Bugging the Living Daylight Out of You

Derailing the Message

Sometimes it's the distractions that derail the message.

From the book Raisin' Jason

copyright 2008

On the Lighter Side of Things

A Case of Mistaken Intent

(Read Meeting Anger Head On first, August 24 post)

Okay, so we were mistaken. It wasn't road rage after all. The man's flailing arms and yells were interpreted by Tom and me as anger. Yet, what he was trying to say was, "Your motorcycle is about to fall off your trailer." Oops! Tom handled the case of mistaken intent very well, but I reacted by meeting anger (or what I thought was anger) head on with some anger of my own.

After Tom tightened the straps on his Harley and we continued our drive to North Carolina, I sat silent while a tag team of mind demons had their way with me. I was embarrassed; I felt silly and childish; my behavior had been irrational and immature.

It was the second time in a week that I had succumbed to behavior unbecoming of an adult, and the first encounter a few days before had resulted in the loss of a friend. And, not the kind of friend you meet in the candy aisle at Seven-Eleven, discover you both like Snickers (the ones with dark chocolate), and then you become friends on Facebook. Nope! This was a friend with decades of history. A friend who held me in her arms nineteen years ago when I discovered Perfect Number Six wasn't so perfect after all. A friend who moved her 832 pairs of shoes out of her guest bedroom to accommodate my three-month stay at her home, and she was that one special friend who had her own bedroom in my home. Who but a close friend would agree to spoon inside a black trash bag on a cold winter night at the lake cabin after I had told her that plastic keeps the heat in?  (It didn't keep us warm, but we laughed all night long.) My offbeat sense of humor fit perfectly with her zaniness, and while others may have thought we were crazy mad, we didn't care.  We loved and supported each other through happy times and sad, the good boyfriends and the "what-was-I-thinking" ones. I was the friend companion at her wedding, and she was with me in Paris when I married Tom.

So what happened? No one really knows for certain. The she said/she said details got scrambled up in the passion of the moment. A case of mistaken intent, perhaps? Like the yelling, flailing man who was only trying to help, had one friend's good intentions been misunderstood? And to what extremes does one go to save their friends from themselves? Where do you draw the line? Where's does the safe area end and the danger zone begin? Does the longevity of a relationship blur that line? Is it only natural that close relationships trade the cautious, polite courtesies offered in the beginning for a more direct, to-the-point approach later on?

There are two sides of the story, of course. There always are. The right side and the right side. Supporting both right sides were brutal honesty, explanations (excuses), past transgressions, indignation, pride, and anger. When it was over, it was really over.  At least that's what she said. 

Meeting Anger Head On

"What is wrong with him?" Tom said with alarm, which got my immediate attention. It was early yesterday morning, and we were driving back to North Carolina from Indy. For Tom, it had been a trip he had been looking forward to for months: Rusty Wallace race car driver one day, Moto GP (motorcycle races) spectator the next, and the remaining days spent riding his Harley and fishing. As for me, the trip started out well enough, but ended in disaster. Our intent was to stay until Saturday, celebrate my birthday with family and friends, and leave on Sunday. Instead we loaded Tom's kayak and motorcycle on to the trailer and left two days early.

"All I did was merge from I-465 to I-74. I did nothing wrong yet he's flailing his arms and yelling at me." I looked in the side mirror and saw a man in the car behind us waving his arms frantically. "Did you switch lanes and cut him off?" I asked. "No, I have stayed in the right lane the whole time." Then the man sped up and passed us going 90 mph. Cutting in front of us, he slowed down and began waving his arms back and forth again. "What could he possibly be mad about?" Tom said. The more the man exhibited his rage, the more confused Tom became. I wasn't in a good state of mind before we crossed paths with Mr. Road Rage, and his behavior brought out the worst in me. I met his anger with a little anger of my own and began waving my arms back and forth and vocalizing my displeasure with his antics. Tom--always a man of self-control and reason--reached over and touched my arm. I don't remember what he said but it was something like, "Let's not add fuel to the flames and make him madder," or "That behavior is not going to solve anything," or "Meeting anger head on with anger only makes things worse." 

Road Rage moved over to the fast lane, opened his passenger window, and slowed way down. Tom slowed down as well to avoid confrontation. He was calm. I was agitated. We did nothing wrong. Why is he taking his anger to such extremes? A fast moving car came up behind Mr. Rage and he moved back in front of us, and now his whole body (along with his arms) was waving back and forth. We were both going 40 mph. Cars were racing past us. I wondered how far this man was going to take his anger. Where would it all end? This man was really, really mad at us.

Post Road exit was a mile away, and I asked Tom to pull off so we could lose him. As we slowed down to make the exit, he slowed down too. He was anticipating our next move and was exiting with us. Oh, my. Not good. Not good at all. Then he abruptly pulled his car off the road and on to the shoulder, opened his window, stuck his head out and as we passed he yelled, "Your motorcycle is about to fall!"

Oh...

And So It Began Again

(Read Perfect Number Six dated August 10 first.)

They both watched as I walked down the sidewalk toward my car. When I turned for one last look at the man I had loved for four years, he looked to be in great pain. With both hands on the big picture window, he was crying uncontrollably. Moon, his dog, was crying, too. They didn't want me to go. It was me he loved, not her, he had said.  Our relationship was one of love; theirs was all about sex. Could I ever forgive him? Would I please give him another chance? I couldn't bear to see him so heartbroken, so I walked back up the sidewalk, through the door, and back into his arms.

And so it began again.

At first he was uncomfortably nice. He couldn't do enough for me. I have to say I liked the attention, but at the same time, I knew that hovering focus on me was not him. It was contrived and unnatural and I knew it wouldn't last.  As the weeks passed, Six and I settled back into our normal lives. Well, not exactly normal. Six returned to his original state of being; I never did. My mind was cluttered with nagging questions:

1. Did he ever tell her that he loved her?

2. When they were together, did they hold hands?

3. Did he buy her gifts on her birthday, Valentine's day, and Christmas?

4. Did they talk about buying a farm, too?

4. When I called his house last night, his line was busy. Was he talking to her?

5. Lately he's been working overtime a lot. Is he seeing her again?

6. He hasn't told me he loves me in over a week. Should I be concerned?

7. It's ten o'clock at night and he's not answering his phone. Should I drive by his house?

8. When I was at his house last night I noticed his phone was off the hook. Does he not want her to know I'm there?

9. Whose telephone number was written on the notepad by the phone?

10. He cancelled our date for tonight. Is he seeing her instead?

New normal for me was now the lows and highs that come with suspicion and relief (when discovering the suspicions were unwarranted). Worry, doubt, anxiety were there, too, along with sleepless nights and then depression. I turned on myself for not being able to get over the fractured trust. Meanwhile, Six had recovered from the betrayal quite well.

Then one evening about a year later, Six cancelled dinner plans with me because he had to work late. Suspecting that he may be seeing her, I drove to his office and parked where my car could not be seen. Then I waited and waited and waited. Nothing. He really was working late. How silly I was, once again, for doubting him. I put my Jetta into Drive and pulled out of my parking spot and that's when I saw them. They were walking out of the office building holding hands and laughing. But wait! It wasn't her. It was someone different--the young girl with the assets. Dang it! Did he see me? I didn't want him to know I had stooped so low as to spy on him.

Fifteen minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was Six and he wanted me to stop by his house; he had something to tell me.

I stood at the end of the sidewalk with the keys to my always faithful Jetta in my trembling hand. I turned around for one last look at the man I had loved for five years. He and Moon were standing at the big picture window and they were both crying. One of them didn't want me to go.

* * *

And now for the rest of the story: Six married Miss Asset; they bought a farm and lived happily ever after until death did them part. As for me, I found the perfect number seven. No, really I did.

Perfect Number Six

Taylor Swift shares her life experiences in the lyrics she writes and sings. In one of her songs she reveals that all love ever does is break and burn and end, but on a Wednesday in a cafe, she watched it begin again. It is that cycle of beginning and ending that I can relate to whenever I hear Taylor's song. Watching it begin again with all the hope, giddiness, fantasies, mystery, intrigue, and emotional highs were a part of falling in love that I thoroughly enjoyed. The part I didn't like was the ending. By age forty-five, I had fallen in and out of love five times, but that cycle was about to end with Perfect Number Six.

Falling in Love

Losing one's balance, tripping over an illusion,

careening out of control, sliding down a slippery slope,

 but, oh my, it feels sooooooooooooo goood.

                                                         --Mikidikipedia

When Love Number Five broke up with me over the phone (well, if you had met your soulmate on a Wednesday at a cafe, and you wanted to begin again with her over dinner that night, wouldn't you call your girlfriend right away?) The pain from the breakup was soothed by my own story of beginning again when Perfect Number Six asked me out. He was different from my previous loves. He was not controlling or manipulative or narcissistic or emotionally abusive or mentally unstable or a pedophile. Six was soft spoken and kind with a gentleness that I had never before experienced in a mate. He said he wanted to take this relationship slow and easy to allow it to grow in a healthy and mature way. Ding! Ding! Ding! Found him! My "watching it begin again" days were finally over.

Weeks turned into months and months into years and then one day, he popped the question and I said yes. Well, it didn't actually happen that way. It was more of an implied proposal. There were no knees touching the ground and professions of love, but I knew his intentions when he said, "We should buy a farm so when the Apocalypse comes, we'll have food and shelter," to which I said, "Is that a proposal?" and then he said, "Well, yes, I guess it is."


She hired a private investigator to follow me. For some time she had suspected that I was fooling around, but she needed proof. She cared too much for Six to allow such a despicable behavior to go unchallenged. The investigator proved her suspicions right when he, after weeks of tailing me, showed her the incriminating photos of my lover and me together.

It wasn't long before I received an envelope with no return address, and inside was a long, rambling letter that started with, "I know what you did last summer." Thanks to the private investigator, she did know everything: the romantic getaways to my cabin in southern Indiana, the quickie lunches, the rendezvous at his house and mine. She knew it all. After reading the letter, I had no choice but to meet with Six, show him the letter, and suffer the consequences of infidelity.

"What an unexpected surprise," he said as he held the door open for me. As we stood in the threshold with his arms squeezing me tightly, I was achingly aware that I was watching it end again. Every gesture, every word, every blink of his eyes were in slow motion. I wanted to remember every little thing about him. For a moment I thought about hiding the letter.  I could say, "I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by," and he would say, "Well, how lucky am I," and then I would respond, "Not as lucky as I am," and then we would go upstairs to his bedroom and talk about the farm we were going to buy and stuff like that.  I could keep the infidelity a secret, and we could continue on and on and on as if betrayal didn't matter.

Too late. He saw the letter in my hand, and so I handed it over to him. As he sat reading about what I had done last summer, his smile disappeared. I asked him if he knew the lady who had hired the private investigator to follow me, and he said, "Yes, she's a friend of mine." "Why would she have me followed?" I asked. And here is...

THE REST OF THE STORY.

She hired a private investigator because she suspected her boyfriend was seeing someone else. They had been together for four years, and lately he had been acting suspicious. When she caught him lying, she decided to have him followed. That's where I come into the story. It was me. I was the other woman. The pictures clearly show us together, so denial was not an option. Without saying a word to her cheating mate, she sent me the letter of discovery.

Six read and reread the letter. He was stunned. As the color drained from his face, he sat slumped on the couch, speechless. The happy-to-see-me smile that greeted me at the door was replaced by incredible sadness when he finally looked into the eyes of the bearer of very bad news.  He was sorry, he said, but the truth was he had been dating the both of us for four years. However, he wanted me to know, before I left, that it was me he loved, not her. Well now, isn't that special, I felt like saying as I stood tall and proud and walked through the foyer, out the front door, and down the sidewalk to my car. Before getting into my always faithful Jetta, I turned for one last look at number six. He was standing in the big picture window with both hands on the glass. His face was soaked with tears. Next to him was Moon, his dog, and she was whining (she always cried when I left). They didn't want me to go, so I didn't.

I gave not-so Perfect Number Six another chance. (You thought I was going to dump the cheater, didn't you?)  But, but, don't you see, it was me he loved. What about our friends, our history, our future, the plans, the farm? After he broke up with her, he remained faithful to me, until...


She rented the office right next to his, and, oh my goodness, was she ever a cute little thing. Young, too. I could have been her mother. Those legs went right up to her tiny waist and her skirt stopped just below her asset. It seems her assets were many and Six couldn't help but notice, considering that she was just right next door.

-to be continued Monday, August 12th.

Stunning without Makeup

Jennifer Aniston goes one day without makeup and it makes national news. She's stunning without it, the Huffington Post says. Stunning? Really? Have the dictionarions changed the definition of "stunning" and not told me? While having some difficulty with that word attached to Jenni Jenn Jen's face,  I Googled it and this is what I found: 1. Causing or capable of causing emotional shock or loss of consciousness. 2. Of a strikingly attractive appearance. 3. Impressive as in giving a stunning performance.

Okay! I was wrong!  Miss Aniston's squeaky-clean face is strikingly attractive, and YES, considering what our society focuses on and deems important these days, I guess it is newsworthy.

I went without makeup this morning just to test the "stunning" definition in my tiny little world on Cowee Mountain, and it worked. "Tom? Tom? Are you okay? Wiggle your toes if you can hear me."  Move over, Jen. I'm stunning without makeup, too.

Caution: Viewing this may cause

 emotional shock or loss of consciousness.

FYI, the clothespins work very well on chicken-waddle necks and droopy jowls, but it's best to not wear them in public, unless you want stunning reactions.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

It was a preview from my future, and it flashed across the screen so fast that it would take several long seconds before I was able to process it. When I finally realized it was a case of mistaken identity, I was not happy, not happy at all.

It had been an emotionally and physically challenging week, but at the same time, invigorating and rewarding. With very short notice from Tom's mother's doctor that she could no longer live alone or drive, her two sons (Bill and Tom) and daughters-in-law (Betty and I) had only five days to find and move her into an apartment in an assisted living center that she would like.

Once we were able to navigate our way past the smoke and mirrors that the competing assisted living centers cunningly laid in our path, we found an apartment perfect (or so we thought) for Mom and began the back-aching, leg-cramping, mate-quibbling process of moving a four-bedroom home into a very small flat. Three days later, our goal was finally accomplished, but my body was screaming for a break. What better place to relax than the front porch where the residents go to get a breath of fresh air.

Most of the chairs were taken so I found a unoccupied bench, laid down, and curled into a fetal position. After a fifteen minute nap, I'd be good as new, I told myself, so off to sleep I went, or so I hoped.

He was ten feet away but I could feel his stare. I opened my eyes and standing in front of me was a nice-looking man about forty-five. He was pushing his mother in a wheelchair, but stopped when he saw me. He smiled. His mother smiled. I smiled. "That's nice," was my first thought, followed by "Okay, you can move on now." But they didn't move on. He looked at me like I look at the puppies at the pet store who need a home. I think they're precious little things and see that they need rescued, but I already have a dog.

"Well, hello there. Having a little afternoon siesta, are we?" His voice was loud and irritating, and his manner sweetly condescending. It was as if he were talking to a poor little dog who needed rescued, but yet he had no intentions of taking her home. He just wanted to gawk, taunt, and walk away. So I bit him.

She Was Here All Along

In the beginning, she loved me. Then, over time, little things I did got on her nerves, and I fell out of favor with her. Every new visit held a kernel of hope--maybe this time she'll see I'm really a nice person--and love me again, and on occasion that did happen.  The visits would start out with proclamations of affection, along with promises (hers) to never go back to that ugly place. But invariably I'd fall short of her expectations, and I'd find myself in trouble again.

A funny thing happens when I discover someone doesn't like me. I avoid them. But, avoidance is not an option when it comes to mothers-in-law. Creative hiding is an option, however, and that's all I'm going to say about that. Instead, let's talk about another funny thing that happened during our last visit in July.

When Tom saw it, I told him I didn't believe it was real. "It's an optical illusion," I said. "Nothing has changed." But I was wrong. There was something different about his mother. She was sweeter, kinder, funnier. Even though the words "It's a miracle!" did manage to find their way into our conversations, we also knew that modern medicine (Thank you, Dr. Johnson) took some credit for her transformation.

But wait! There's more. Here is the real story that I want to share. In my efforts to avoid the "unpleasant," my relationship with my mother-in-law had become benign. It existed but I attached no feelings or emotion to it. It just was. That all changed after spending two weeks with her in July. At first, I hid behind Tom. When I saw the water was calm, I stuck one toe in, then a foot. It was quite nice, so before long I stepped in front of Tom and jumped in fully clothed. I loved it!

FINALLY, AFTER ALL THIS TIME, SHE'S BACK.

She was here all along. This time the hugs didn't want to let go, the kisses lingered, and the words of affection--punctuated with tears--were free flowing and genuine. But where had this sweet lady been hiding for so many years?  Under layers of depression, anxiety, and loneliness...that's where!

Is she here to stay? We hope so, but only time will tell. There was that one yelling incident at the rehab center when the nurses tied her to the bed with ropes, (or was it her oxygen hose that got tangled up in her pancakes?) but who wouldn't yell under those circumstances?

Mom's Story-The Move

"BRING SCISSORS! I NEED SCISSORS!" she yelled into the phone when Tom called to check on his mother. It was the morning of her release from Whitehall Rehabilitation Center after a bout with pneumonia, and in just a few hours she would be walking into an unfamiliar place full of strangers, confusion, and compromise. On this day she would not be driving herself home, pulling her cherished and pampered car into the garage and closing the door on a world she doesn't understand and increasingly gets on her nerves. "Why do you need scissors, Mom?" Tom asked. "Because I need to cut the ropes that they have wrapped around me here. I'm tied up and can't move," was her response.  Oh, boy!

When Mom received the news from her doctor that she could no longer live alone and drive, she was devastated, but he saw what her family didn't. She wasn't safe to herself and others. After living alone for seven years in a big four-bedroom home with the hurricane shutters blocking out the sun and the neighbors, Mom had become a recluse with an attitude. No one was going to tell her how to live her life.

It was seven o'clock in the morning when Tom's mother called to request scissors. The rehab center was less than a mile from Mom's house, so within minutes, Tom was standing in front of her as she angrily pulled at the hose that supplied her with oxygen. "Cut this thing off of me!" she yelled. "It's driving me crazy! I can't move!" After explaining the importance of the oxygen (her survival depended on it), she calmed down and continued eating her pancakes as if nothing were wrong. Tom, on the other hand, was still rattled when he told me the story an hour later.

THE MOVE

"Where are you taking me?" she asked as we drove past the road that used to take her home. After telling her that we found a nice apartment we thought she would like at an assisted living center, she became silent, which was highly unusual for Mom since she had always been a very vocal backseat driver.

"What is this place?" she asked as we pulled up to what looked just like the lobby entrance to a very nice hotel. "This is where you're going to be living now. Isn't it nice?" I said. Silence.

Tom walked around the car and opened the door for his mother. She got out with no help, thank you very much, and walked the short distance to the double doors that automatically opened when they sensed her coming their way. As she entered the lobby, people--strangers--from every direction, all at once, and all talking at the same time, descended upon her. Oh, my! Not good.

But wait! She's smiling. She's shaking hands and saying "thank you" and "nice to meet you, too," and "happy to be here." What?

"No, thank you, I can walk," she said with a big smile when a staff member offered her a walker for her first visit to see her new apartment, and down the hall she went as if she knew where she was going.

Tom opened the door to her apartment and stepped back. Mom walked in and suddenly stopped. Her smile disappeared. Oh, no. She doesn't like it. Did we bring the wrong furniture? Does she hate the pictures on the wall? Is she upset because we brought the blue chair instead of the pink one? What about that table? That's not hers! Is the kitchenette too small? Wait until she sees there's no stove.

But wait! She has tears running down her face. She likes it. No. She loves it, she says. The tears are tears of joy because her family cared enough about her to bring her favorite things and arrange them so perfectly in her new apartment. She walked from room to room (which took about three minutes considering the apartment is only 300 square feet) and praised all efforts on her behalf.

At the end of the first day of Mom's new life, she appeared happy and all was well, or so we thought.


Mom's story to be continued.

Defying the Rules

When I was a little girl, children were treated differently than they are today. Parents didn't run ahead of their little ones to remove obstacles from their path, or fret about the danger that could be lurking around the next corner. Nor did they fulfill every desire, wish, and whim, put their children first, tolerate temper tantrums, or allow their kids to set the agenda for the family. The adults ruled their fiefdom with strict discipline and "Ouch!" to any child who dared break a rule. Children were to be seen and not heard. There was no freedom of speech or the right to assemble wherever one chooses. "Get off that roof right this minute, young lady!" 

Since I've already told you about my father's departure from our family on the very day I was born, I'll just skip over that story and the one about living the first five years of my life with my aunt and uncle, and hop up on the roof for a picnic I was hosting for six of my friends when I was ten and now living in Hazel's house.

"Get off that roof right this minute, young lady!" Ouch!

Up until the age of five, when Hazel talked Mother into moving in with her, I enjoyed a life without rules. With little attention given to me, I was a free agent in the duplex that my mother, sister Judy, and I shared with Aunt Gracie and Uncle Jimmy. Jimmy was always off somewhere flying airplanes, Gracie worked all day, and Mother took a lot of naps. There was little discipline, and as long as I kept a low profile and didn't wake Mother (or get on her nerves), I could say and do whatever I wanted (with a few exceptions that I won't mention here); I could come and go as I pleased. And I did. The sidewalks, streets, houses, and alleys on Walcott were my playgrounds and no one in my family seemed to care about my long absences as long as I eventually came home. My freedom came to an end on the day Hazel changed my address.

The transition from no rules to a lot of rules was so difficult that in the seven years I lived under Hazel's reign, I never adjusted to the rigid discipline and was always in trouble. I developed a standard of behavior that I believed to be good and decent and continued to live my life as a free agent.  But by defying the rules of the house, I had to suffer the consequences: spankings, a lot of spankings (physical abuse by another name).

One day, many years later, during a visit with my mother, she asked me if she'd been a good mother. How could I answer that question any other way than to say, "Of course you were, Mother." After getting the answer she had hoped for, she mentioned the seven years we had lived with Hazel. "You know, I wasn't in favor of Hazel spanking you, Carol Louise." She looked down at her lap as if reliving regret and then looked back up at me, smiled, and said, "But you turned out okay, didn't you?"

"Yep! I guess I did."