I'm only happy when it rains

Shirley Manson said it and I agree...I'm not ONLY happy when it rains but there's something peaceful about a rainy day. Especially when it comes at the end of a year...like Mother Nature's way of giving everything a good rinse to make a fresh start for the New Year. A good rain is a literal and figurative bath. For the Earth and for us. The streets are a little cleaner and so are our cars. The cobwebs under the eaves look like they've been decorated with diamonds when the rain hits them. Maybe we need to be more like the spiders? Because unlike the nursery rhyme says ..the rain does NOT wash the spider out. Those sons a bitches hang on like nothing I've ever seen. Or maybe it's better to just let go.
 Let go of all the ick, the hurt, the disappointment. Let the rain wash ME out. I want to stand in the middle of a field with my arms outstretched and let the rain soak me to the bone. Until my hair looks crazy and my sweatshirt droops off my arms, mud under my feet. Let the rain rinse away the painful moments, the days that were like getting your finger pinched in a car door. The days that left scars on my heart and wrinkles on my forehead. Wash off the dust of relationships that won't be following me into the next 365 days. Rain drops falling on my head like Chinese water torture, tap tap tap...reminding me to let out the thoughts that don't serve my purpose. I like the idea that the rain is pure, straight from Heaven and kind of like a big, wet hug from my family who's not on the planet with me anymore. The rain can wash things clean and make it look shiny and pretty again. The way streets always look in movies as the Guy stands off in the distance beckoning to the Girl from under a streetlight. Rain makes puddles with the runoff motor oil on top that even though its really just half pollution we're looking at, the colors swirling around are still pretty. Kind of like all of us... half messy and half beautiful at the same time.
I am happy when it rains. I am happy that it's coming at the end of a year. Like most years before it, this one has been filled with challenges and treasures. Stuff I'll keep and stuff I'll try hard to let go. I still have more questions than answers but I'm learning that acceptance is best. Just let it all pool up like the puddles on my porch and when there's too much it will spill over and recycle. Yep.
My pagan heart always gets the reminder it needs in God's perfect timing. Let that shit go,,,,let the rain wash it away and then put on my boots and stomp in some puddles!

The Dude part 2

I was right. He WAS on his way out and now he's gone. I don't think it was for someone else necessarily. Maybe it was just for himself but the end result is the same. I am alone again. This time I'm angry. Angry that he played me and bargained against my feelings. Angry that he made himself a part of things, of memories he had no right to if he didn't intend to stay. A dear male friend of mine told me that guys do exactly what they want. They only want women to think they're adorably clueless. That way they're not the bad guy. No one wants to be the bad guy right? If it's being a bad guy to pull someone's covers then fuck it I'm it. I'm the bad guy. It's so easy to just be honest that it's difficult apparently. Be honest with yourself first and then maybe you can be honest with someone else. Here's my truth. I am scared of being hurt, lied to, played. As a result of that fear I don't trust easily. I did trust this time. And all the things I was afraid of happened. I think the victory was in simply trusting again, regardless the outcome. That was progress for me. Thanks Dude. Next time it'll be more than a friendship turned sexual. Next time I'll be valued for all of who I am and whoever he is will be honest enough with himself to be honest with me. 

Anchors away

Third cup of coffee, fuzzy socks and funky two day worn sweats seems like the right get up to watch "Made of Honor" and run down the list of things I can't forget to take to my sons going away party. He's leaving for bootcamp in 9 days. NINE DAYS until my number one son will leave home forever. Yeah...I'm being dramatic but this is big shit. This young man changed my life. This is the best stress I've ever been under. Anxious for all the right reasons. He's a good boy. A little too like his father sometimes and not in the ways I would've chosen if I could have fished qualities out of his gene pool. My son is also half me. He carries with him the best that is in me and some of the not so great too. He's perfectly himself and I'm sure he'll do great. I worry about him alone on a ship floating in the ocean God knows where. Who will he meet on his journey? Will they be good people? Will they lead him astray? It's out of my hands. I've taught him all I can and I can only hope it's been enough. For now.... I finished the decorations. Made the scrapbook and all that's left to be done is celebrate the amazing young man I call my son.  

That kind of love

2:32 in the morning...I can't sleep. Two cups of warm milk haven't worked. Afraid to take melatonin since I need to be up in a few hours. Instead I'm writing and watching P.S. I Love You and crying. Not even sure why I'm crying except that my heart is sore and it has been all day. I watched a beautiful wedding ceremony today. It hurt. I remember being so sincerely in love before. Wide awake in the middle of the night I wonder if I ever will be again. I have ... I think,  but not being able to tell the other person how I feel makes it hard to tell. When you're twenty something and in love it's easy to just be in love. You float along on it ...the emotion carries you across your days. When you're in your forties its different. You're scared to tell the other person. What if they don't feel the same way? What if they do? When I was younger it seemed like all I had to do was decide which person and head off in that direction. Maybe if I packed up my insecurities and damage from the past it would still be that way.  What I have found is that all the directions I've headed in turned out to be dead ends and I'm tired of hitting my head against the wall. I watched those two gorgeous people pledge their vows and all I wanted to do was to freeze that moment, make it so things NEVER changed for them. Don't mistake me, I'm not jealous of new love, old love, real love. It is a beautiful thing to see and as horrible luck would have it, I miss it.
I do have a lot of love in my life - family, friends, my beautiful kiddos but I want THAT love again. The kind that makes you feel like anything is possible just cuz he called today. The kind where you spend hours not doing much of anything but it's perfect. Where he is concerned for you as much as you are for him. Until I find that again I'll keep on keeping on and wait for him whoever he is. Hopefully he's tall, loves the same music I do, digs my kids, the same sports teams as me, or at least isn't an Angels fan, loves his family and his friends and is fiercely loyal. Too much?
Who knows...I may die waiting.

we met at a house party. We spent the first night together and nearly every night after. We made 3 beautiful kids and a bucket of bad choices. I loved him. I loved him so ,I have that I neglected myself

Class of 2016

'Twas the night before graduation and all through the house momma was cryin who cares about the mouse! Seriously though...I've been so busy this week  that I've barely had time to let it sink in. I believe that was a gift from God and probably a gift for everyone else! I not fun in the middle of a meltdown. Tomorrow my firstborn son will walk across a stage in his cap and gown heading into his future. He's been busy undoing the ties that bind for a few months now which is as it should be. I've been trying to let go and give him the room he needs. It's a process. Just like it was when he was an infant, or a toddler learning to run, an elementary school kid waiting till the last minute to do every project or a high school freshman finding his way on the big campus. All his life has been leading up to this day. The details may not be exactly the way I imagined them way back when and that's ok. What is exactly perfect is the love in my heart for this handsome young man. He's the reason I embarked on this 18 year journey. I think it's fair to say I've learned as much from him as he has from me. I'm not sure how I'll feel tomorrow but tonight I'll cry for the time that passed too quickly and thank God for the opportunity to raise Mason Liam Selsor.  

Weird

Life is weird.

So many really weird situations surrounding me. None of them are situations that I caused but my day to day life will be impacted by the outcome of each one. Friends, family, people I love or have loved in the past are walking a proverbial tight rope. In my head I know I can’t do anything about any of it – I have no dog in the fight as my Grandpa would say. “It’s their journey” is what my Al Anon sponsor tells me, “Let them go and give them to God sweetie”. In my heart I just want things to be calm and good like it is inside the happy bubble I try to live in.

Therein lies the struggle of my life. If I care about you that’s it. I’m all in and good or bad chances are if you have a problem I will try to fix it. I used to be a “fixer” 100% of the time, whether you wanted my help or not. Turns out people don't like uninvited help. Who knew?  After many years in recovery, therapy and more than a few hard lessons I realized that my help is only good if someone asks for it and that your problems aren’t in fact, mine too. I have learned slowly over 15 years that I need to fix myself since I’m the only I can control anyway.

That doesn't mean that I am cured from my people pleasing or my need for approval. Sometimes I still trust the wrong people. This is an unfortunate side effect of wearing your heart on your sleeve. Sometimes I still seek validation from people who could give a shit about anything other than their own opinion. I try to remember that I'm not everyone's cup of tea. That's tough because I pretty much like everyone until they give me a reason not to. 

All that being said I’m human and sometimes I still think I know how YOU should act, or how YOU should handle your problem. The truth is I never do. I watch these situations swirling around my happy bubble like a pack of colorful tornadoes. Each color I see represents the person at the center of the storm. I get bumped by the green one, knocked flat on my ass by the red one, tipped on my side by the blue one but mostly it’s just duck and cover. How can I keep your mess from landing on me? Hell if I know. I admire the people who can completely remove themselves from another person and just not give a shit. At all. No fucks given. I’m working on that but that’s a different kind of tightrope.

I wonder if I’m the only person connected to all these situations that sees them like this. I do know when you’re in the tornado you can’t see a damn thing. Hindsight is 20/20 and all those other cliches. When the dust settles and all these situations are resolved I’ll comb through the wreckage and see what’s left standing and what’s not. I’m not bitter or sad. I believe there’s a valuable lesson for me in each of these situations the trick is not missing it.

And this is my life. Weird, colorful and occasionally painful.

Cast Iron Love

What would you grab in the mad dash of an emergency? Earthquake, fire ...whatever. Pictures of course. the kids, the pets. The usual right? I would include cast iron skillets. Yep. You read that right. Both weapon and culinary necessity no kitchen should be without. Think about it - in an emergency you could totally protect your family AND cook dinner with one of those bad boys. I'm lucky enough to own several, each one belonging to a family member. One from my Mimi and one from my Papa Frank. My mom uses a cast iron skillet every time she cooks and nothing tastes as good as bacon fried in cast iron but I am in NO hurry to have one of her skillets.
Today, Fat Tuesday I'll make a batch of gumbo in Papa's skillet. My hands will go where his once were. It'll almost be like holding his hand again. I'll try to make it taste half as good as his and probably fail miserably but I know he's with me cheering me on. "Go 'head now yungin', add some of this, some of that...don't let it stick sugar, you have to mind the bottom'. He never gave a proper lesson or wrote down a recipe for me but if I was lucky he'd let me sit in the kitchen and watch. He'd yak about the ingredients, how to choose the most ripe this or most tender piece of that. He'd walk back and forth between the stove top and the camel cigarette smoldering on the table chattering away, inevitably yelling at my Mama Jo if the cornbread didn't rise and anyone in earshot would scold him for it. Cooking was the most consistent way my Papa showed his love. Any excuse to throw a shindig and gather all his people together around the table. A true Southern gentleman, being invited to his table was a privilege and never a disappointment. This skillet probably made cousin Andy's favorite pineapple upside down cake. I'm sure it was used in the gravy cook off between Pops and Aunt Deana. Big "after a party" breakfasts of fried (hangover) potatoes that I loved and eggs I wouldn't eat cooked early while George Jones played on the radio. I see and smell the whole room in my mind. That's the beauty of common household items. They're links to our past. Tangible, functional pieces of our personal history.
Mimi's collection of cast iron was a source of pride and she had a piece for every purpose. The corn shaped pan that went along with my sweet Grandpas famous fish fry, the flat griddle with the shiny spot in the center for the pancakes she'd make whenever we slept over. I never wanted to learn to cook. I wasn't even going to have a kitchen in my future house, just a microwave and a mini fridge. What I DID want to do was to always be in Mimi's presence. Sneaky genius that she was, she kept me in the kitchen and slid little lessons about cooking into the conversation. She'd ask about my day or school and slide in the best way to convert measurements into a chat about how I hated my math teacher. "Now Missy fractions are easy, see the way half a cup of buttermilk becomes one cup when I pour in double"? I thought I was just visiting with my Mimi but I was actually learning how to make biscuits. I know how to cook things I never read a recipe for thanks to her constant chatter and patience. Food and the common items used to cook it were a thing of value. Maybe it was something from my grandparents generation - the Depression babies. Food was more than just what you put in your body to survive. It was literally love on a plate. If only those skillets could speak. It wasn't always easy for my grandparents to put food on the table while they were raising their kids but by the time the grand kids came along money was less tight and they got to cook for pleasure more often. They had more patience for us than they had for my parents in the mad dash to just to get dinner on the table. I relate...I am always hurrying to complete the task. The skillet and the memories tell me to slow down, ask the kids to help, slide in between the conversation of "Who's next album is dropping this week and who's eyebrows were on fleek today" the recipe. Tell the story through the food like my Grandparents did. Today I look at this simple piece of metal on my stove top and I know that whether it was stretching a meal out of necessity or making a treasured family "secret" recipe my grandparents did it with love and a cast iron skillet.