My House, My Home, My Haven

I'm trying so hard to remember.  But my memories are like little particles of dust, flitting around on a breeze--here and then gone, where I don't know.  I do know it was August of 1997 when we moved into this house.  At that time it was a bold new adventure and every day felt new and different and wonderful.  I had to pinch myself to believe it was really  happening.  My dream of owning my own home after living on the third floor of a tiny, sardine can-like apartment for thirteen years had finally come true.  Even when one of the former owners said to me, "You can do anything you want now.  It's YOUR house," I could scarcely believe it.  I kept going to bed at night thinking I was going to wake up the next day only to find out it was all just a dream.  I had "nightmares" for a long time that I was back in my old apartment and that same sense of dread and frustration swept over me.  Prior to that apartment, I'd lived on another third floor somewhere else and I can clearly recall walking out onto the rickety porch thinking, "Am I going to live here forever?  Is this all there is for me?  Where is my Prince Charming who's going to come sweep me off on his white horse?"

But back to the present. Now I have my house.  And as I walked from room to room today, I racked my brain trying to remember those first few days here.  It was so exciting I felt like a kid in a toy store.  I couldn't wait to fill these rooms with all of our things and maybe some new ones as well.  Unfortunately though,  today I can't remember exactly how I felt or what I was thinking.  I do know my kids were little then and they certainly added a sense of wonder and discovery to the whole experience.

But after I'd gotten past the initial newness and excitement, as always happens with human beings, boredom and same old sameness set in.  I struggle to feel those same feelings now.  Now it's just a house.  The rooms are not anything special or unusual.  It's just the place where we store our stuff.  And boy is there stuff!  Too much of it really.

But I don't mean to suggest I'm not grateful for everything I have.  I simply miss that "falling in love" kind of feeling one gets from having something new, something you've always wished for, something you've struggled to attain for many years and at last have managed to attain.  But like the person who finally gets that prince on a white horse--once you've got him, it seems that some of the thrill is gone.  Maybe for many people, it's the chase, the dream, the struggle that keeps them alive, keeps them striving, keeps them hopeful.  As long as there's a goal dangling around out there in the universe--there's a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to keep going.

I do like my house.  But I think I need to fall in love with it all over again.

Bungee Jumping--Wheeee!

So today I found out why I've been having back pain.  The results of my x-rays revealed that lovely little hereditary condition (thanks, Dad) called arthritis.  I now know I have it in my right knee, two index fingers, and my lower back.  At this rate I'll be falling apart by the time I'm 60.  At some point I'll have to give up typing, bike riding and pretzel-twisted sexual positions.  You can either laugh or cry at these revelations.

In another two weeks I'll be 54.  Oh, I don't even want to look at that number!  Maybe I'll just turn it around.  Yes, that's it.  45.  I'll be 45.  Sure, that's it.  Perhaps if I think I'm really 45 I'll act more like 45.  And they better not be sending me anymore of those freakin' AARP letters!  Sorry, wrong address, must be a mistake.  You want the neighbor next door.  She has gray hair, after all, I don't.  I'm not ready for the rocking chair yet, baby.  Hey, I still exercise, speed walk, bike ride, lift weights, and take in an occasional belly dancing class.

I'm holding onto my "youth" as long as I can.  I refuse to age.  "Not gonna do it", as the elder George Bush would say.  Nope.  My husband calls me his "old lady."  Yes, he knows I hate that.  He loves to make me grit my teeth and give him that "I'm gonna kill you" kind of look.  Don't worry, that's just his way of teasing me.  He knows how to push my buttons like nobody else.

But I'll have the last laugh.  Lots of people think he is older than I am when in fact I am older than him.   And at a recent family get-together (his side), five of us were seated on two couches--my husband, his younger brother, youngest sister, oldest sister, and myself.  One of the kids at the party (who is a teenager) tried to guess who was the youngest of all I just mentioned.  She picked me.  In truth, I am the second oldest of the five.  So that made me feel pretty darn good.

Yes, some people think age is just a number, and I suppose it is.  But creeping closer to that Senior Citizen club doesn't interest me too much.  I love being around young people.  I love their energy, enthusiasm, zest for life, fun-loving ways, sense of adventure.  Life has so many possibilities when you think you have many years, rather than a decade or two left to live.

So, I'm not counting out doing something really wild and crazy somewhere within the next five years or so.  It just might happen.  I understand people who go through mid-life crisis.  They examine their lives and say:  How the hell did I get to be this age?  Have I done everything I ever wanted to do?  If not, damn it, I'm gonna!

Excuse me now.  I've gotta go sign up for a bungee jumping class.

Where For Art Thou, Spring?

Okay, the calendar says it's Spring now, but I think it's lying.  Sure, it is.

I've just returned from a bike ride with my daughter.  The wind was whipping through my hair, my bare hands were turning into icicles, and despite the layers of clothes I wore, my whole body was freezing.

Spring, my ass!  The first thing I reached for upon entering the house was a cup and tea bag and then to the nearby stove to boil some water.  Hot!  Gimme something hot!

I should have worn gloves.  And a hat.  But no.  I believed that calendar on the wall and ventured out thinking there'd be a nice warm sun shining down, instead of a cruel, cold, biting wind.

It's not really spring.  Only in my mind.

Love doesn't hurt

So today I was watching Oprah and her topic was men who hit women.  The first guest described the first time he hit his wife.  I'm sitting there listening to him, wondering why he's roaming around free as a bird.  Why isn't this guy in jail?  Oh, well he's reformed now.  He found God along the way and now he doesn't hit his wife.  Now when he starts to feel angry, he holds it in and says a little prayer to God.  What???

Why is this woman still married to him?  He hit her more than once.  It wouldn't take more than once for me to be gone!  Bye bye, see ya later, gone!  I don't want to hear apologies, I don't want to hear excuses, I don't want to hear about your sorry childhood, rotten daddy--there is no excuse for hitting a woman, that's it, gone.  He tried to choke her, sat on her stomach when she was pregnant.  Why is this guy still walking around?  Where was his punishment?

It infuriates me.  Boy, for once I'd like to read about a woman who fights back.  Yes, I know men are usually stronger than women, but if it was me, I'd get in at least one good kick, punch or bite, something.  Sure, I'd probably lose the battle, but he'd get something back.

And that shows you how absurd the whole thing is.  This is supposed to be the person you LOVE.  Since when do you show love by punching, choking, shoving, slapping, or otherwise abusing your partner?

Men who hit women have a problem.  It has to do with rage, uncontrolled anger.  What is it they're really mad about?  Fix the problem, I say.  Don't take it out on an innocent victim.

It Won't Be Pretty!

I've been enormously impatient and emotional for the past couple of weeks and I think I've finally figured out why.  In trying to stick to one of my New Year's resolutions (lose about 5 to 10 pounds), I've had to give up some of my favorite snacks.  Man, is that hard!  Every night after dinner as I sink down into my favorite chair to watch whatever nonsense is on the tube, instead of reaching for popcorn or crackers or cookies, etc., I start peeling a lovely little orange.  Okay, oranges are good for you, I know.  But do I really want to eat an orange?  No.  Not at all.  And then I see all these commercials for delicious-looking foods and I WANT them!

It feels like deprivation; it really does.  I've heard the advice about allowing yourself to eat something tasty once in a while in order to continue following your diet.  But I have to be very careful with that.  It's like that old Lays potato chip commercial:  Bet you can't eat just one!  Well, no I can't.  If I eat one, I want another one. And another one.  And then the whole bag!  So, if I allow myself one cookie, then I want another one.  Very addictive little bastards.

So, then what is one to do?  To me, this elimination of goodies and tasty foods is pretty much the same as giving up cigarette smoking.  You say cigarettes are addictive?  Well, so is chocolate.  So are salty snacks, in my opinion.  My bitchiness is similar to that of the poor smoker trying to kick the habit.

I'm winning the battle right now but beware.  Some day they may find me locked in a room with ten bags of chips, twenty-five candy bars, a bottle of soda, and a Twinkie stuffed in my mouth.  

And it won't be pretty!

Love This Time

Someone recently asked me about this song I'd mentioned on my blog.

"Love This Time" is a song recorded by Jane Olivor.  It's from her 1980 album The Best Side of Goodbye.  While I own the record album, I would imagine a person could buy the CD version on amazon.com.  Obviously, it's hard to find oldies in the stores.  I happen to be someone who loves all her old record albums and won't part with them.  However, it is nice to own the CD versions to play on a CD player.  Little by little, I've been trying to restore/update my music collection.

Two of my sisters are constantly teasing me about living in the past.  I'm sorry but I just don't find today's music worthy of as much admiration as songs/songwriters from the past.

Lover's Prey

When her head tilts to one side,

revealing a white neck

poised and vulnerable,

He fingers back some loose strands

of soft hair and moves his lips

into the target zone,

riddling her neck

with nerve-tingling kisses.

She breathes in,

lets out a shudder.

He knows her weak point

and finds it every time.

She turns to meet his lips,

his hungry eyes--

And once again becomes

her lover's prey.

Pain Is Such a Pain!

I have a new nature scene as my desktop and looking at it gives me a wonderful tranquil feeling.  That helps so much to lift my mood and even push aside some of the physical pain I've been experiencing.

I've remarked a few times lately how I wish we humans living in 2009 had the medical capabilities of the Star Trek people.  On that show, if they sent you to Sick Bay, the doctor ran some kind of gadget over your body and voila!  Instant diagnosis.  It's your kidneys.  It's your stomach.  It's your gall bladder.  Nope, no such luck for us.  You visit a doctor, they push down on your stomach and ribs and---no clue as to what's causing your pain.  Lots of guesses, but nothing concrete.  So what happens next?  Tests!  Lots of tests.  Blood tests, x-rays, ultrasounds.

All I know is my ribs hurt and my back hurts.  Why?  I don't know.  Perhaps my husband is accidentally elbowing or kneeing me in the back at night.  Maybe I'm sleepwalking and go outside and fall down the steps over and over again.  Perhaps space aliens keep whisking me off to their spaceship at night to perform various probes on me, then deposit me back into my bed none the wiser.

Sigh.  In a few days I'll go have my tests and perhaps I'll have some answers.  Until then I'm gonna need some muscle rub, pain killers and maybe a shot of whiskey.