One More Goodbye

I cut John off today. One more part of surrendering what no longer serves me. Heavy heart and tears, but for the best. He took a piece of my heart with him. Given freely. No regrets.

insomnia.

Dear Diary...That's how it used to go, right?  I wonder how many diary entries are a result of insomnia. A bit frightening, since we were all a bit loopy with exhaustion. That wide awake vibratey exhaustion that is so uncomfortable.  Heaven knows what our brains put down on paper without our permission or editing approval.

It is with interest that I note it has been more than a year since I last posted.  Posted here, anyway. I post in my brain all the time. I'm quite a brilliant writer there. Kind of like always knowing the perfect come-back 20 minutes after it's too late.

The house that I wrote longingly of in that previous post has had a long journey since then. From desperate attempts to complete renovations that my Ex refused to finish, through dismal and degrading sales offers, finally to bankruptcy and foreclosure. After it was clear it would not sell, at least not while I owned it, the realtor packed up his sign and I said one last sad good-bye. I haven't been back since, though it was tempting to swing by and visit. I knew that would not serve me, and so I resisted. I have thought of it often though. Wondered what my garden looked like. Abandoned after being so lovingly tended the year before. 

This recent Boxing Day at our annual extended family get-together, I found out that the house had been sold. This information shared with me and the room in general by a well meaning but clueless relative like it was a juicy piece of gossip that I couldn't wait to hear. The news took my breath away. I couldn't think.  My house?  I said.  Trying to comprehend. It was a blow to my heart that took my breath away. I struggled for composure...to process this diatribe that continued to go on without me, my informant sure they must have lowered the asking price of the house significantly in order for it to have sold. Another punch. How much had my dream life been worth in the end?

My visceral reaction surprised me. It was a house that was meant to be sold, after all. And I knew that it would happen eventually. But to hear it...well. At that time of year, it was more than I could absorb gracefully. I excused myself to the washroom, where I cried like my heart had just been broken all over again.

Then I freshened myself up, and went back to my family. I was greeted by warm hugs of reassurance by precious family members who understood the impact of what had just happened to me. Then I cried a little more. I always do when people are nice to me, damn it.  I was, and continue to be, so grateful for the love and understanding of my wonderful family and friends, who have been unendingly patient and supportive through this whole mess.

And so, we come back again to Gratitude, where I left off a year ago.  2016 was not an easy year by any measure. It would have been so much worse if not for the tool of Gratitude that I gave myself at the start of it. I have processed so many memories and moments.  There will always be more. Another memory, more tears, more smiles, more heartache, more hugs and love.  How lucky I am, and so very grateful for it all.

Maybe now I can sleep.

Well, it's done.  I have packed up the family home and the For Sale sign is affixed firmly in the front lawn. I am torn about this.  Part of me is happy to have achieved this step, while most of me is screaming inside. Really loud heaving sobs of heartbreak.

For some, maybe most, moving out of a house is probably not a big deal.  For me, having been raised by chronically transient parents, having been homeless as a child and then marrying into the military, this home was everything to me. It represented settling and security for the first time in my life. We move into it in July of 2004, when my husband "retired" from the military for the first time.  We were supposed to live as a normal, civilian family and enjoy our kids, grow old together and live out our sunset years there. That was the plan.

Any military family knows that the plan never survives first contact.  I should have known that. I naively thought we could handle anything. Surely after a military career including 5 overseas tours (eventually 6), civilian life would be easy.  Not so fast. It seems the one thing military people cannot handle, is civilians. Without a gun and a battle plan, anyway.

This day has been coming, well technically it had been coming for 11 years now, but the timeline I have actively been a part of has been since July.  At that point I decided to sell the house instead of holding on to it, and its memories. Having come to that decision, I found us a home and my girls and I moved out in mid-September.  I have been gradually moving out ever since.  I know I dragged my feet. Holding on to what I knew was pointless, but I was so reluctant to say good-bye forever.  It may have been just a house, but to me it was my dream. My future. An embodiment of such promise that would never be.

Every Fall and Christmas season, it is hard to fight back. To fight against the sadness and depression that come with the despair that accompanies the memories of those times. It is a time and process that I have yet to conquer.  So this holiday season, I found a new tool: Gratitude.

When I am overcome by sadness brought on by memories of better times, even of bitter times, I have been changing my perspective, and shifting my frequency, to that of gratitude. Gratitude for having had that experience. Even if the rest was not to be, I have had all of those blessed experiences.  And I am so grateful for them all.  Really and truly.  I often think of the Garth Brooks song, The Dance.  I could have missed the pain, but I would have had to miss the love, the blessings and the lessons along the way.  It is better to have loved and lost, etc, etc, etc...  This is not an easy shift to make, it is actually physically difficult.  I believe it to be the route to healing my heart, though.  And allowing my soul to grow from this.  I have opened my heart to gratitude, and I am grateful for the knowledge to be able to do so.

Bob Hope was a comedian and performer famous for ending his routines with a song...Thanks for the Memories.  I borrowed the title for this blog post from that idea. 

Happy New Year!  May 2016 bring you hope, love, faith, prosperity and joy. And may you remember to be grateful for it all.

Should Auld Aquaintance Be Forgot

Well, I'm still counting my blessings, but 2013 is definitely not ending as I expected it to.  After a year of renovations and family ups and downs, as the year was drawing to a close, I expected a little calm. A regrouping and recouping of energy.  A refocussing of our lives to normality and enjoying our newly spiffed up home. Turns out my marriage was drawing to a close without my knowledge or consent.

How does this happen, you ask.  Or I did.  Selfishness, laziness, egotistical narcissistic arrogance. To name but a few.

My husband of 28 years reconnected on Linked In with an old friend from high school. With my full knowledge and support.  Hey, I'm a progressive woman of the 21st century.  Men can have friendships with the opposite sex and they can remain just friends, right?  We're all grownups here.  Especially if said female friend is a devout Christian of the Anglican faith, who is raising 3 kids on her own after being divorced and escaping an abusive marriage.  Adultery is a sin, after all, and she works for the Diocese.  She must be an observant Christian whose only interest in my husband is....what was it I was thinking exactly? Oh, right.  I trusted him.  Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice...

I have recently wished for a time machine.  To go back in time and absolutely forbid that this friendship be renewed.  My daughters wisely set me straight...you can't change stupid, they said.  And they're right.  The players in this little farce were always destined to make terrible, cowardly decisions, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

 Auld aquaintances best forgotten indeed.

Counting Blessings

 A funny thing happened on the way to the rest of my life today.  The hot water tank in our 15-year-old house finally gave up the ghost.  My Grandma used to say that all the time..."gave up the ghost".  It conjours a romantic image of a shadow of the object or person slowly drifting off to heaven above.  A bit more of a graceful image than what a badly leaking, aging hot water tank actually looks like, I assure you.

We had been meaning to get it replaced.  Had been told by the insurance company that they would no longer insure us against damage from any hot water tank issues.  Apparently, once your tank hits 7 years old, it is a threat to hearth and home.  Turns out that's true.  Who knew?

Thankfully, the damage had not yet reached a crisis point.  We discovered it this afternoon as we exercised our good intentions to clean out the basement.   It was leaking heavily from the seam at the bottom of the tank, so was only moments away from complete disaster.  Heaven only knows how long it had been leaking.  A triumphant sense of relief to be ahead of the crisis for a change, if only by a very little bit.

As the crisis management unfolded with considerations of running water, hot showers, laundry and dishes, I was taken back to a childhood memory.

I was about 11 years old, and we lived in Claresholm, AB.  It was a difficult time financially for my family, and all of our utilities had recently been cut off for non-payment.  I remember it being the first day of school, but it may only have been a Monday in the Fall.  My parents had woken my brothers and I to get ready for school.  We had a kerosene lantern for light and a little heat, we sparingly used water that my Dad drained from the hot water tank for washing up and pouring down the toilets to force-flush them. I remember it was a little chilly, I could see my breath.   

My Mother was remarkably serene. What you don’t know yet, is that my Mom has struggled with mental health issues all of her life.  Though never officially diagnosed with anything in particular, she could best be described as difficult, paranoid, insecure and obsessive.  She was prone to tantrums and mostly unpredictable at the best of times, but somehow during this crisis she was sweet and loving.  It is ironically one of the few fond memories I have of my Mom during my childhood. Her attitude made it seem like it was perfectly ordinary to be getting ready for school by lantern in the 1970’s, and I have rarely felt more loved and reassured.

I don’t know how long we went without utilities.  At the time, my Dad was working for a local company that did plumbing and heating, so one time, we went to a house under construction that my Dad had been working on, to use its shower and washroom.  I remember showering amidst drywall dust and discarded 2 x 4’s.  Dad really didn’t like it; was afraid to get caught and lose his job, but my Mom had insisted.   

We also made use of the campground in town to use their shower facilities.  I remember being in the shower and a woman who was camping there was also in one of the other shower stalls, and was talking to me.  Seems weird now, but I guess she was just one of those friendly people making conversation.  Anyhow, she asked, quite naturally, if I was enjoying my camping trip.  My 11-year-old self cheerfully explained that I wasn’t really camping, and proceeded to freely explain our situation.  Her response was absolute silence.  It hadn’t occurred to me before that there was anything wrong with this very practical solution.  But her silence conveyed reality to me, and I felt shame, worry, and less-than, when I hadn’t before. I stayed in the shower until I could be sure she had left.

The campground was a familiar place for me.  When we first moved to Claresholm the year before, we didn’t have a place to live yet, so we lived in a tent-trailer in the campground for two months.  They had army ants everywhere that were the size of wasps, and terrified me.  Sometimes my eldest brother & I, who are about 4-years apart (I’m the oldest), slept in the back of our station wagon.  That was fun!  We stayed up talking for hours, creating fantastical recipes for my Easy Bake oven and discussing whatever was on the minds of a 10 and 6 year-old who had just left everything they knew behind in Calgary and were now homeless living in a campground.  Ah, those were the days.   

One time, there was a really bad summer storm.  It gets very windy in Southern Alberta, and it was fierce this time with rain and hail.  My Dad’s boss showed up at the campground, having been sent by his wife, to pick us all up and bring us back to their home.  It was a small, single-wide mobile home, but they somehow made room to accommodate an extra family of 6 for the night. I was touched by this kindness, and also ashamed.  I attended school with their oldest son, and expected I would be teased about being homeless the next day.  I was right.  I’d rather have weathered the storm in our trailer than have everyone in school know I live in the campground, but what can you do?  I weathered a storm of a different kind.

My Grandmother was always big on counting your blessings.  There was a hymn from our church that she used to sing and hum often, “Count Your Blessings”.  It goes like this:

“When upon life’s billows you are tempest-tossed, When you are discouraged thinking all is lost, Count your many blessings; name them one by one. And it will surprise you what the Lord has done.”

Chorus…“Count your blessings; name then one by one.  Count your blessings; see what God hath done.  Count your blessings; name them one by one.  Count your many blessings, see what God hath done.”  

(You’ve got to love the Mormon church.  I couldn’t remember all the words clearly, so thought I’d try the magic internet, and behold, the church has a convenient database containing MP3’s of all of their hymns and music so that members can conveniently play them at meetings and church events.  Say what you want about them, their organization (the verb) is amazing.  Turns out there are 4 verses to the hymn.  I no doubt knew them all at one time, but it is the chorus that has stayed with me. Link is http://www.lds.org/churchmusic/detailmusicPlayer/index.html?searchlanguage=1&searchcollection=1&searchseqstart=241&searchsubseqstart=%20&searchseqend=241&searchsubseqend=ZZZ if you are interested.)

I am a spiritual person, rather than a religious one, despite having been raised in the Mormon church, but even so, during trying times, and times I am grateful for, this chorus plays through my mind.  Here are the blessings I was counting today, in no particular order of importance:         

1. While altruistically starting on the much-procrastinated task of cleaning out the basement (and now delayed again), discovered hot water tank leakage before more damage done
2. It is a payday weekend, so can afford supplies and new hot water tank needed
3. Husband is ambitious and handy so could tackle the replacement himself
4. My Father is alive and well, and available for endless advice on home repair
5. It is the Sunday of a long weekend, and we discovered the problem while the stores were still open
6. Wonderful hubby had it fixed within a day, so there was limited interruption to our lives
7. It is a long weekend, so we still have a day off tomorrow…whoohoo!
8. Our utilities are not cut off
9. We are not homeless

 Thanks to my Grandma, for teaching me to count my blessings, and that things could always be worse.   And my deep appreciation to God/The Universe for all of our blessings, everyday.

Daughter 1: Your blog doesn't have an RSS feed; I cant' follow you.

Me: You'll have to talk to my technical manager, which was you.  You helped me set it up.  If it's not there, it's your fault.

Daughter 1: I set you up on blogger.com because it is easy for you to manage.  You are supposed to look after that yourself.

Me: Well, you didn't tell me that.  How am I supposed to know?

Daughter 1: You micro-manage me making the mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving.  You had to know that this was stuff you would need to control yourself.

Somehow, perhaps because it is late and I just started a new job, this strikes me as hilariously funny.  I laugh so hard that I squeek and tears run down my face.  My daughter shakes her head at me and tells me I really need to go to bed.

Concerts, Then and Now

My husband and I went to the Bryan Adams concert last Wednesday.  Our fake wedding anniversary was Thursday, so we decided that going to an 80’s concert totally was an appropriate way to celebrate our 26^th fake anniversary, and since it was our fake anniversary, it really didn’t matter that we were commemorating it a day early.  Actually dates have actually never been that significant for my family, both for my extended family of birth and our little immediate family circle of 4.  Growing up, my Mom found it much more convenient to just group family events together with traditional holidays; that way paper plates and disposable cutlery could be economized.  And socializing.  And housework.  Not that disposable plates, cutlery and cups were reserved for these special occasions; we often resorted to this back-up when we ran out of clean dishes.  I became an expert at eating cereal out of a solo cup with a flimsy plastic spoon.  Toby Keith’s tribute song was a bit curious to me, as since it was really a most utilitarian part of my childhood, I had not thought of giving the Red Solo Cup special social status.  It is a little startling when I hear it.  Catchy song though, so I can’t help but sing along and think of all the uses that Toby apparently didn’t know about, or were perhaps too odd to put in a song.  The solo cup in my life was rather like duct tape.  Uses only limited by your imagination.  But I digress.

I will explain the whole fake anniversary thing later, but what really struck me about the occasion was the differences that time and age have wrought in getting ready for a concert. 

Me getting ready for a concert…

Then:    Plan ahead to be off work early that day so I have time to get ready.

Now:     Make time to take a nap the afternoon of the concert.

Then:    Go through my entire closet twice in deciding what to wear.  Finally decide on original outfit, which involves fuscia-pink and black.

Now:     Select that new blouse I’ll never be able to wear anywhere else because we never go anywhere, and the most comfortable jeans I own. Daughter comes in to fuss with my outfit, because apparently owning clothes that you could totally still wear when you are 90 are not appropriate for a rock concert.  I just want to be comfy.  My blouse is black, the throw/jacket thing my daughter insists I should wear over top instead of my black jacket (because apparently, if you can wear it to a job interview, it also does not qualify as good concert apparel), is fuscia-pink, because that colour is really in now.  The irony makes me laugh.

Then:    Spend at least an hour curling my hair with the curling iron balanced precariously on the edge our little sink, along with my cigarette and at-least-second wine cooler or glass of Strawberry Angel, while listening to music as loud as the neighbors will tolerate.

Now:     Fluff my hair, add style goo so it will stay fluffy looking.

Then:    At least 20 minutes on makeup.  It may have been more, as I recall, the eye makeup alone took 20 minutes.

Now:     10 minutes on makeup, half of which is borrowed from my daughters.  I love that fuscia-pink lipstick is still in now.  I still have the same tube I’ve had since the 80’s, but I can’t find it, so I use the new one I bought at the drug store last month.  Surveying the finished product, I go to wipe what I think is a stray cat hair off of my face.  Only it doesn’t move.  I use my thumbnail and finger, but it is stuck fast.  Closer examination reveals that this is actually a chin hair long enough to now have curled like curling ribbon on a package.  I stop to tweeze my face. Thank you peri-menopause.

Then:    Do the pantyhose dance while squishing myself into tummy control hose.

Now:     Forget it, I just want to be comfy.   I’m wearing Mom underwear and no socks.

Then:    Pull slightly damp jeans on (the panty hose help), then carefully lay flat on the bed and use a pair of pliers to zip-up the way-too-tight jeans.  Sort of roll off the bed and manoeuver into a standing position.

Now:     My most comfy non-Mom-looking jeans. They have spandex in them so they stretch to all my curves, especially that rolly one where my stomach used to be.

Then:    Add earrings.  Big hoops or those shiney metal-fabricky ones that fold like a little chain-mail hanky.  Add as many bangle bracelets as possible.

Now:     Search through all of my flashy earrings that I never wear anymore, decide I look ridiculous in all of them and select plain dangly ones.

Then:    Select the highest spike heels I own.  Actually being able to walk is optional.

Now:     I want sensible footwear that I can navigate stadium stairs with.  My daughter talks me out of wearing my gardening sandals.  I am wearing my really hip black boots with a flat motorcycle heel.  The best part of my awesome, calf-high boots is covered by the legs of my jeans, which I refuse to tuck in because I will look like a pirate.  Or a Russian.  Perhaps a Russian pirate.

Then:    Copious amounts of Opium perfume.

Now:     White Tea & Fig body spray

Voila, ready to go!

Then:    Husband, who has had all this time to get ready himself, only just now decides to do so after I repeatedly asked him while I was getting ready if he was ready to go, and he assures me…”oh yeah, just need to put my shoes on”.  I sort of stand around the house dancing to my music and drinking wine while I wait because there is no way I can sit down in these jeans yet.

Now:     Husband calls 30mins before we have to leave to assure me he did in fact leave work and is stuck in traffic on the way home.  We leave as soon as he gets home; he doesn’t bother to change and is wearing his everyday work attire – a dress shirt and jeans. He did stop and take his hearing aids out, so the concert won’t be too loud.

Then:    Arrive at concert; cling to husband’s arm as I teeter on treacherous stadium stairs up to our seats.  Signs everywhere advising that photographs/recording devices are prohibited!  All the dire consequences are listed.

Now:     Enter concert venue, the only signs posted advise that we are not allowed to bring in our own alcohol; we must purchase theirs.

Then:    Before concert begins, there are the usual air-filled giant balls that people are bouncing in the air around the stadium.  The mood is excited anticipation.  The age of the crowd is mostly teenagers-20’s, with a few old die-hard rockers thrown into the mix.  Girls are dressed as slutty as possible.  Boys look appropriately put-upon for being dragged to the concert by their girlfriends.  People are chain smoking and drinking.

Now:     On stage is a large screen projecting the twitter feed conversations about the impending concert and Bryan Adams in general.  The mood is relaxed.  The age of the crowd is mostly 40-50, who are dressed very casually, in fact I feel overdressed.  There are entire families, with parents who have brought their older (and some younger) children along.  The guys actually look happy to be there.  There don’t appear to be any teenagers there who didn’t come with a parent. People are having conversations both real and virtual.  Also staring at their iPhones, texting and tweeting.  Did you know there is actually a website that tells you the set-list for the concert you’re about to see?  Where is the fun in that?

Then:    Concert begins with opening act.  Most people are waayy too cool to take their seats before the main performance, so are milling around the concourse.  Not me.  I think it is very rude, and take a polite interest in the struggling opening act out of sheer support-the-underdog-no-matter-what mentality.

Now:     Main act now has too many songs to also have an opening act.  At least that is the excuse he gives…I think maybe it is just cheaper/easier not to have one.  I’ll bet there were a lot of people taken by surprise to have the main act open for themselves.  I think it is marvelous.  I no longer have to listen politely to a band I don’t really want to see.

Then:    The opening act ends and the house lights come on again.  Now is the time to teeter down the bathroom to empty nuisance bladder and get more drinks to refill it again before the main act.   Teeter back to seat.

Now:     I nurse my drink (a diet Coke) so I won’t have to go to the washroom until the concert is over.  It’s such a pain going down all those stairs.  We had deliberately bought the bottles of diet Coke, thinking being able to replace the cap as we were nursing our pops would be handy.  After purchasing said bottles, we were informed that we would have to pour them into cups.  Apparently security had concerns about the bottles being used to make Moltov Cocktails.  Really?  Using plastic bottles?  At a Bryan Adams concert?  It’s a weird new world.

Then:    Lights go out for main act.  30 seconds later the stadium is filled with the smell of pot.  The music is loud and we love it!

Now:     The main act comes on and we politely cheer.  It takes a while to warm up a middle-aged, Canadian audience.  Once we get going though, it is a good time.  It seems like everyone is using their cell phones to take photos and record the concert.  They are also tweeting, texting and using their Shazam* apps to identify what song is playing.  (Really?  If you don’t know the songs, why are you here?). *Note: this is not the Shazam of my childhood TV memories, which involved an otherwise normal teenage boy who turned into an ancient superhero when he shouted Shazam!  There was lightening and everything.

Then:    Band plays a ballad and everyone holds up their lit Bic and Zippo lighters, burning our fingers and swaying to the music.

Now:     Band plays a ballad and everyone holds up their glowing cell phones.  I feel like I have landed in the wrong universe somehow.  There are a few who are holding up their flaming lighters.  Thank heavens for those hold-out smokers who are able to entirely disregard those grisly scare ads on the cigarette packages.  Yes, you will die sooner, but you do look really cool.  And you take me back to old times.  Thank you.  Bryan Adams thinks the glowing cell phones starlight effect is really cool and asks someone to send him a picture of it.  Just as the last song is being played, an enthusiastic cell-phone waiver behind us loses control of her phone.  It flies out of her hand and hits my husband in the back of his head.

The concert ends, and my husband, who lost 30% of his hearing during his operational tour in Afghanistan, comments that it didn’t seem as loud as usual.  I remind him that he took out his hearing aids…