that counts for something, right?

Christmas, New Year's and other random crap

After a blow-out about Christmas gift exchanges and my annual "Dooooo I haaaaave toooo?" argument with my hubby, I've settled into dealing with Christmas. The tree is up, about half the presents have been bought and I've heard "Feliz Navidad" approximately 14,472,903,562 times since Thanksgiving. Ho, ho, ho and a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la to you, too.

We're still deciding what to do for New Year's eve. It may end up being just us and Dick Cla...oh, wait, Ryan Seacrest took his job, didn't he? Anyway...I was supposed to be in New York for New Year's this year, so I'm a bit bitter right now. Don't mind me.

The NBA finally pulled their heads out of their asses and the season opener for the Celtics is when? You guessed it. Christmas Day. I won't be watching it. Why? Because joy and merriment abounds, people. *eyeroll* But, you can bet, I will have my basketball watchin' ass planted in front of the TV for every other game this season.

My recipe blog has taken a hit this last month. Between allergies, stress, depression and a heapload of don't-give-a-shit-if-you-eat-Chef-Boyardee-for-the-rest-of-your-lifeness, I just haven't had the creativity to come up with new recipes lately. I've pulled some old ones out of the archives, but other than a cake mix cookie recipe and one for Mexican Lasagna, I haven't been cooking much this month.

Since depression has been kicking my ass this holiday season, I've decided that now's as good a time as any to get back to the gym. My body has been feeling the results the last year or so of me not going and honestly, it can't take much more. I haven't been sleeping right, eating right or even functioning normally for quite a while and something's gotta change. So...it might as well be my waistline, right? January will see me back in the gym. Let's see if I can't get back down to that size 14 I worked so hard to get to in 2009. (I'll go lower, but that's my goal for right now.) Roughly, that means about 40-50lbs. I've done it before and I'll do it again. Sadly, it also means giving up soda. And sweet tea. And most everything else I love to eat, but if it means not wanting to kill the people I live with, then it'll be worth it. (I'm sure they'd agree.)

I've been trying to disengage from things that get me too riled up, so I'll refrain from commenting on our national debt, teachers/coaches who have inappropriate contact with students, ex-husbands, junior high kids who make my daughter cry and people who abuse animals, kids or the elderly.

This disengaging thing SUCKS.

UPDATE: No, I'm not with PETA but...

In following Jen Lancaster on Twitter and Facebook, I've been made more aware of the unfair treatment of pit bulls and other dog breeds who society looks down upon. I've met Jen's dogs, Libby, Maisy and Loki. They're the most darling, loving, enthusiastic animals on the planet. Seriously. My dog Lucky may be smarter (hehehe) but Jen's three dogs are awesome! So when I see petitions like this one regarding a policy proposing the killing of specific breeds that are brought to a shelter in Fayetteville, North Carolina, I get absolutely outraged.

Let me state clearly that I'm a cat person. I've always loved cats, always will love cats, but I will also always be an advocate for the fair and ethical treatment of all pets - dogs, hamsters, lizards, pigs, birds (especially birds), etc. Cruelty is unacceptable when it comes to these animals who we've adopted out of love and a desire to share our lives with. I hate seeing dogs tied up outside. I don't like seeing dirty aquariums or cages. I come absolutely un-fucking-glued when I see someone yelling at or beating an animal of any kind. 

When Jen brought this petition to my attention earlier today, I didn't hesitate to act upon it. Aside from signing the petition, I also sent a letter to each of the members of the council as well as the mayor of Fayetteville, NC. They will meet in less than an hour to decide the fate of these animals. What will you do to help?

TO: 

jcouncil@co.cumberland.nc.us
cevans@co.cumberland.nc.us
jkeefe@co.cumberland.nc.us
bking@co.cumberland.nc.us
emelvin@co.cumberland.nc.us
mayor@ci.fay.nc.us
jlauby@co.cumberland.nc.us
kedge@co.cumberland.nc.us
wmfaircloth@co.cumberland.nc.us

To whom it concerns,

I come to you today with a plea to oppose the policy you will be discussing at tonight's council meeting regarding a new kill policy on certain breeds of dogs at the animal shelter(s) in Cumberland County. The policy suggests that certain breeds of dogs considered "vicious" be killed without being given a chance to be adopted -- dogs that have not personally shown aggression, but because of their breeds, people are being (falsely) told they're dangerous and should be put to death.

I was born into a family with a German Shepherd. There are pictures of me riding this dog when I was just a toddler. His name was Omar. I was thirteen when that dog died and I wept as though he'd been my own brother. He was protective, but gentle. Omar knew only how to love.

When my son was two and my daughter was just a few months old, we adopted a Siberian Husky puppy. He was black and white with bright blue eyes. Dakota slept in my son's bed with him at night, played in the snow with him and the neighbor kids and was the first to step between my children and I when they got into trouble. Not to snap or bark at me, but to detract the attention from them onto himself. He literally cried when they cried.

My sister owned a pit bull who was very much the same way. When my children were put in time outs, Chance sat with them, facing the corner and looking as scolded as they did. When he got into trouble for piddling on a carpet or chewing up a shoe, he knew he was in trouble and would put HIMSELF into time-out.

The fact of the matter is, I've been bitten by dogs before - Jack Russell terriers, cocker spaniels and dacshunds. I would trust a full-blooded pit bull, husky, doberman or rott before I'd leave my child alone with a cocker spaniel or a terrier. The point is ALL dogs can be dangerous if given the right circumstances. It depends on how they were trained and in what environments they've been raised.

The breeds listed in the proposed policy change aren't bad breeds. They shouldn't be judged by what other dogs of the same type have done. That makes as much sense as saying anyone who lives in Harlem should be shot upon sight - not because they're a specific threat, but because everybody "knows" ALL residents of Harlem are dangerous criminals who rape, murder and pillage. Ridiculous (not to mention unconstitional) to make those assumptions!

Are there bad dogs? Yes. Is there an over population of dogs? Yes. But killing a specific breed of dog isn't going to make those problems go away.

Instead, I would encourage the shelter teach classes (an excellent opportunity to raise funds for the shelter and the county) on how to train dogs. In fact, make the class mandatory for anyone choosing to adopt an animal from the shelter. Education is so important when it comes to owning a pet.

By approving the policy set forth tonight, Fayetteville isn't teaching anyone anything except how to be afraid and intolerant. And in a country when fear and intolerance runs rampant enough, is this really what needs to happen?

Sincerely,

Melanie

 My brother and me with Omar

Our Great Dane, Dalton 

(who would share his food and water bucket with the cats)

Dakota, our husky

My sister's dog Chance (look at that face!?)

UPDATE:

Our voices were heard and the animals will continue to have the same chances all other animals at this shelter have to be adopted. WE WON! This update from the Fayetteville Observer clears up some mistakes we were told in the wording of the petition and describes how the meeting went down last night. Thank you to everyone who signed the petition and forwarded the links to others. :)

Grow up!

In an email exchange the other day with a family member, I was told I needed to "grow up." Apparently, the person doesn't think that the way I approach life is mature enough...grown up enough...that for whatever reason my choices in life are wrong.

To that, I say:

Sorry. It had to be done.

When I was six years old, my biological father was killed by a drunk driver. Six. Years. Old.

When I was twelve, my mother was diagnosed with cancer.

At thirteen, my step-father left my mother without any warning.

A year later when I was fourteen, my mother's cancer returned.

I was fifteen when my mother died.

I miscarried a baby at the age of eighteen.

When I was twenty, I delivered my son 2½ months early. We both nearly died that day.

At twenty-five, I was a single mom with two kids trying to make ends meet without screwing up all our lives.

You want to talk about being grown up? Let's talk. 

Being grown up means not using your misfortunes or mistakes as excuses for not doing the right thing. It means drying your eyes, standing up straight and carrying the hell on. And you save the tears for later, because rising to the occasion with dignity and grace is more important than getting sympathy. It means that even when you want to throw in the towel and have someone else take care of you for once, you trudge on...oftentimes without support from family or friends - not that you don't have them, but because they just don't know what to say. Being grown up sometimes means you have to bury your own pain because dealing with it hurts worse than pretending it doesn't exist. It means that when you've got hungry mouths to feed, you do what's necessary to quiet those tummies. Being a grown up doesn't mean you get to rely on drugs or alcohol to smooth out the edges, nor does it mean abandoning the people who depend on you most. It means you forgive those who have hurt you and those you disagree with and you put yourself in their shoes for just a few moments and look at life from their perspective. It means you move past the anger and bitterness, not because you necessarily want to, but because it's the right thing to do. It means not holding grudges or keeping someone hostage in or from a relationship with someone else. It means you give of yourself until it hurts because that's what you do for the people you love. And for those who love you back.

Being a grown up means that when you've done all these things and the opportunity comes along to have fun, you take it. You take it because you didn't have that chance at six. Or twelve. Or fifteen. Or eighteen. Or even twenty-five. You take it because finally, for once in your life, you've done what you had to do and you refuse to let someone else make you feel guilty for enjoying your life and all the fun you have living it. You take it because you're tired of being told to "grow up" when you know damn well you did so thirty years ago. And not because someone told you to, but because you had no other choice.

So...when we gettin' married?

Meet my husband.

He and I met online before meeting people online was cool. In fact, in 1999, it was pretty damn scary still. You didn't know what kind of psycho you could end up with. Fortunately, I was less scary than the other psychos who answered his personals ad. Go me!

We had an insanely brief courtship. We met in August and just a few weeks later, as I came out of the bathroom wearing purple leggings and my stupid orange sweatshirt (yes, the one I wear in 90% of my Bubbletweets), he proposed to me.

"So. When we gettin' married?"

I laughed at him. 

Keep in mind, I'd been separated from my ex-husband for several months when we met, but had only been officially divorced six days when we had our first date. Marriage was not what I set out for when I responded to his email.

I asked him if he was kidding. He insisted he wasn't. I kept giggling, but when I saw the light drain from his eyes, I knew he was serious. This man wanted to marry me! Me and my kids (who were 2 and 4 at the time). Me, my kids and my insane family. Me, my kids, my insane family and an ex-husband who would be none-too-thrilled with the idea of me marrying someone within a year of my divorce. This guy was either amazeballs or a complete idiot.

I thought quickly and decided that in case it was the first option, I should say yes and we were married two months later.

Over the course of the last twelve years, I've given him a lot of guff over his spontaneous and less-than-romantic marriage proposal. A LOT. And, he's taken it in good stride, God bless him. 

Tonight, I showed him the link to this story about man who proposed to his girlfriend and had their proposal secretly photographed then gave her a framed photo of that magical moment on their wedding day. I thought it was the sweetest thing I'd ever seen. Hubs, however, looked at me and with the saddest look on his face, said, "I wish I'd put more thought into your proposal."

It made me think back to how I would have liked to have been proposed to. Would there have been a horse-drawn carriage? Perhaps candlelight and soft music? Skywriting with an airplane or on a billboard at a ballpark? 

Nope. 

It would have been me coming out of the bathroom wearing that stupid orange sweatshirt and him catching me so totally off-guard that I laughed at the absurdity of it all. Anything more romantic wouldn't have been the real him. And the real him is who I fell in love with all those years ago. 

And I'd still say "yes."

(Author's note: By the way, it WAS the first option: he's totally amazeballs. He puts up with my endless array of shit on a daily basis, after all.)

P.S. Dear Hubby, this does not get you off the hook for not bringing in the Christmas decorations from the shed while I was gone last week or for snoring every. single. night. of the last twelve years. But it does mean I'll stop giving you shit about your corny proposal. I love you.)

P.P.S. Regardless of what you've heard on television, NO. I am not leaving you for Dane Cook.

Catching up

Needless to say with all that's gone on in the last week, the fact that I recovering from a sore throat rather than a bender should be evidence of my ability to cope with stress.

It's seriously been a week from hell. I've been trying to figure out how to grieve for a sister I never met (all the while being ignored by her entire family). So far, it seems crying when I feel like crying is the best method for me. I've been reclusive and snippy with those around me. Thankfully, they've been understanding and haven't expected too much from me.

I've surrounded myself with friends and family who love me and are here for my every whim, whether it be letting me spend the day in total Mopeville or by dragging me out of the house for dinner and a movie. I am SO thankful to you (you know who you are).

The stress did take its toll, however. I came down with the symptoms of strep throat over the weekend and after gargling colloidal silver, radiating my ouchies with a laser pointer and downing glass after glass of OJ mixed with Airborne, I am thrilled to report the beast has been slain. Once I set my body in motion for healing itself, I did "cheat" and took Tylenol for the pain and Benadryl to help me sleep. But I didn't resort to antibiotics, so there's that.

My biggest triumph this week, however, was the reconciliation with my son. As I didn't go into the details surrounding the falling out, I also won't be going into the details of what happened with the reconciliation. Suffice it to say, we both learned a lot these last two months and I'm confident we won't be in this place again. Such a relief to have my son back.

This weekend, I am looking forward to a girls' weekend in Chicago with Midget. We're babysitting a friend's son so she and her husband can celebrate their anniversary. Then Sunday, we're meeting with an idol of mine for coffee. We'll spend the remainder of our weekend perusing Michigan Avenue. This is the first trip Midget and I have taken since she was about 6 months old, so it's long overdue. I hope to take a similar trip with Big Man sometime in the spring.

I'll be finishing out the month of November by spending eight days in New York. It's been almost eleven months since I was there last and my inner city girl is clawing at me to get out. My sister-in-law, niece and I will spend 2-3 days in NYC, then head upstate to spend Thanksgiving with my nephew and his wife. This is another trip that's been a long-time coming.

After that? Christmas! New Year's Eve! More travel in 2012! Until then? Day by day.

Processing

I've lost a lot of people in my life: my parents, step-parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, even a great-nephew. I've suffered a miscarriage and grieved over broken relationships/friendships and my divorce. To say that I've learned how to process my grief is an understatement. It's become a pretty typical process for me and while it does vary slightly from rote sometimes, it's usually a fairly compact process for me.

And then there's this.

Mary was my sister. She's as much my sibling as anyone else in my life has been that I've called a sibling. Yet because I didn't grow up with her (or even knew she existed until I was an adult), she's always seemed distant, so that closeness I share with my brother and sister I grew up wasn't ever there between us. We loved each other and I don't question that. But through the last few days I've felt almost guilty for my grief and sadness over her death because I didn't know her well.

Our sister Linda grew up with Mary. She shares memories and stories and a history that I never had. They had Christmases and birthday parties. They shared Sunday dinners and family vacations. Mary was also close to her children and grandchildren. She spent every day of her life (from what I gathered) focused on her relationships with her family.

Mary and I shared a few emails and two phone calls. Yet, she's still my sister. She was the only person who told me that my father (also a man I never knew) talked about me constantly and loved me deeply. Mary, upon discovering how much I want to move to New York asked me instead to move to Texas where "you have family." She accepted me, sight unseen, circumstances unknown. Mary loved me unconditionally. I was her sister and that's all she needed to know.

So while her family is grieving for the woman they knew, I'm grieving for the woman I didn't know...can never know.

This is something I've never dealt with before. Grieving for lost memories is one thing. Grieving for memories that will never take place is totally different. This is new territory for me and I hate how it feels.

My lost sister

It's 4:30 a.m. I found out a little more than an hour ago that my sister Mary Lee was killed early Friday morning. There's speculation (and with it come the judgments) as to what happened. I am going to try to be free of judgment (a true test for me...one of the most critical people I know) and state what I know for fact:

1. A sister I never got to meet face to face is dead.

2. The man arrested for her murder is my nephew John, who served two tours in Iraq and suffered from a severe case of PTSD.

I can beg for knowledge and wisdom and answers from everyone all the way from the firemen to God himself and I will never understand what happened or why. I guess it's not meant for me to understand. I can hope that my sister wasn't in pain in the last moments of her life. I can hope that my nephew wasn't at all responsible for what happened to his mother. But hope doesn't change the facts: my sister is dead and my nephew was arrested for the crime.

I have my own share of regrets and visions of how my relationship with my sister should have gone. So my pain here is different from what most of her family is dealing with. While I appreciate the prayers and condolences, please don't forget her children...her grandchildren...but most of all, please don't leave out John. I can't begin to fathom what demons he's dealt with that could've led to these tragic events between him and my sister. I've got a support team a mile wide and while it will be difficult, I'm emotionally equipped to deal with my grief and the pain I feel right now -- he's alone. He's probably scared. And he's got pain deeper than anyone can possibly imagine.

A month ago, my sister's Facebook status read:

I am sitting in a very small room waiting for John to be discharged from the VA hospital. He has an extensive treatment plan with a lot of therapy for PTSD. They believe they have the medication correct. I hope and pray that we can get him the help he needs. he is almost 29 and has been to iraq twice and has been through more than I could ever comprehend. my son means the world to me and I pray he can finally find inner peace. Thank you for your continued prayers....and if you have any advice for me...i welcome it.

And this, posted just a week ago:

I am struggling about how to help my son with PTSD, as a mother I just want to make everything okay for him. It breaks my heart that I can't fix this for him. He is getting help through the VA, but it doesn't seem to be enough. I pray for him every day but nothing seems to quiet the flashbacks that he is experiencing on a daily basis.

No matter whatever Hell my sister endured before she died, I know that she wanted peace for her son. Mary's at peace now. I have to focus my prayers on John's peace. I ask that you do, too.

Thanks.

(For those who don't know the story behind my relationship with Mary Lee: Lost Sisters )