Ok, not really all that hot of a date, but The Boyfriend and I have so little time together since I’m back on days that we had been trying to make a point of spending at least a couple of hours together on Thursday nights, before he goes to band practice. Lately, though, we’ve fallen out of even that.

Yesterday was a horrid day, hence the reason I didn’t post. It was one of those days where nothing much was going right. My emotions are a roller coaster. I can go from feeling extremely good about a situation (generally involving work, because I’m really excited about my job right now) to not even wanting to exist anymore, within mere hours. I was so bent out of shape over everything last night that I just got into my car and left. I drove across town to my friend Peg’s house and hung out with her until 9:30. It helped me settle down enough to come home and go straight to bed without screaming at anyone. Or worse.

Things are so screwed up at home. It’s utter chaos. Fall semester is going to start in about two weeks and I’m not even remotely excited about it. In fact, I’m dreading my classes. I’m dreading the weekends spent trying to catch up on the homework I don’t have time or energy to complete during the week. My house is a disaster, I have family staying here for an extended time and it’s wearing on my nerves, and I can’t even get a couple hours of peace and quiet with The Boyfriend.

So, I text-messaged him today and asked him if he wanted to go somewhere for dinner after I got home from work. His response: “YESSSSSSS!!!!!”

And so we did. We went to one of our favorite watering holes, because a Reuben sounded pretty damn good to me. I also had a blueberry margarita, which was a pretty color and not too bad tastewise. The Boyfriend ordered a Bloody Mary and the bartender suggested it with gin, which was new to us. I took a sip and oh my gosh it was awesome! The gin gives it a little more of a zing. Also, the bartender said garlic Tabasco sauce is key. I almost wanted to trade in my margarita for one, but I didn’t.

Anyway, it was an enjoyable couple of hours and I’m feeling a little more relaxed tonight. Part of that has to do with the fact that the recent heat wave finally broke. It’s dropping down to 58 tonight. Good sleeping weather! I might actually get to use a blanket.

Tomorrow is Friday, it’s going to be a gorgeous weekend. I’m crossing my fingers for some kick-ass motivation to make a dent in this disaster I call home.

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We never made it anywhere for breakfast yesterday, but both The Boyfriend and I were impressed with the farmer’s market downtown. Here’s what we bought:

1. Sugar snap peas (I LOVE these and surprisingly, so does JM)
2. Raspberries
3. One slice of raspberry cheesecake that we were too stuffed to eat last night
4. Broccoli
5. Cauliflower
6. Two quarts of blueberries

Honestly, we could have gotten more, but given that it was our first time there and we really just kind of wanted to check out the quality first, I think we did pretty well. And so far, the quality passes muster quite nicely. And CHEAP! We had to make a run into Kroger later in the day and what a difference in price for the same amount of produce. We will definitely be making this a regular stop.

Then we headed into the Libbey Glass Outlet where we bought new glasses. And then The Boyfriend found this Bloody Mary set that he had to have, which was fine with me because I discovered I kind of like them. Still haven’t tried that out yet, though. We thought maybe we’d need them this morning because we had every intention of hanging out on the porch drinking mojitos last night. We did, but after two of them, I was done. Meaning I was falling asleep.

I had made a pact with myself that I wasn’t going to drink alcohol again until Labor Day. I am so irritable, though. The Boyfriend wanted us to stay at his parents’ house last night, since they’re out of town and he’s feeding the animals. And I sort of flew into a rage because there is so much that needs to be done around my house and being away from it doesn’t get anything done. But staying there was stressing me out as well, so after yelling at both him and JM that “things have to change because I can’t live like this anymore,” I agreed to go over for one night.

The thing is, my mom, who has been staying at my uncle’s house, wants to come back and during the couple of weeks that she was out there, her room has gotten trashed again. So, while I’m relaxing over here (still at his parents’ house), I should be at home fixing up her room again. And that doesn’t exactly help with the relaxation effort.

I think I’ll stop worrying about it until after lunch. That seems like a decent plan.

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My dad is in the hospital again. He went in on Saturday, but I didn’t find out about it until Sunday. Funny thing was, I immediately called my aunt (his sister), whom I’d promised to keep updated on his condition since she knew nothing about his cancer until he’d sent a mass email out to everyone letting them know that the surgery had been a success.  But my aunt already knew.

It’s not surprising to me that I’m the last to find out these things. Most of the time, my dad has been in and out of the hospital before I’ve even been let in on the news. An interesting moment took place this morning when my mechanic called.

Amos: How are you doing, Mrs. B?

Me: I’m fine, although I have to say I’m a little nervous. If you’re calling me this early in the morning, the news about my car can’t be good.

A: Hey, did you hear about Gary??

M: You mean, Gary, my dad? As in, he’s in the hospital? Yes, I heard.

A: Gary’s your dad? I didn’t know for sure. Yeah, I guess if he’s your dad, then you’d hear about him being in the hospital, wouldn’t you?

Me: You’d think.

********************

When I repeated the conversation to TOTO and Princess, TOTO said something along the lines of, “Imagine if you’d found out from your MECHANIC that your dad was in the hospital.”

I don’t think it’s too far from the truth to say that heads would have ROLLED.  It would have looked (and sounded) like a bowling alley.

Forgive me. I get bitchy when I’m scared and worried, and quite frankly, I’m scared and worried. I want the weather to warm up because this fucking cold winter doesn’t do anything for anyone’s spirits and I want my dad’s spirits to be as high as possible. It’s been one thing after another this winter and it needs to STOP. I am absolutely, positively, not ready for anything to happen to my father, and dammit… I think I deserve to have that particular wish granted. I already lost the only other man in my life that I’ve ever completely trusted. Is a few more years with this one too much to fucking ask?

*********************

The one piece of good news does come from my mechanic. Lulu needed the new tires, which I knew, but other than that, only an alternator belt, an alignment and an oil change, and she’s good to go for the trip to C-bus next week. Even better, new tires mean I have more confidence driving on slick roads across town, which means I can visit my dad more often. I didn’t go up to the hospital today and I didn’t get a chance to call before it got kind of late, so I’m heading up there tomorrow.

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This year for Christmas, the boys and I will be doing something that we have never been able to do: stay home.

About three months ago, I started thinking how cool it would be if the boys and I could just hang out at home all day in our pajamas and play board games. JM and I had a board game marathon last Christmas Eve and it was actually quite fun with just the two of us. It can only be better with three of us, right?

I like small groups of people with whom I feel comfortable. But the holidays tend to throw out situations very different from what I crave. After more than 25 years of my dad and stepmom being together (they started dating when I was 14), I think it’s a safe bet that I’m never going to have a close relationship with my two older stepsisters and their families. And even though I get along great with the youngest, I’d still prefer to hang out with her and her sons when there aren’t a lot of people around. The same goes for my dad and stepmom.

After six years, I’m still not very comfortable with The Boyfriend’s family. It helps that The Boyfriend and I have visited his grandma in NJ a few times, and that his one brother and sister-in-law have hung out with us on several occasions. It helps that his mom is the exact opposite of my former mother-in-law and that we’ve gone to concerts with his parents. But get everyone together in one room and I will soon be on the lookout for a quiet moment in the corner.

It’s easier when things are on my own turf. I never had a problem hosting Acoustic Slumber Parties, although I still did seek that quiet time now and then.

As difficult as large groups have always been (I can recall dreading large family gatherings even when I was a kid), holidays were even worse after my husband died. With my built-in buffer gone, I had to face the music alone and in the midst of grief. I’m not sure I’ve ever completely recovered.

Maybe that’s part of the reason it was important to me not to go anywhere this year. I’ve never had, in the 12 years since my husband has gone, a Christmas Day at home with just my kids and nowhere we have to be. It’s sounding more and more to me like the perfect Christmas.

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Mickey woke me up this morning, yakking on the carpet in my bedroom. I was tired, so I lifted my head and thought, “I’ll deal with it later,” and drifted back to sleep.

Then The Boyfriend had a seizure. He’s fine, but he needs to figure out what to do about work today. He called in earlier because he literally couldn’t remember if he had to work tonight or not, and they put him on with the office supervisor. I took the phone from him because it takes his brain a while to think clearly. He went to Detroit yesterday for a ballgame and he doesn’t remember any of it. In fact, I had a moment of panic this morning because I couldn’t find his black bag that he carries all of his meds in; I ended up waking up one of the guys he was with yesterday - for nothing, as it turned out, since I found the bag as soon as I hung up.

As I type this, he’s trying to remember yesterday. “I went to a ballgame. With Fletcher and Mojo.”

“Yes,” I said. “Do you remember if they won or lost?”

“I think they won,” he said.

“Well, now you’re living in a dreamworld, honey.”

(Actually, he’s half right. The Tigers won the second game of their doubleheader, but they were beaten soundly in the first game.)

I think he’s going to call in sick. He should. Seizures take a lot out of him. Hell, they take a lot out of me and I’m not the one having them.

It doesn’t help that they’re almost always early in the morning, especially when I can’t remember the last time I had a decent night’s sleep. I’ve spent the last several of them in pain. My foot, due to Plantar Fasciitis, has been really bothering me. No doubt it’s from all the standing I’ve done at concerts this week, in my favorite sandals that provide absolutely no support. No one to blame but myself. And it’s still nothing compared to how he’s going to feel in a few hours when his muscles start aching.

I have a confession, though. It pisses me off just a little bit that this happened today. Today isn’t supposed to be about The Boyfriend. Today is supposed to be about Mike. I don’t want to take care of The Boyfriend today.

I’m such a bitch.

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Today would have been Mike’s 45th birthday.

Fifteen years ago, we celebrated his 30th with a surprise party. He had no clue, even though I’d been planning it for two years and almost blew it a few months prior while discussing plans with my sisters at a holiday gathering. That was being videotaped. Oops.

Fortunately, we had opportunity to edit it beforehand.

Fifteen years isn’t such a long time and yet it’s so far back that it almost seems as though it never happened.  I hate that.

These are the days when the bitterness surfaces. When I think of the things that we’re missing. Anniversaries. Birthdays. Grandchildren. Growing old together.

I miss him.

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Last night, I received a really nice email from one of my favorite bloggers. I won’t mention her name - she knows who she is. But I do want to talk about something that she mentioned in her email.

She said that she typically didn’t comment because she felt anything she said would be dumb. (I’m paraphrasing.) Reading that reminded me a lot of what Stacy said during her panel at BlogHer, about trying to be funny but not sure if she really was. (She is. And so is the blogger who sent me the email.)

In the past few weeks, I’ve posted comments in places (I’m not going to say where because I don’t want you all running off to find them) where as I was writing, I felt inspired; as though I really had something to say on the issues at hand. And in nearly every case, the author of the original post seemingly misinterpreted what I was trying to say. As I said in my email response to my blogger friend, I felt my comments were dismissed.

I lurk in a lot of online forums. I’ve moderated message boards and mailing lists and I’m all too familiar with people who post things just to get a reaction (usually negative) out of others. In extreme cases, these people are called trolls. But in some forums, they’re regular posters who post just enough legitimate commentary to be tolerated when they rake someone over the coals for having a differing opinion. This has the unfortunate consequence of silencing people who may have a lot to say but are afraid of others thinking they’re dumb.

Ok, it’s a cruel world out there. I understand that. If I want to play with the bigwigs, I should develop a thicker skin. That’s all well and good, except that the people I’m referring to are no bigger and certainly no smarter than me. And if you pay attention long enough in these forums, you’ll find that the ones who are smarter aren’t the ones attacking people for their ideas.

The places I’ve posted recently weren’t these types of places. Sure, those types of individuals exist everywhere, but some places attract more than others. The people I responded to weren’t those types of individuals. They were people whose writing I have enjoyed for months, if not years. I think that’s why it bothered me that my point of view was so misunderstood. I didn’t expect that.

Now, all of us are human, and we tend to forget that in other people - frequently, in fact. When I read the responses to my comments, it hit me harder than it should have. I’m blaming that on two weeks of extreme stress at work and home, and not nearly enough sleep to think clearly. And I’m ok with it now. Will I continue to comment on things those individuals post? Probably not. It’s sort of reinforced my belief that these particular forums aren’t good fits for me.

So, we move on. I move on, with the hope that I never say anything that makes any of you reading that your opinions are valued. I may not always agree with those opinions. But they certainly do matter.

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People who knew me before my husband became ill and died saw a change in me and the way I handle things. All of a sudden, I was “strong.”

Hearing that still pisses me off. I feel that the majority of us do what we need to do to get by and doing that doesn’t make me special or unique.

In fact, I wonder if I’ve done myself harm by appearing to be so strong. (Putting on a brave front is very different from actually being brave.) At first, I did it because I didn’t want him to worry. Instead of crying in front of him or the boys, I would cry as I drove to work. Toad the Wet Sprocket’s “Something’s Always Wrong” still evokes some of those old emotions, since it was usually playing during those moments.

I think, because of my need to keep it together for him and the boys, I started finding it hard to cry in front of other people. In fact, I found it hard to cry at all unless I’d had more than a few drinks. For several months after Mike died, I would venture out to the bar on Friday and Saturday nights, drink until closing time and then go home and cry myself to sleep.

In early 1997, I made the ill-fated decision to move to the Cleveland area, ostensibly for a new relationship that I felt “so lucky” to have found. In hindsight, I realize it was a form of self-preservation; putting some distance between me and bars where I was comfortable. Had I stayed, drinking would have become my main form of coping. I didn’t want that.

When the relationship failed, I was devastated. My boys saw me melt down. And while they still think the guy I was seeing is an asshat (he’s actually more of a coward), the grief I displayed was mostly over Mike. The rest was mourning over my own stupidity at actually believing I was ready for a new relationship so soon after losing my husband.

(I don’t mean to say that people can’t be ready. Love is a strange thing. The first night that Mike and I began talking to each other was the last night that either of us ever spent without each other, until he was admitted to the hospital six years later.)

With all of this not-so-real bravado, it feels almost hypocritical when I do get upset about Mike now. Like I should be over it. It’s been 12 years, why would I cry now?

Well, because even though my life is different and good for the most part, and even though I’ve accomplished things that I never though I could, he is not here to share in it. Yes, I graduated from college, but he wasn’t in the audience watching me move that tassel to the other side. Yes, I bought a house, but he isn’t here to live in it with me. And when things break, he’s not here to fix them. He isn’t here to look at my car when it’s acting up and either fix it himself or take it to the mechanic for me.

Instead, I’m fixing the things around the house, or relying on The Boyfriend to do so. And don’t get me wrong - I’m glad he’s here to help. But with Mike, I just knew it was fixed. I never doubted him or his ability for a moment. I’ve never trusted someone so completely (other than my dad) in my life, and I suspect I never will again.

And knowing that… feeling that… is so painful. So much so, that some days, the only way I can get through the day is to not think about him at all, for fear that all of the things we’re missing out on together will surface, rendering me helpless.

I’m not strong. I’m just surviving.

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Maybe I’ll just hang it up. Call it a day. Hide it on the top shelf and forget about it like every other useless object gathering dust in my life.

The things I say here matter so little anyway. And the things I say elsewhere are nearly always misunderstood.

Truly, I wonder why I’ve bothered this long.

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Looks like I missed some controversy at BlogHer ‘07 when I skipped out on a couple of sessions. It appears that there has been some flack over paid posts. I’ve been hopping around to various blogs to get a feel for what’s being said. I even posted a comment on Mir’s blog over on WorkItMom.com, but thus far moderation has not made it appear.

I might as well admit it. I’m a little bitter. When I was in college at the ripe old age of 32, I was an intern in the university’s public relations office. I was told by numerous people, time and time again, that I could write. After one of my fellow interns graduated and landed a job as editor of a local weekly paper, she gave me some freelance work, at $15 per article. She certainly seemed to think I could write and so did many of the subjects of my articles. During my last summer before graduation in December 2001, I interned at a local daily paper. I was offered a job after graduation, making $8.50 per hour. Did I mention it was a 45-minute commute each way?

Obviously, I couldn’t take that job. I had a family to support on my own. Social security survivor’s benefits had gotten me through school, but my benefits stopped when the boys turned 16 and my income dropped by nearly half. And in case you’re not aware of this, teenagers aren’t cheap.

So, I sent out resumes for every job I could find in my field. I couldn’t even get an interview. After doing some freelance (and not steady) publicity work for nearly a year, I took the first job I could find as a department secretary at the same university I earned my degree.

Congratulations, Val! You just spent four years and thousands of dollars on a college degree to get the same type of job you had before you took that leap into higher education.

Was it worth it?

Yes and no. An education is always worth it. And I certainly won’t begrudge having a steady source of income, particularly one with the kind of benefits this one had.

I just want to know one thing. Can I write? Or were all those people lying? I once had an editor call one of my references to ask about me, and tell that reference that he was going to hire me, only to never hear from him. On another occasion, an editor contacted me and told me to call him to set up a time to meet. I did and got his voice mail. Repeated messages and I’ve never gotten a return call. And I’m not even going to talk about the columnist that did get hired whose writing drives me insane.

Think about the message that sends to someone like me, someone who started this game later in life and with a whole lot less confidence than your average 22-year old graduate. Walk in my shoes before you’re so quick to call people like me prostitutes. There is only so much rejection I’ll deal with before I decide it’s time to hang it up and do what I can to get by.

The thing that sucks most about this is that I was on such a high after BlogHer, and now to find out that some of the people I really respected look at people such as me like this.

So much for supporting each other…

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