My Whole Entire Life

When I told my nine-year-old granddaughter I was going to dedicate my next book (stories from my blog) to her, her eyes grew huge, she put her hands up to her gaping mouth and said, "My whole entire life I have always wanted someone to dedicate a book to me."

Incredible. When I was nine I was three years away from being able to read, and all I wanted was to be accepted for who and what I was and loved. Siena has a village that adores her, and now she has what she has wanted her whole entire life: a book with her name on the dedication page.

available on Amazon

My Kingdom for a Blue Butterfly

Once upon a time, oh so long ago, in a land far away, there lived a King who everyone thought was crazy.  "My kingdom for a blue butterfly," he always said, but no one knew what he meant. They didn't think he was crazy as in Wacko! Wacko! but crazy because why would anyone want to give away their kingdom for a butterfly?

The King was a funny looking dude, but because he was so important and ruled the kingdom, no one cared much about his odd looks.  He was King after all and single.  All the maidens near and far wanted to be chosen by him. They wanted to become his Queen so they would be important, too. Unattractive could be overlooked for riches and fame.

Some of the not-very-nice people in the village closest to his castle called the King a worm.  He did kind of resemble a worm, but a lot of people look like an animal or bird or insect. The baker looked just like his poodle, down to his curly white hair, long floppy ears and button nose. The town crier was often mistaken for a screaming bald eagle with long spindly legs, the blacksmith looked like a black bear in deerskin breeches, the Crawley kids like dirty monkeys, and then there was Mrs. Flagglenose who walked like a duck but looked like a horse.  When they all walked down the cobblestone street together, everyone in the village came out of their houses and lined the streets, eager to see the circus.

Of all the kings who ruled the kingdom from the beginning of time, this King was the kindest, nicest, most generous and honorable. He believed in treating everyone with respect, regardless of their station in life. The men who rolled the one-thousand pound rocks up the hill to add a wing onto the castle and the King in the next kingdom over were all treated the same.  Everyone was valuable. He loved his life, he said, but there was a void, an emptiness that he desired to fill. He wanted a mate, someone to share his days and nights. "My kingdom for a blue butterfly," he would say and all the people in the village scratched their heads. "What does that mean?" they wondered.

Then one day the beloved King disappeared, and everyone worried and fretted and worried and fretted.  Meanwhile, just down the road a piece in a small, rickety shack, there was another call for alarm.  A maiden had gone missing. "Oh, don't be too concerned," everyone except family said. "That maiden is a nobody, not special, unattractive even. Kind of looks like a worm." So the village people returned their focus to the missing King.

Time passed. Days. Weeks, and still the King hadn't returned.  His crown was passed on to a distant cousin, and the days of nice and kind ended with the corruptness of power. The importance of the new King's subjects was now determined by their wealth and rank and beauty and so life went on.

It was on a Friday, I think. Or was it Saturday? I don't know. It's my memory. Not so good anymore and, besides, I wasn't there. I just heard the story from someone who knew someone who knew someone who was. The sky was brilliant blue. Not a cloud anywhere. It was an incredible sight, I'm told. Out of the western sky flew a stunningly beautiful blue butterfly and a dozen or more smaller box butterflies--box butterflies are extremely rare; most people live their entire lives without seeing one--who wore tiny yellow scarves that flowed in the wind behind them.  Then out of nowhere another large butterfly appeared and joined the first. As if by cue, they all dipped their wings at the very same time and flew away, never to be seen again.

Rumor has it that the butterflies were actually the King and the missing maiden from down the road. Their transformation, or metamorphosis, from what some people called "ugly worms" to beautiful butterflies has been part of the village's folklore for a very, very long time. But I know for a fact (I have my sources) that the story is, without one single itty bitty doubt, true.

The Value of Rare

It's one of those "truths" that is with us everyday, yet we may live a hundred years and never ever see it. I was over sixty when I saw it (really saw it) for the first time.  I was making a clock in my workshop in Bradenton, Florida, and I needed just one small black screw to finish it, but there were none left in the screw drawer.  I searched my workbench but to no avail. I looked in the medium, large and extra-large black screw drawers thinking I may have inadvertently put some in the wrong place. No luck. The clock was due to leave my workshop that next morning for the hour-long trip to St. Petersburg (it had been promised to a customer at the gallery where I sold my art), but because I was missing the one component to make it complete, I could fail the gallery and disappoint the buyer.

There was only one hardware store in town that sold that particular screw and they were closed. So I snuck into Tom's shop and rummaged through his screw drawers. No small black screws. I went back to my shop, got down on my knees and crawled over every inch of the floor, but I didn't find the one thing I needed to finish my whimsical timepiece. I was losing hope when I thought of the Ball jar I had inherited from my dad. Surely, I would find what I was looking for in Dad's decades-long accumulation of miscellany.  I tipped the contents of the jar onto my workbench, and out spilled rusty nails and bolts and nuts and screws of every size and shape, but the only thing at that moment that was of value to me was missing.

Tenacity refused to let me give up. So down on my knees again I went, and there it was.  If it had been a snake, well, you know what would have happened.  I finished my clock, delivered it the next day, stopped at the hardware store on the way home, and bought two thousand small black screws. Within days, the value of the screws diminished.  I'd carelessly grab a handful and lay them on the workbench; some would stay put while others rolled off onto the floor.  Oh, well.  I had two thousand. Over time, I noticed the pile of screws grow smaller, but I wasn't concerned; I still had a thousand. As I grew more indifferent with my regard for the only screws that would complete my clocks, I noticed my supply was  dwindling, but it was still okay. I had a hundred left.  Then one day I was making a clock in my shop and I needed one small black screw to finish it, but the screw drawer was empty.  I searched my workbench, but couldn't find the one component needed to finish my whimsical timepiece. Tom's shop? the floor? Dad's Ball jar? Nope! Nope! and Nope!

It's just the way it is. The more rare something is, the more valuable it becomes. Over the past weekend, when my family came to visit, I talked to my granddaughter about the value of rare.  She is a precious, one of a kind, valuable nine-year-old who, as she grows into a young woman, should never allow herself to be taken for granted, treated disrespectfully, carelessly and with indifference. I didn't use the "screw" story; instead I demonstrated my point with an old dirty bottle cap that I later threw into the trash can, which may have confused her. So, I'm not certain she understood what I was telling her, but that's okay.  The older I become, the more I tend to repeat myself, repeat myself, repeat myself. She may get sick of hearing me say it, but if she "gets it" my ramblings will have been worth it.

One of Her Nanas

I'm dedicating my next book to my granddaughter, Siena.  No, Jason doesn't have a love child that I've kept a secret.  Siena is Amy's daughter, and Amy is Jason's sister, which makes Siena my grandchild.

I know many grandparents think the sun rises and sets in the back pocket of their children's offspring. Whether or not the child deserves the accolades is irrelevant. They exist, therefore, they are wonderful. However, in my granddaughter's case, she has earned every accolade and more. And I'm not just saying that because I'm one of her nanas.  She has an entire village of people who love and adore her.  She is a beautiful girl (which we all know is fleeting and is the least important attribute she possesses; isn't that right, Siena?) precocious, intelligent, articulate, artistic, clever, funny, socially adept, and from a grandparent's perspective, kind and nice to others, empathic, and compassionate.  All that in someone who has lived in this C-R-A-Z-Y world for only nine years. I think that is incredible.

June 2013...Siena comes to the
mountains to visit one of her nanas.

A masterpiece by Siena

Just Like Jane Wyman

All of the boys noticed her. By fifteen she looked like a full-grown woman, but inside where it matters most, she was still a fragile child. They said she looked just like Jane Wyman, that new movie star in Hollywood. They all wanted to date her, she has told me on many occasions. They even fought over her. Her mother had told her she looked nothing like a movie star; in fact, she wasn't even pretty. "So don't go thinkin' you're somethin' special 'cause you're not!"

She put her hand up to her mouth and giggled whenever she talked about her teenage years. She wanted to marry one boy but the other boy cried, so she married him instead. It didn't work out. By the time he left her, she had two small children and none of those other boys--men by then--were interested.

Her mother was furious. She had lived her entire life as a devout Christian and raised her nine children by the strict laws of the church. The Bible says marriage is a divine institution, and it's a union sanctioned by God.  He doesn't accept divorce so now her daughter's a sinner and going to H-E double L. If she was younger, she'd take a switch to her. What a shame, too, because she had raised her better than that. Oh, and "Don't go thinkin' about remarryin' 'cause God does not sanction second marriages."

So now what? A sinner with little options, no job, no money, two small children, and nowhere to go. Did her mother let her come back home? Absolutely not! She made her bed and now she can sleep in it! Besides, with Luedna, Betty, Robert and that husband of hers who can't manage to keep a job, there's no room for a returning child with two babies.

SEVEN DECADES LATER, MOTHER'S DAY 2013

When I walked into Room 137, she didn't recognize me, but as soon as I sat down next to her she motioned for me to come closer.  "Come here. I want to tell you something," she said. It was the story about her male admirers and her resemblance to an actress whose name she couldn't remember."I liked the boys," she giggled. "And they liked me."  I'd heard the story so many times, I knew the ending by heart. The smile disappeared, she looked down at her ninety-one-year-old hands, and said, "But my mother didn't think I was pretty. She told me 'Don't go thinkin' you're somethin' special, 'cause you're not!'" In 1937, when those hurtful words were spoken, who would have thought that they would remain so vivid in Mother's mind all these many years later?

We sat side by side (she in her recliner and I in Aunt Gracie's Queen Ann chair) and starred at the television.  I thought about turning it on, but it wouldn't have made a difference to her. She wouldn't be able see or hear it.  Macular degeneration has claimed much of her eyesight, and no matter how loud the volume is, she still can't hear it.

As Mother sat in her chair and fiddled with her fingernails, I thought about my grandmother. Why would a mother who professed to be a devout Christian, who read the Bible everyday, who loved God so much, hurt the most precious gifts given to her.  Was it because she was being the mother that her mother was? Was it the stress from raising a family in poverty? Or was it fear? Did my grandmother love her children so much that she feared for their souls, and were the cruel words and tough exterior necessary amour to protect them from the devil and hell?  If you ask my mother, she would say the latter. My mother adored and honored her mother. Even though she still carries the scars, she knows that her mother was only doing her best.

She looked over at me and smiled. She motioned for me to come closer. "I have something to tell you," she said. I leaned over and she took my hand in hers. "I miss my mother so much," she said. "I know you do," I said. Then she raised my hand to her lips and kissed it.

Yep! I'm crying.

Attraction, Chemical Reaction, Passion

"I'm in Barcelona, Spain. I'm alone and sitting in a dimly lit second-floor bar that the hotel I'm staying in opens only at night. The hotel manager has taken a special interest in me--he can tell I'm sad, he said, and he wanted to know if there was anything he could do to cheer me up. When I mentioned I'd like to find a quiet place to write, he opened the door to the bar and said he'd check on me later. What a nice man. The ceiling to floor windows in this room give me a bird's eye view of the tree-lined boulevard below where, unlike me, every single person is full of joy and in love."

The above, although not exactly word for word, is what I wrote in the spring of 1976, while sitting at a long wooden table on the second floor of the hotel I was staying in in Barcelona.  I didn't get any farther than that first paragraph, because I was interrupted by the hotel manager who wanted to know if I had thought of anything, anything at all, that he could do for me to brighten my mood.

The reason I was in Spain was because at that time in my life I was a self-illusionist who thought a back-packing trip through Europe by myself would repair my broken heart, lead me to my third chance at love, and give me inspiration to write a best-selling novel.

Self-Illusionist

An illusionist fools others. A self-illusionist fools themselves.

                                       -Wikidikipedia

At twenty-nine what I knew about love came from fairy tale books, romance novels, and movies. You would think that I would be able to separate reality from fiction but that was not the case. In the real life movie I starred in, I was attracted to strong, cool, always in control, leading men. Handsome was required as well. Aren't all leading men in fiction good-looking?  Even though I'd spent many years trapped inside Hans Christian Andersen's 1843 fairy tale The Ugly Duckling playing the role of the ugly duckling, as soon as I realized that Handsome was available to me, I choose it over Ugly. Oh, don't grimace at my shallowness. You would do the same thing; you know you would.

I had missed my train from Barcelona to Nice, France, but the hotel manager, who was very handsome by the way, came to my rescue by letting me stay at the hotel at no charge. I wanted to use the extra time to write, but the manager's constant concern for me was a distraction.

That evening, my last night in Spain, I went to dinner with my self-appointed guardian, and afterward we walked along the boulevards at midnight, yet, at such a late hour, the streets were alive with music and singing and laughter.  Every single person around me was full of joy and in love. I envied them. When my caring companion reached for my hand, I noticed for the first time that he wore a ring on his left hand, and I asked if he was married. Up until that point, he had spoken perfect English, but with my question he began to stutter and search for words. After some thought, he said that he did have a wife, but their marriage was over.  They had separated that morning, and they were getting divorced.  I couldn't believe it. This gorgeous man, who was so demonstrative with his concern for me, had become available on the same day I missed my train out of town.  Call it fate. Call it destiny. Call it God's plan, but whatever you do, don't call it self-illusionary.  Hey! I said don't call it that!

My illusions about love and romance had nothing to do with sex and one-night-stands. Sex might fulfill the physical aspect of passion, but only for a minute or two. No. My illusions had a formula not unlike romance novels and Hollywood movies. There was the attraction, chemical reaction, passion, the games, the push and pull, the drama, the insurmountable problem, the pain and suffering, passion again, and in the end...happily-ever-after.  In the six hours that I had remaining in Barcelona, there was not enough time for my formula romance to work.  Unless, that is, he wanted to pursue me back to the states, show up at my door with a dozen red roses, and profess his undying love for me, I was leaving in the morning, and we would never see each other again.

Tap Tap Tap (Oh, my. Someone's at the door.  Who could it possibly be?)

It was one o'clock in the morning. My train was leaving the station at seven a.m. sharp. Sleep would be good, but then again...

Tap Tap Tap 

I opened the door. He looked sad. He was going to miss me, he said. He reached for my hand and that's when I noticed the ring was gone.  But, but, but, there's no time. In order for the formula to work, it needs time. He said I looked beautiful from the glow of the hallway light. (Really? I thought I might be considered cute, but beautiful? Really? Even without makeup?). I blushed at his compliment and looked down at the floor. The sheet that I'd hurriedly pulled off the bed to cover my nakedness was beginning to slip.  He took his free hand (the one without the ring), and put it under my chin, slowly pulling my face up to within inches of his. We stared into each other's eyes.  Did I believe in love at first sight, he asked. No, not really, I thought but didn't say. Love has to cook; love takes time, and then there's the formula, but then again...

Normally, I would stop right here and let your imagination finish the story, but since I'm dedicating my next book, which is a compilation of stories from my blog, to my granddaughter Siena, I am going to tell you the ending. 

Could he please come in, he asked. He wanted us to spend my remaining hours in Spain together. I stepped back and allowed him into my room. Once the door was closed he put his arms around me and held me close.  I could feel his beating heart through the sheet. My handsome leading man in this story led me over to the bed. He shuttered and his shuttering made me shutter. The first part of the formula, the chemical reaction part, was beginning to percolate, but I continued to clutch the sheet.  He took my clutching hand in his and tried to loosen my grip. I refused to let go. The light from the street below accentuated my beauty, he said. I know, I know I thought. But I'm still not dropping the sheet.

And that was the game we played for the next twenty minutes, until he decided he might not love me after all. Nothing happened.  I don't believe in one-night stands. I think they are damaging to the soul. I know, I know. I was stupid for letting him into my room.  I'll know better next time I'm in Spain. And that's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

Barcelona, Spain  April 1976

Broken hearted, sad and lost in thought

Call it fate; call it destiny, call it God's Plan,

but don't call it self-illusionary.

The handsome Spaniard did bring out the smiles.

Sex, Lies and Fairy Tales

Sex, Lies and Fairy Tales but not in that order.  First came the Fairy Tales, then the Lies and next came Sex. Wait! That's wrong, too. I think the Lies came first, then the Fairy Tales and lastly, Sex.  Oh, what does the order of it matter? They all got me in trouble.

I like where I am now, except for one thing.  I'm old and now that I have finally figured life out, I'm taking my experiences, knowledge, insight and wisdom to the grave with me.  I'm living in the next to the last chapter of my life, and I don't have much time left to share what I've learned with my younger, much-loved descendants.

Actually, that's not true.  What I just wrote above, "Blah, blah, blah, blah blah." That's a lie. I'm constantly sharing the lessons I've learned from my life with anyone who will listen.  The problem is no one is. Listening, that is.  My ninety-four-year-old mother-in-law says it's because no one pays any attention to old people, but I never listen to her.  I feel that my treasure trove of insight and wisdom must be shared with those who are trailing behind me on the treadmill of life.  How can they possibly know what to do in any given situation if I don't tell them?  Don't you agree?  Hello?  Hello?  Is anyone there?

It's Okay. Mommy's Here

The room is dark and cold.  I know it's daytime because I've been up only a short time.  I've had my breakfast already and played with my constant companion. Her name is Annie. She has bright red hair, a flat face, and funny-looking nose. She's tattered and ragged and in need of a bath (at least that's what my mother says).

The shades on the windows have been pulled down, but I can still see the sun trying to slip through the sides.  I'm told it's time for bed but it can't be. It seems like I just got up. Mother says she's not feeling well and needs to lie down, so I should go to bed, too.  But I'm not tired.  Annie and I want to play.

The door is closed and I hear a click which means it's locked and I can't get out. My first instinct is to panic, but this time I'm going to be a big girl and not do that screaming thing that makes Mother fall on the floor and act all strange and scary.

I'm not sleepy so Annie and I talk, but Mother can hear me from the other room (how does she do that? I was whispering or at least I thought I was). She yells at me, "Carol Louise! Go to sleep!" 

I close my eyes, stick my thumb in my mouth, and pull Annie close to me.  I don't want to go to sleep.  If I do they'll come for me. I whisper, whisper, whisper in Annie's ear, but Mother hears me and threatens to spank me if she hears one more word.

They're here! The monsters are in the room.  Shhhhh. Lie still. Don't move. Oh, no! Now they're on the bed. My tongue is growing bigger and fills my mouth.  I'm suffocating.  I can't breathe. They're on top of me.  I can't fight them off because I'm paralyzed.  Annie must be paralyzed, too, because she's not moving.  I need my mother.  She'll save me from the monsters.  I try to scream but my over-sized tongue gets in the way, and the only noise I can make is a whimper.  But Mother hears it anyway and throws open the door.  My protector, my rescuer, my mother has come to save me. After she fights off my attackers, she'll hold me in her arms and say, "It's okay, Sweetheart. I'll protect you. Mommy's here." 

The door slams shut and the window shades shutter. Mother is standing over me and Annie.  I hold my precious little girl close to me so the switch won't hurt her.  "It's okay." I whisper. "I'll protect you. Mommy's here."

Why The "Wrong" Lasted So Long

He was the first of my seven chances at love.  I was twenty and he was twenty-five.  It was a blind date, but I knew he wouldn't like me.  He knew nothing about the girl his friend had set him up with, but I had known of him since I was in the eighth grade and he was a senior. He was one of the most popular kids in his class, as was his cheerleader girlfriend.

In 1965, the sixth day of the week was "National Date Night." Friday was used for causal, less important engagements, but Saturday night was reserved for that special someone.  The pressure of scoring a Saturday night date with HIM was making me sick.  I woke up that morning with a stomach ache and spent most of the day fighting anxiety. What had his friend gotten him into? How would he handle his disappointment?  Would he be kind in his rejection?

Nine years later, we broke up.  It wasn't by his choice that we went separate ways, but it was by his actions.

Forty-seven years later, I'm still analyzing what went wrong, and why the "wrong" lasted so long.  In the beginning, I was so stunned by his interest in who? me? that nothing else mattered. Controlling? Did that mean he cared and was concerned for my well-being? Manipulative? Since he was older, did he know best? Arrogant? Isn't arrogance a requirement for being an attorney?  But he was also handsome, charming, smart, fun and funny, and most importantly, he picked me.

Had it not been for a fear of marriage (what happens if you get married and then something better comes along?), a wandering penis, and that growth in my backbone, we might still be dating.

So there you have it, the first of my seven chances at love. Stay tuned. Next chance at love... If At First Love Fails, Try, Try, Try, Try, Try, Try Again.

A Little Bit Crazy

In the beginning of the 1977 movie Annie Hall, Alvy Singer, the male lead played by Woody Allen, shares with us, the audience, his views about life.  He says he's not a morose or depressed person, but he's discovered that life is full of loneliness, misery, suffering, and unhappiness. He is struggling with the failure of his relationship with Annie, and he's trying to understand what went wrong.  Somewhere in his rumination about life's disappointments he says, "I would never want to belong to a club that would have someone like me as a member."  

Later, in the same movie, Alvy is walking down the street with a friend when he says, "That reminds me of that old joke--you know, a guy walks into a psychiatrist's office and says, 'hey doc, my brother's crazy! He thinks he's a chicken.'  Then the doc says, 'Why don't you turn him in?' Then the guy says, 'I would but I need the eggs.' I guess that's how I feel about relationships.  They're totally crazy, irrational, and absurd, but we keep going through it because we need the eggs."

It's rumored that Woody Allen, who co-wrote and directed this movie, used his own life experiences in Annie Hall, but he has never admitted it. And, I understand why.  Who wants to admit to having low self-esteem with a propensity toward hysteria, which can lead to C-R-A-Z-Y? At least not publicly.  It's okay, though, to call your best friend or sister sobbing at 1:00 o'clock in the morning because he just wasn't that into you.  "What is wrong with me," you cry, and the response you get back is what you expected because best friends love you unconditionally, and they are supposed to say these things when your heart has been broken.  "Nothing is wrong with you!" Your support person says. "You are too good for him.  He'll never find anyone as good as you.  I don't know what you saw in him in the first place. He's a dirt bag!"

After crying into the phone for forty-five minutes, repeating the same thing over and over and over again, "What's wrong with me, and what does she have that I don't have?" (break ups usually involve another person), you hang up, throw up, lie down on the couch, and stare at the ceiling the rest of the night.  The next day at work, you are worthless, which confirms what you already knew: you are worthless.  Once the self-loathing starts, it can spiral out of control.  You say you're unworthy of love; your friends say that's not true.  No I'm not! Yes you are!  No I'm not! Yes you are! No I'm not! No I'm not! No I'm not! Yes you are! Yes you are! Yes you are! Sound a little bit crazy?  You haven't heard anything yet!

Rejection in love can make you crazy.  It can make you do things you never thought possible before you were bid adios. Well, not you in particular.  Everyone knows how stable and well put together you are.  In fact, you probably have never had a broken heart, and your self-esteem has never been challenged. How fortunate for you.  It's people like you who make the worthless feel bad.  People unworthy of love like to compare themselves to others.  People like you, for example.  You, who have it all:  beauty, brains, charm, personality, great sense of humor, awesome hair, big boobs.  Yep!  You are the nemesis to all those unloveable girls left in his wake.

Rejection is a powerful emotion. It can make the one left behind do things they never thought they would do before he dumped them for YOU! I hope you're happy with yourself!!  Who kept calling and hanging up? Who let the air out of his tires? Who stood outside your apartment and yelled, "He's a heart breaker! You're his next victim! By the way, he has herpes!"? Who threw his clothes in the lake? I know but I'm not telling.  A team of wild hogs could not drag it out of me. Nope! My lips are sealed. Girlfriends stick together.  We are united and our slogan is "All is fair in love and rejection."  

What? He called me?  But I thought he was with her. I thought they were a couple. What? He's not that into her? Really? He wants to date me? Well, I always did think he was cute, but, but, but, but she's my best friend. What? He thinks I'm cute, too?  Really? Well, I always did have a secret crush on him, but, but, but she's one of my friends.  What?  Tonight?  He wants to go on a date with me tonight? Really? Well, I did just get a pedicure, and I shaved my legs this morning, but, but she's an acquaintance of mine. What? Seven o'clock? Well, that is a short notice; I think I can be ready by then, but I think I know his girlfriend.

Knock! Knock!

Who's there?

Delivery for.

Delivery for who?

I know it sounds totally crazy, irrational, and absurd, but a chicken just stopped me on the street and asked me to tell you he couldn't make it tonight. Something came up.

A chicken?  That is crazy.  Why didn't you turn him in?

I would have but he said you needed these eggs.

How to Cook a Bad Relationship

The reason my major in college was psychology was because I wanted to understand why people do what they do.  More specifically, I wanted to make sense of my behavior, some of which made no sense at all.  For the record, the degree didn't help.

My problem, for the most part, was men.  Without men messing with me, I think my life would have been tear free (except for that Folger's commercial where the college boy comes home for Christmas break, and his little sister runs down the stairs and jumps into his arms, and then his parents sit up in bed and sniff the freshly-brewed coffee.  I always cry at that.)

Over the years, I have tried to understand why women (me included) pick the men we do.  We all deserve to have a mate who adores us, treats us with respect, and is the one person in our life who wants what is best for us.  That person does exist; they are out there looking for us, but because of our impatience, we fill the void with a substitute.  When it comes to romantic love relationships, something is not better than nothing. Because when you are loved the right way, you realize it was worth the wait.  It took me over fifty years to finally "get it right."  

Here's my old, tattered recipe for how to cook a bad relationship:

1.   One (1) man.

2.    One (1) woman.

3.   One (1) teaspoon Desperate.

4.   Two (2) teaspoons Insecurity.

5.   One (1) cup Control. 

6.   One (1) cup Inflexibility. 

7.  One (1) cup Incompatibility. 

8.  One (1) cup Self-Centeredness.

9.  Three (3) tablespoons Baggage.

10.  Two (2) cups Issues.

11.  Dash of Wandering Penis. (This ingredient was not in my recipe; it was added without my knowledge.)

Put 1 and 2 in a hot bowl, cover, and wait for it to rise.  Trust me.  It will rise.  Once risen, pat down and wait for it to rise again. Do this several more times.  Now sprinkle 3 and 4 into the mix. If it continues to rise, add 5 and 6.  (If you don't have 5 or 6, you can substitute Lack of Commitment and Indifference).  Add the remaining ingredients, mix thoroughly and simmer for as long as it takes for this recipe to fail. Oh, trust me; it will fail.

"But," you ask, "How can you cook a good relationship without including some of the above ingredients?" I was afraid you were going to ask me that question.  What do I look like? A psychology major?

Follow Your Dreams

I wrote a book, oh so long ago, and put it in the closet.  Ten years later, I was encouraged by a lady at a garage sale to "to follow your dreams and just go for it," so when I got home, I found the manuscript and self-published it.  I should have left the dang thing in the closet.  The reviews were terrible. I was crushed. But I kept on writing.

A year later, I was in my backyard workshop in Bradenton, Florida, building a buffet for our dining room and listening to National Public Radio.  One of the show's hosts was interviewing a successful author. "I was done." The writer said. "All of my manuscripts were rejected. The rejection letters were piling up and I felt defeated.  I began to doubt myself.  Maybe 'they' were right.  I was not a good writer after all.  So I gave up."  But, of course, she didn't really give up, now did she?  She wouldn't be famous, rich and chatting on NPR if she'd followed through with her threat.  When asked what  happened to change her mind about quitting, she said that she was outside in her backyard workshop in southwest Florida one day building a buffet for her dining room and listening to a radio talk show about people not giving up and following their dreams.  That next day, she sat down at her computer and wrote what would become a New York Times best seller.  Oh, my goodness! She was telling my story, and I took that as a sign. So, with fresh inspiration, I put down my screwdriver, headed back inside the house, sat down at my computer and wrote what would become a pile of self-published books cluttering our closet that no one in New York (or anywhere else) would ever read.  But I kept on writing.

Several years ago, I saw an interview with Tom Hanks.  He was talking about mentoring an Iraq War veteran who had returned to America with a dream.  He wanted to be screenwriter in Hollywood.  Tom swiveled in his chair and looked into the camera. "I told him," Tom said directly to me, "to not give up! You will write it and no one will read it, but don't be discouraged."  Oh, my! Tom was talking to me, and I took his message as a sign.  With newfound enthusiasm, I turned off the television, sat down at my computer and wrote what would become a second pile of self-published books cluttering our closet and utility room that no one in Hollywood (or anywhere else) would ever read.  But I kept on writing.

Last week I watched Oprah interview Tyler Perry, a rich and famous writer, producer, director, and actor who has a production studio in Atlanta. Tyler was talking about his years of struggle--he was homeless and living in his car for a while--before finally receiving recognition for his talents.  He told a story about how a play he had written, produced, directed and acted in was considered a failure because only a handful of people showed up.  Night after night it was always the same.  A play with no audience.  Then one night, shortly before the play was to start, God said, "Tyler, look out the window."  What he saw--a line of people wrapped around the building to watch what he had created--was proof he had finally achieved his dream.

The first part of Tyler's story was my story.  Well, not exactly, but in my mind I twisted it around so it fit, sort of.  I turned off the television, sat still on the couch and waited for a higher power to direct me.  Nothing.  Not even, "Carol Louise, don't forget to brush your teeth."  Nada. Zip. Not a word.  I took the silence as a sign that it was time for bed, so I got up off the couch and negotiated my way through piles and piles of self-published books that no one in Atlanta (or anywhere else) will ever read.

But I'll keep on writing.

Tickle Me Pink

I wish I could be more like those people who prefer to stay at the shallow end of life's pool.  Everything looks so pristine there. The water is clean and clear and you can see your feet.  "Hey, nice pedicure.  What color is that? 'Persimmon Punch'? Is that a new color by Revlon? I like 'Seductive Red' myself."

At the other end of the pool, the deep end, where I go--I don't prefer it; I just seem to float on over there--you can't see your toes.  Well, that's not true.  They're there but they're distorted, and you can't discern toe polish from toe fungus.  The deep end can be scary.

By staying in the shallow end, there is little or no worry.  Drowning? Nah. Drain pipe might trap you? Nope. Grabbed by the feet and pulled under water? Not likely. Hit by a cannonball diver who didn't see you? No. Sunburn? "Not since I switched to Neutrogena Ultra Sheer Dry-Touch Sunblock, SPF 100.  It leaves my skin feeling so soft and smooth, and it's waterproof. Did you know it's dermatologists' #1 recommended sun care?  I'm going to the tanning salon later.  Would you like to come along? They give pedicures now. I'm going to try 'Tickle Me Pink.'"

MEANWHILE, DOWN AT THE DEEP END...

My top has come off.  I am so embarrassed.  It must have happened when that creepy pervert grabbed my feet and pulled me under, or maybe it was that cannonball I just did.  Are you okay?  Sorry, I didn't see you there.  Not only has my top come off but I can't find it.  It's white with red hearts on it.  No, that's not it.  Eowwwww!  What is that?  That is really nasty. Where did you find that?  Stuck in the drain pipe?  What else is down there?  Really?  That bad, huh?  No, I don't want to see it.  Okay, show me.  Oh, my goodness gracious! I'm headin' back to the shallow end where everything looks clean and clear and you can see your pedicure.

Happy Anniversary and Birthday

On the grounds of one of the oldest churches in Paris,  France, eleven years ago today, I married my best friend Tom.  On that same day, the "perfect dog" was born, Miss Maggie Mae.

Maggie is on the right.