I spent most of my life believing I was one of my Mimom’s favorite people.  She had eight other grandchildren, a husband, three children, and countless friends, but I still felt more connected to her, for most of my life, than pretty much anybody else…I spent nearly every school vacation at her house in Cherry Hill and much of the summer when I was young, and weekends here and there over the course of my life from the time I was two and my parents took a little second honeymoon to Canada until I was well into my teenage years.  I helped my Mimom and BigDad prep for cocktail parties, dinner parties, neighborhood bar-b-ques, I worked in the yard with them, hung clothes on the line (something I adored) and took many train trips into the city with my Mimom and did many projects in the garage or the den with my BigDad.  I made friends in their neighborhood and felt I was a part of their life in a very big way.  The day after I got my driver’s license, the first adventure I had on my own behind the wheel, was to her house.  When my daughter was young it was not unusual for me to get her after work and we would drive out to my Mimom and BigDad’s for dinner, while it was almost 50 miles away, it was less than an hour’s drive, and it was a place where I felt, simply put, good.

Ten years ago, my Mimom and BigDad decided it was time to stop driving and to move to an assisted living facility.  Initially they considered moving to one here at the Jersey shore, minutes from my parent’s house and less than 10 miles from mine and I was thrilled, that I would be able to pop in and see them, any day and any time, but they chose instead to move to one nearer their daughter, and much farther from me, a nearly two hour drive, and I knew then and felt it deeply, that things would change forever…My Dad and I took a day off work to help them move after they sold their house, and as we drove, well past the Philadelphia airport, and finally arrived to their new place, I felt such a profound loss…I understood why they would want to live near their daughter at that point in their old age, and I understood that this place was perfect for them; private apartments for the mobile and well, assisted living apartments for the ones who needed some care, a nursing home for the ones who needed constant care, and a hospital for the end…I “GOT” it, why they wanted to be there, but I also “GOT” it that the relationship with them that I treasured was never going to be the same.

The December I first lived in my new house I had a luncheon and they came, my Aunt and Uncle drove them down, and my parents came, and my daughter and my grandchildren, and I was so excited to show them my home, my labor of love, and I think they were impressed that their son the carpenter had a daughter who turned out to be pretty handy.  She brought me a belated birthday cake that day, MY cake, the same one she made for me every birthday for my whole life, devil’s food with creme de menthe icing, and she said it was the last cake she’d make, that she no longer baked nor cooked, but to me it was like she gave me a pot of gold…I loved when she would make me that cake, and she gave me that day the ballerina that went on top, the same ballerina in the yellow tutu that was on every birthday cake she made me for all of my  life, and there I was, after they left after lunch, crying my eyes out, 42 years old, in my brand new living room, on my spotless Crate and Barrel sofa, twirling this 40-year-old plastic ballerina in my fingers, feeling so sharply a deep loss, that I could not explain.  Maybe things changed because I no longer saw her so often, a couple times a year is not much to visit, I can’t know for sure, but what used to be joyful time spent together, over time became filled more and more with awkward silences…I used to joke that I was the proverbial black sheep, the lefty-liberal in a family filled with die-hard conservatives, but we had never lacked subjects to talk about, however, over the first few years that they lived in their new place it felt that we had less and less and less to talk about…I’d ask about all my cousins and we’d make small talk…She would introduce me to her neighbors or friends we passed on our way to lunch as “my granddaughter the grandmother” which was always funny to hear, and that they had two great-great grandchildren was a kind of big deal…the few times we took the girls to see them, even the receptionist knew who they were, as having great-great grandchildren is not very common…people don’t live that long…but no matter the visit, I would make that drive home feeling so sad, that nothing was like it had been, and never would be…My BigDad died two years ago and my Mimom moved last year into one of the smaller apartments in the assisted living part of the community.  I used to talk to her so often and now our conversations were a couple of times a year and every time it seemed there was less and less to say…last winter, the morning after Christmas, I called her to tell her I had gotten engaged.  All she said was “oh.”

Her lack of enthusiasm or even recognition really that this was a BIG DEAL to ME, was hurtful in a way that I can’t even put into words…coming from a family to whom marriage and traditional ideals or values seem to be really important, that her 46-year-old granddaughter was in love and a boy had asked her the morning before to marry him, seemed worthy, to me at least, of something more than “oh.”  Maybe she had no idea how I felt after that phone call.  Maybe she was happy for me but just was tired.  Or maybe she really wasn’t at all happy for me.  I don’t know and won’t ever know.  We’ve only spoken a handful of times since.  I called her one day late in August while I was on my hands and knees getting marks out of a customer’s maple floors.  I had my Mimom on speaker and crawled around with the cell phone scrubbing all the while we chatted.  I told her I loved her when we hung up, she is so old, I know when I do speak to her it at any time could be the last time, but I didn’t say what I felt, that she really hurt my feelings last winter and I have felt uncomfortable about it ever since and why?  But maybe because she is so old, I decided to say nothing and instead make meaningless small talk with her while I cleaned that floor.  I have only been out to see her once this last year, I tagged along with my Dad and my sister. …My sister who never really spent any time with them at all while we were growing up and my sister who never was really involved with them, at all, for most of our lives, suddenly had become my father’s personal driver over these last years and the one who now called my Mimom weekly…it seems that they have had plenty to talk about…so how does it feel, to get an email forwarded from your parents yesterday evening, forwarded from your father’s sister, but cc’d to his brother and your sister, that your Mimom is not feeling well and has not been for several days and at the moment is in the hospital…I looked at to whom the email was initially sent and thought, wow, my sister is now, it seems, the favorite…my time seems to have long been over…it feels empty and it feels shitty.  On my birthday last week, I went to my sideboard and got out the ballerina and put it in my cake.  My boyfriend, my daughter, her boyfriend, her daughters, and my boyfriend’s daughter, standing around me, singing happy birthday, and I dearly wanted my Mimom to know I had the ballerina as my cake topper, and that I have done so since she gave it to me, and how much it meant to me, and how much I treasure my memories of my childhood with her, but the next day, three times I began to dial and three times I did not go through with it, because I realized I had nothing else to say, besides that I had my twirling ballerina in my birthday cake, and I miss my special cake, and I miss her, and I am sorry for whatever happened over these years that distanced us to this point, that there seems to be nothing to say…

I really love to cook.  To be clear,  I really love to eat too.  I know some people who eat only because they will die if they don’t; they get no joy and no pleasure from it, it’s just fuel, and I know many people who get no pleasure whatsoever in preparing food or cooking, they do it only as a chore or obligation.  I know people who are so fussy that they eat only a handful of things and never want to try anything new, or won’t even try something they actually like, but prepared in a new way.  Picky, squeamish,  finicky eaters and I don’t really combine well, kind of like a perfect Umbrian Coricelli extra virgin olive oil and water.  I prefer being around people who like the experience of food… the eating, the preparing, the entire interaction with that which sustains us.

When I cook  for myself or for guests,  it’s with so much gratification in the act itself, sometimes as much, if not more than the final product.  The whole process, the sounds and the smells,  and the actions involved, is something I really like. I enjoy having a full freezer and well stocked pantry so that I can create what I feel like, when I feel like it.  My daughter never enjoyed helping in the kitchen, she liked to help my mother bake, but seldom liked to help me cook, but her youngest daughter does, and that excites me.  When a three-year old asks to learn how to use a knife, and before she is four can hull and slice her own strawberries, and now likes to julianne peppers and wash dishes, and when at your house, often turns on the cooking channel, you know you’ve got a little ‘foodie’  in the making.  My Mimom was the consummate hostess.  She could throw together a lunch for her bridge club ladies at 1 o’clock, have assorted snacks and a cheese platter for cocktails later at 6:30, and a delicious and visually delightful meal at 8 for eight, without breaking a sweat or having to leave the house because she was “out of something.”  Her pantry was like C.S. Lewis’  magic wardrobe to me and I loved being around her while I was growing up and am sure much of my love of entertaining, stocking cupboards, and preparing food, comes directly from her tutelage.

I remember one night so clearly, she was prepping for a large dinner party…having her show me how to set a full formal table and where to put the water glass, the wine glass, and the liqueur glass, how to fold the napkin, and how to arrange the plates for bread, salad, and dessert…all those details that mattered so much to her and now matter to me…everything about her kitchen that afternoon and night excited me…I don’t remember much about the snacks served with the cocktails, other than nervously balancing nuts and cheeses on a tray and asking her friends if they would like some, but I do clearly remember helping my Mimom to bring out the main course, crab imperial.  I can remember helping her pull apart the crab meat that afternoon and being sure there were no shells, and even watching her mix all the ingredients couldn’t prepare me for the thrill of seeing this crab casserole get spooned into these beautiful enormous shells and then baked and served…the presentation was like something out of a magazine…maybe they were just normal sized shells I see on the beach, but as a little girl enthralled with all that was going on that night,  those shells looked like the most magnificent serving platters I had ever seen!

Years ago my Sunday mornings used to start very early, and at 5 or so I would sit on my big fat purple sofa and sip my coffee and crochet and watch  -Nigella Bites- It was my favorite cooking show… I liked Nigella Lawson’s  accent, I liked how she cooked, I liked how she used a knife and a mezzaluna, I liked what she cooked, I liked her kitchen, I like how she served, I liked how she explained things, I just loved my Sunday mornings with her and I would get inspired, and usually Sunday supper was in my mind before my second cup of coffee was empty because Nigella energized me.  Three years ago my small town lost its A&P, a store I ADORED, and soon thereafter lost its Genuardis, a grocery store I liked well enough, but didn’t love, and has not had a supermarket since.  What kind  of town does not have a grocery store??!!  We have SEVEN places at which a person can buy tires but NOT ONE place to buy a head of lettuce, a wedge of Gruyere, or a steak.  There are MORE than enough pizza places and take-out places where I live, but if you want to put together a luncheon for your girlfriends, snacks for evening cocktails, and dinner for your guests after dark, you have to go someplace else.  FOR THE LOVE OF FOOD, my town needs a supermarket, or a gourmet little grocery store, or a specialty shop, or a butcher, a baker, and a cheese shoppe.  I drive out of town because I must, but what kind of town council or committee thinks it’s okay to keep approving building permits for more housing but neglecting to recognize the fact that there is nowhere for residents current or future, to buy food!!??

My work truck is my only vehicle and it gets 10.2 miles to the gallon, yes, that point 2 really makes a difference,  BUT even with that fact in mind,  I admit that a few times a year I do in fact drive some 41 miles west of me, not far from Philadelphia, for food…the towns in that area have a Trader Joe’s, a Whole Foods, and a Wegmans, and you might think it ridiculous that I would even consider driving that far for groceries and totally preposterous that I actually do, but I really love food shopping when it is in a place that makes me remember that I love to cook and love to organize my pantry and love the whole experience of purchasing and preparing food.

Where I live has a lot of residents who are from someplace else and I don’t mean to sound rude, but many of the women from these ‘someplace elses’ have voices and accents that make my skin crawl, and it seems that so many of them crack their gum when they talk, and that makes my skin crawl more, and they seem to always be in a tremendous hurry and often are insulting to the employees at the supermarket…understandably, this is of course not the case with all the people shopping in the grocery store, but sometimes it feels like it to me,  and as a result my love of grocery shopping is significantly diminished…BUT when I drive 41 miles west…oh goodness it is like a buzz…it seems that everyone shopping in those supermarkets is there for the same reason I am…to happily buy unbelievably overpriced produce and protein and fabulously packaged food stuffs in a well-lit, clean, and organized store, where one almost feels healthier just being IN the store, like we are doing our bodies good, and don’t have to “shop the perimeter” because the entire store seems to be filled with high quality foods.  Does it make me seem like a snob, who, mind you, can’t afford to be, that I like to shop there?  maybe.  But I really love food shopping when I get ‘into’ the entire experience of food shopping.  When I do it here, I am often feeling annoyed that my town has no store and it feels like a chore…but today I am going to change that up.

The last few times I have had to go food shopping I  psyched myself up for it, and walked into the store with a really positive attitude, and when I heard an accent that made my skin crawl or a gum cracking woman hit my cart of I heard somebody be impolite to the boy stocking the avocados, I just thought that I should feel sorry for them, that they were choosing to  be miserable and rude, and I should feel glad that I was not them…and I have found, admittedly slowly, my love of food shopping returning.  I have a list today and I have some menus planned, one of which includes a black bean soup with tequila lime marinated shrimp.  YUM!  Yesterday I reorganized all my spice racks and cleaned all the jars and made all new labels, I emptied out and organized my kitchen pantry and started rotating my stock in my utility room pantry, I know what I am low on and what I am out of, and I am going food shopping this morning with a smile on my face, a positive attitude, and a grateful heart for the love of food.

I’ve heard it said and read that we humans want all sorts of things but that we only need food, clothing, and shelter.  It does not matter what you call  the shelter, but rather, I think  it matters how you feel about it…Having a roof over your head is perhaps a necessity, although in some parts of the world this may not be the case, but I would venture to guess that in every culture, in every species, there is a need for a space in which to live, to nest.  Whether or not it brings you joy or upset, or comfort or unease,  is totally up to you.

Five years ago today I got my C.O. and began the process of moving into my new space.  It was issued one year and one day after the building permit, and it’s truly AMAZING what can happen in 366 days!  I have lived in much smaller spaces than I live now, and I have lived in much bigger spaces than this house, but much like Goldilocks finding porridge of a perfect temperature, and a chair of a perfect size, and a bed of the perfect softness, this space is the one that feels just right for me.

Building a house is very different from buying one.  To be clear, it takes a lot of work to move, regardless of the circumstance, but the experience of drawing plans and taking a place of acres of empty woods and turning it into a home, is overwhelmingly wonderful, and unbelievably hard work…I hired a lot of different sub-contractors to help me build this house; roofer, plumber, electrician, framer, sheet-rocker, et al., but the fact remains that I physically worked here on it, in some way night after night, weekend after weekend, morning after morning…because it is what you have to do if you want to get it done…I silently thank my parents every single time I pull onto my driveway, for how much they helped me to make this happen, and how much they still do for me to keep it all together.

I still have the notebook, page one dated January 2008 when I got the piece of property…and every note thereafter from getting the variance, to the building permit, to the certificate of occupancy…it’s all in this notebook, which I kept much more like a journal, and there are pages where the ink is washed out because I was upset and crying while I wrote, much like in a journal, where I listed EVERY SINGLE CENT I spent and was able to total, down to the penny, how much it cost me to build this house…I opened it this morning, just at random to see what page I turned to, and here is what I opened to:  February 23rd 2009 “Well, I’m over budget, but not terribly.”  It gave me my first laugh of the day!  The notebook’s  filled with appliance dimensions and item numbers, window sizes, phone numbers, sofa names, doodles of floor plans, ideas for furniture placement, and paint color numbers, and I treasure this notebook, honestly as much as I treasure my child’s note filled baby book!

If where you live does not make you feel at peace and comforted and happy, then perhaps it is time to think about moving to a different space.  I know not everyone feels such a connection as I do to their abode, and I understand that to some I am rather weird about how deeply I love mine, and how sensitive and protective I feel about it…not a whole lot different than how one might be protective of a child,  in fact, I am pretty sure that I was more upset when my walnut floor was first dinged & dented by a dropped can of soup  than I was when my child fell off a swing and broke her wrist!!   When I get into one of my cleaning frenzy modes, or reorganizing my pantries or painting my trim, or freshening up my walls or ANYthing related to caring for my space, it is done with as much thought and effort as I’ve ever cared for any person…maybe not everybody should love their house in the way that I do, but I really do think it matters, to love where you live…

I had dinner, cocktails, poker, and game night with my first friend from first grade over the weekend, including her husband and my boyfriend, with lots of laughter and deliciousness.  My Mimom always told me, from the time I was a little girl, *to keep my girlfriends close, to treasure the friends I make,  that men die before women, husbands often leave, but that you will always have your girlfriends.*  I have taken her advice very seriously.  My immediate circle is very small; two close girlfriends, ‘besties’ as my granddaughters would say, but my outer circle is very large, filled with many dear friends, most of whom I only interact with in cyber space, but who I know, if I were in need, would say, “how can I help?”  There is a comfort knowing that I would do for others as I would have them do unto me.  I have known far too many people who  don’t think that way, and I suppose for them, they choose how big or how diverse they want their circle to be.

While watching my friend and our partners interact  I reflected upon the fact that she has been with me through every boyfriend, every breakup, every job, every car, every screw up, and every achievement of my life, and for both of us, if ever we are not involved with these two men, we will still be involved with each other.  I could be more involved with both of my closest girlfriends; I seldom if ever call either of them just to chat, I get together with them each about once a month, and we three work, we three have men in our lives who occupy our other hours, and I know that I could DO more to be more involved with both of these women, and indeed with any or all of my cyber girlfriends, but somehow, even with the minimal involvement we all have with one another, there is a very definitive sensation of connectedness…for me at least…that I am here for them and they are here for me, however much or little we might need of each other…

I feel lucky that my relationship with my daughter is what it is…when she was a teenager I often reminded her I was not her friend, I was her mother, and it did not matter to me one bit if she didn’t like me, if I wasn’t doing what she wanted, that we did not have to be friends…but now she is an adult and my next door neighbor, and I am so glad that we have a friendship too.  I often have felt that I am nice to people and kind, because I am a kind person, not because I want something from a relationship.  I sadly have known a lot of people in my life who are only nice to people because they think they will ‘get’ something out of it…that is not a way to be a friend.  That is really more like the definition of a parasite.  I love that my daughter too has cultivated friendships that are full of love and acceptance, and that she has that same desire to be connected by choice to women who fulfill her and she them…

I have another friend who lives in New England who I met the week before I got married.  She was my neighbor on the island where I lived and her husband worked with mine and we were dear close friends for a few months, and then things changed; we both got divorced, moved, our lives became completely detached, but you know what?  In the spring of 2012 we had a brief 6 hour visit as she moved from Florida back to Massachusetts, and before that we had not seen each other since my daughter was in kindergarten, and we miss each others phone calls several times a year, but when I speak to her…it is as if no time has passed, we just are friends…it is VALUABLE, it is more important than any things we could own, any savings we could have, any flashy car we could drive, those things are just surface materialistic things…friendships are priceless.

My sister and I have had some ups and downs, but since the late summer we have made a deliberate effort to reconnect, and there is a history there that no friendship can match…when you have been raised by the same two people and shared the same roof, holidays, and experiences, despite the occasional differences or hang-ups, a sister is a relationship that you will have until you die…it’s up to you to maintain it, to extend the proverbial olive branch when needed, to sweep the differences under the rug and forget about them when necessary, or not.  There are some relationships that neither time nor forgiveness can heal.

I was friends for 22 years with a woman who I really felt connected to, but she chose to end the friendship.  I struggled for a year, wondering what exactly I did that made her mad, how I failed as a friend, what I didn’t do right, where it went wrong…and then I came to simply accept that she didn’t need me.  She made a conscious choice to stop being my friend.  It hurt terribly because we had SO many fun times together, but I understood that for her, the relationship had run its course…like many relationships, they just end…I have a long list of ex-boyfriends to show for it…people who you really like or love, for whatever period of time, and then you don’t.  It’s kind of simple really…if you can accept it.

Your girlfriends will be by your side through every screw up and every greatness, if you want them to.  They will become a piece of your history/herstory if you’d rather.  I have some girlfriends who get their nails done every week and buy shoes that cost as much as my electric bill, I have some girlfriends who struggle to pay their electric bill and are happy to buy their shoes at Payless.  They don’t seem to ever judge me, that although I graduated first in my class at college, I now clean the toilets and pull the weeds and paint the walls for the rich and famous.  They accept me for me and I accept them for them.  Just like whether or not you like vanilla or you’d rather have chocolate, you decide what you want in your life and you decide what you want out.  You tend to a friendship like a seedling if you want it to grow and to blossom and you can ignore it if you want it to just dry up and die.  I have made many questionable choices in my life, but deciding to tend to a few really beautiful friendships isn’t one of them.

My daughter became a single mother this morning at our County courthouse when her marriage was formally documented and recorded  as -over.-    It is a role I never would have wished on anyone, least of all someone I love so dearly.  I had for many years, a deep and insatiable sadness that I was unable to provide my child with a childhood like I had.  She will say that she had a wonderful childhood and a very good life, and that it was filled with love, and she was spoiled by her aunts, and doted on by her grandparents, and that my father was the best father-figure she could ever have dreamed for, and all of those things would be true, but they don’t assuage my guilt, that I did not give to her the kind of family unit and family life that I grew up with.

Every June on my daughter’s wedding anniversary I would laugh and text them that they “made it through another year” and often would remark about what famous couple had split up during the year, and I would feel so proud of them, that despite their occasional troubles, they really were doing their very best to make the kind of family unit they wanted to make for themselves and their daughters.  My daughter got married a week before she graduated high school and didn’t “have to,” which blew my mind…that she seemed to want to attach herself to one person, at 18 years old, and not go out and have all the experiences that I so dearly desired but didn’t get to have…I had tried to be such a strong female role model for her and I think I was intending to live vicariously through her for a few years, as she went to college and lived in her first apartment and traveled to interesting places and did all sorts of fabulous things…but she chose to fall in love with a boy she met on spring break in Myrtle Beach and get married to him two months later, and off she moved to North Carolina, leaving me that summer of 2004, both longing for her presence in my home, and perplexed by her choices…

Ten years later, we are next door neighbors and today her marriage was dissolved and I feel both a sadness and a gladness, neither one was expected.  I didn’t really expect to feel much of anything, it’s not my business… She sent me a text from the courthouse, now that she had her married last name legally removed and is now going to go by just her first and middle names, Victoria Rose, and the text said, ‘Hello from your daughter Victoria Rose’  …And I wrote back, “Hello Victoria Rose,” and then I started to cry, at work, in a customer’s kitchen, …realizing and remembering they were the very first words I ever spoke to her when she took her first breaths of air on this earth, holding her ridiculously long fingers, and touching her face, Hello Victoria Rose…

In one moment late this morning I felt sad for her that her marriage had formally ended, and felt glad for her that frankly, she seems  just fine.  Both my son-in-law (I guess I can still call him that, I still love him, and he is after all the father of my grandchildren) and my daughter are happily dating lovely people, and seem very well matched with their current flames.  They are both young and attractive and have really their whole lives still ahead of them,  and surely that makes moving on, turning a page, ending a chapter, starting a new book,  easier…I have turned many pages, ended many chapters, and started many new books in my years on this earth…change is not always easy, whether we initiate it or just try to “go with it” doesn’t really matter, we just have to be open-minded enough to know that change is good and leads us somewhere new…I think as a mother I just felt so glad that my child was not having to go through those changes, suffer those jolts of reality, accept that dreams are often not coming true…but here she is, moving forward with the next phase of her life, moving on…

I joke, but it is true, that I am pretty much an ‘open book,’  but because my blog is public and my pseudonym of ‘RStar’  is now known to be “me,” because of a “sharing” glitch in social media two years ago,  there is no more anonymity, so I am careful, or at least try to be, to not divulge too much that is personal because not everybody with whom I am associated is as open as I…so I find that I often want to write about an event or an issue or a problem but I can’t…because many readers know to whom I must be referring…which is hard, when you want to write and all these words are in your brain, and they want to come out your fingers, but you have to stop yourself…editing my thoughts and the words that want to spill out of me is somewhat painful…needless to say/write, it might be time to start a new blog, but in the interim, there is the recognition that my child, this woman who is my neighbor, this woman who brought two amazing little humans into this world and who have filled my heart with the most inexplicable and unimaginable love, has turned a page, ended a chapter, and is starting a new book, and I want nothing more than a great page turner with beautifully rich character development, and a gloriously happy ending.

Twenty years ago or so my mother got a phone call from her mother-in-law, my Mimom, who asked her if she wanted “Tom’s mom’s iron pot.'”  Tom, being my BigDad, that they were clearing out some things in their garage and would my mother want this pot.  My mother, who has a yard, and always has, like something out of House and Garden magazine, immediately responded with a ‘yes’ assuming it was some sort of iron pot that she would use for a planter.  When my dad went to see his parents shortly thereafter and returned home with said pot, my mother was less than amused, as the pot was a dutch oven and not an iron pot that wanted to be part of a landscape design.  No, it was an iron pot that had been used for nearly a century to cook, and cooking is one thing my mother abhors.

Twenty minutes or so after the iron pot arrived at my parent’s house, I got a  call from my mother asking me if I wanted it and I immediately responded with a ‘yes.’  I have used this pot every winter since, and have used it to make sweet and delicate baked apples, savory stews, and wickedly wild chili, I’ve used it to roast chickens and bake pork loins, and I’ve used it decoratively like a cauldron for Halloween decor.  What I love most about the pot is that every time I put it in my oven or on top of my stove, I can’t help but imagine how many meals it held, and for how many people, over its life.

I am one of the least sentimental women you might ever meet, and although my house is filled with beautiful things, I consider myself something of a minimalist.  I don’t care for clutter and I like everything to have a use and a place and am not at all daunted by rainy “CLEAN OUT!” days.  When I moved into this house I swore that I was only putting things in it that I loved and used…no more trying to store a set of dishes I might use once a year, no more having champagne flutes that never move from the back of the top shelf…no, everything that got moved into this house was going to be touched regularly or it was not coming through the door…which is why at times I do in fact drink milk from the one crystal Hermes highball glass I own, and have used hand blown wine glasses for iced tea.  I have many needless objects and useful things that I really love, and this iron pot is one of them.  I also have an enormous stoneware bowl from the 1940’s that was my Pop’s, who was my mother’s father, and when filled with macaroni salad is so heavy I suspect not many 1940’s housewives could have lifted it, and I have a knife my Pop made when he was a cook in the Army, and again, when I use the bowl or use the knife, I feel connected to a past that I know so little about but of which I am a part.

Yesterday late in the afternoon I took Tom’s Mom’s Iron Pot out of the oven and removed the lid and the aroma of beef stew filled the room,which was empty but for two hungry people;  one happily crocheting on her sofa and trying to avert her eyes from all the yard work that needed to be done, and one joyfully watching the Eagles beat the Redskins at the other end of said sofa.  The pot only fed two yesterday, but it has fed as many as twelve in the past.  It is a very useful pot and I smile every time I cook with it.  I am now the keeper and the user of these things and I like to think that those who used these things before me would be proud…of how much I love to cook and feed people I love, of how much I enjoy entertaining and having guests to my home to eat and drink and talk, of how much I treasure these objects that once belonged to them…and I like to think that the more I cook with the two little girls who live next door to me, and the more opportunities I give them to set the table and to plan meals, they will, when they are grown and I am dead, enjoy being the keepers of these things…

Whenever I have an issue, a failure, a stumble, and I speak to my Mom about it, she listens, gives me her two-cents and then says, “press on dear.”  She says this almost every single time I have an upset and has said this for most, if not all, of my adult life.  I have often asked myself why I get bogged down in the muck of my heavy thoughts.  I don’t like heavy thoughts that keep me up at night or make me unable to fall into my normal deep and sound sleep, that make me bicker with my boyfriend, that make me short-tempered with my grand-beauties…I like my happy thoughts, my *looking forward to the future and enjoying my present*  thoughts, my *how lucky am I that I live in this amazing house and love my  job which is never boring* thoughts…today at work I had a moment of clarity in what has otherwise been a very hazy couple  months.

I have been beating myself up for months, weeks, days, whatever, over things I have done that I wish I had not, things that I can’t change, and things that make my ‘now’  far less joyful than it generally is…but today the view at work was breathtaking; the sun was bright and warm but not too hot, and the air was not muggy and there were no bugs, the clouds looked like some giant was dabbling with titanium white oil paints and a big fat brush, and I just had one of those, “wow, how lucky am I?” moments…I rapidly made a mental list of all that is right and all that is wonderful in my life and found, as expected and as I damn well know,  that it was so much longer than the itty-bitty list of what is wrong.

I looked my beautiful boyfriend right in the eye this morning and said, “I like us so much better when we are crazy about each other” and without skipping a beat, he grinned that grin that makes me melt and makes my spine tingle and said, “when have we not been?”  and I again was reminded that all that is ‘wrong’  is not as big a deal as I make it in my mind.  My blessings far outweigh my curses.  I have not written in more than a month I think because I have been having such a difficult time coming to grips with aspects of my life that trouble me, and last night a cyber-space friend got me thinking about how it is not unhappiness, not dissatisfaction, not anything specific that is wrong, but just an overall feeling, knowledge I guess if you will, that things are off & unbalanced, and I have to figure out how to put my pieces in an order that feels better and feels right, but today, looking out at the bay, feeling the sun kiss the dimples in my shoulders, feeling the breeze tickle the tops of my ears, all I heard was my mother’s voice, “press on dear” and I felt more capable of changing that which must be changed, than I have felt in so many weeks.

I am not “blind as a bat” but it sure sometimes feels close to it.  I can roll over in bed and look towards the clock but I can’t see what time it is.  I can sit up in bed and look towards the door jamb but would not be able to see who was standing in it.  I could sit on the sofa and look towards the television but would only be able to see that it was on, not what was on.  I’ve been on many blind dates, my ridiculously long truck has a serious blind spot, and I have one too many times turned a blind eye…I have many blessings in my life, but the gift of sight is not one of them.

Without my glasses on or contacts in, I have about 11 inches of clarity.  I test myself often, to see just how bad my eyes are, and for example, I am typing here this morning with my coffee at my desk in front of the computer and my head is exactly 21 inches from the screen, yes, I measured, and once I take off my glasses all I can see is that I am in fact sitting in front of my computer and that the screen is illuminated but I can clearly SEE nothing…not a single letter on the keyboard, not a single number of the wall calendar, not the brand name of the phone or the printer on my desk…it’s a very odd sensation to even try to understand, for those of you who SEE, to even imagine what it’s like, to not be able to see anything.

I have many recurring dreams in my life and one of them that wakes me up in a dripping sweat with a rapidly beating heart is the one where I am running in the woods…and I never “know” if I am running towards something or from something, but I am running lightening fast and so skillfully, and the woods are thick and the underbrush is dense and yet I am able to keep my arms out and can sweep away the limbs, and then I stumble, and my glasses go flying, and I can’t reach them or see them or anything…and I get back up in my dream and begin to try to continue on, and am paralyzed with blurry fear, as I cannot see…anything…and then I bolt wide awake…

And so on Friday afternoon at 3 o’clock I left work to go have an eye exam at a new doctor…and now that I have health insurance get one free exam a year, which is splendid since I had not been to my “regular” eye doctor since 2006!  Now, to be clear, that’s a choice in where I spend my money, meaning I certainly could have afforded to go over these last many years if I chose for example to get Chinese take-out ten fewer times over the year, or bought 18 fewer bottles of wine over the year…it’s not that the eye doctor was so overpriced I could not afford to go every year as I am supposed to, it’s that as a single self-employed woman, my income is such that I have to make many choices over the days of the year as to how and where I spend the money I earn, and getting my eyes checked never really wins over take-out food or alcohol…so anyway, the nurse sets the refraction exam machine to my present glasses prescription and then the doctor starts with the exam questions, “which is clearer, one or two?”  and “which is sharper, top or bottom?”  and all those little lens discs she begins clicking in that mask, and I can’t believe as the exam is happening, how amazing it feels to SEE so well, when I say, “A or bottom,”  it’s like a whole new world is just beyond my nose when she changes those lenses to different levels of sharpness, clarity, depth…and I think in awe, “what must it be like to see like this every day?!!?”

I can’t even imagine how exciting it would be to have my granddaughters walk in my house and for me to look up from crocheting and SEE their beautiful faces without having to stop to put my glasses on, or to have dinner with my boyfriend and SEE his smile or his eyes brighten as he tastes his favorite dish I’ve  made, or the dragonflies, hummingbirds, and deer outside my walls every evening…there is so much to SEE every second of the day, and I need help to do it…SO, I got a new prescription for eyeglasses and for contact lenses, all of which are now on order.  It seems I am also now going to be a person with reading glasses strewn around the house, and my truck, and in my purse, as I need one level of magnification “readers” for when I will be wearing my contacts, and then a second level of magnification “readers” for when I am wearing my glasses but have to take them off for close up work or reading…oh lord!!  I am soon going to be one of those women with a pair of glasses on my face, one holding my hair back, and one around my neck hanging on a decorative chain!!

On my drive back to work after my exam I thought, well, I suppose I can keep all my old glasses for when I paint ceilings or pressure wash decks…meaning basically now they can just be trash…and then I had a better thought, no, they should not be trash at all…what about women who are at Providence House??  …homeless with their kids and had to leave their marriages in the middle of the night??  or were taken out of their residences by the police and had to leave their personal things behind?? or lost their glasses in the chaos of a melee and now can’t see?? …and I felt so happy thinking that when my new glasses and new contacts arrive, I’ll be donating 6 pair of clear and 6 pair of sunglasses to Providence House, and maybe the prescription won’t be accurate or perfectly clear, and maybe the shapes of the frames won’t be a style the women would have chosen for themselves if they were at a store, but for these women who can use the glasses, it will be clear to me that I’ll sleep better knowing that those women will be able to see the faces of their children a little bit clearer, and that above all, is really the greatest  sight for sore eyes…

Back when I was a young single mother of a preschooler, and every jacket I owned had shoulder pads, and I bought cans of Aqua-Net  six at a time, and did not leave the house without my makeup and hair “perfect,” I was working at a gallery and going to college at night and on my days off and basking in the delight of young love.  I was in my first “big” relationship since my divorce with a boy who I met at college who lived 30 minutes north of me who  had a big Italian family and big Italian family dinners and we were, I believed, crazy about each other.  We spent all our free time together and he and his family were wonderful to my child.  He took longer to get ‘ready’ to go out than I did and had better clothes than I did and his hair took longer to “do” than mine did and he was something of a “mamma’s boy” and very different from anyone I had ever dated but everything was wonderful, I thought…In the summer I would get my daughter on Sundays after work from my parent’s house and drive north for Sunday dinner (Yes! I liked him and his family THAT much that I would drive north from the shore on a Sunday…for anybody who is reading this who is not familiar with the Jersey shore on a Sunday after five o’clock heading north, you don’t and won’t realize the significance of this journey, but know it HAD to be love and really good cooking!!)  Everything was cooked with skill and care and the house smelled so good and the mom and the aunt and the sister had been working in the kitchen for much of the day, and the table was filled with talk and bowls piled high with amazingly delicious food, course after course, and it was a fun place to spend Sunday night.

One Saturday afternoon in late August, the summer before my daughter was starting kindergarten, my phone rang while I was getting ready to work a night shift.  I was in my robe  to have a shower and had just laid out my clothes on the bed.  I remember the outfit so clearly and in such detail because the next many minutes became seared into my brain;  I stood staring at this outfit laid out on my bed as an unfamiliar voice said to me, “you don’t know me but I have been seeing your boyfriend for over a year and now I am pregnant” and the hot tears flowed so heavily and all of these words were so unexpected and wicked that they took my breath away & that outfit became branded into my eyeballs like a logo on a steer.

You know that scene in The Big Chill, when Glenn Close’s character Sarah cries in the shower and sort of slowly sinks down the wall in sadness?  Well, as dramatic as it might sound, that is how my shower kind of went.  I did not want my daughter to hear me crying and stayed in the shower until I could breathe and think at the same time…it seemed, well no it was, that the facts of the matter were that since my boyfriend lived a half hour from me, and I worked full-time at the gallery and also went to college at night and on my days off, and therefore was often unavailable to BE his girlfriend, he took the opportunity to start dating a girl who worked as a cashier  at a Dunkin Donuts, who lived in his town and was evidently  available to BE his girlfriend all the hours that I was not.  He was able to live this -double life- because he told her everything about me, and told me nothing about her, so he only had to lie to one person not two.

All I ever really learned about this girl was that she lived some sort of low-income housing project and that she didn’t wear makeup.  All I ever really learned about my boyfriend’s family was that they loved their “mamma’s boy” so much they neglected to do the karmically correct thing, and not only allowed the morally reprehensible behavior and deception to occur under their roof and in their presence, they  silently let me be made a fool.   I later found out that sometimes this girl would have spent all of her Sunday with my boyfriend and his family at their house, and then leave when I was on my way for dinner.  I learned that sometimes when there was a family function in Brooklyn or on Long Island on a Saturday, when of course I was working and could not go, she would come along with the family instead.  I learned that people who appear to act like they like you  can look you right in the face and have many  conversations with you over the months of a  year and not once think to mention, ‘by the way, this boy you are so sweet to and so sweet on, our son,  is doing a cruel and disgraceful thing.’  This boy I loved lived with his mother, father, two sisters, and an aunt…not one of them ever thought to do the right thing and tell me of this deception and betrayal???  I really loved that boyfriend.  I never saw it coming.

They say you are blindsided when you are unprepared and attacked from an unexpected position, and the definition really fits; when you find out that you have been lied to and cheated on and deceived by your boyfriend, and also that his family hoodwinked you too, it feels like you have  been kicked or punched in the gut and you cry so much when it first happens that you are sure you might very well go blind.

It has been years since that experience, my grandchildren are older now than my daughter was then…the hurt and pain from being duped is  long gone, I live in my magnificent home with my beautiful family next door and have a job I love and a boyfriend who loves me and who I know, without question, would never ever behave like that other boy did…ah, I know…I know?…or do I think? or do I hope? or do I expect?  you see…that is the magic of healing from blindsidedness…once your vision returns you open yourself up again to the possibility that it could happen, again.  Faith in next times, over and over and over…I have learned that the possibility for next time to be better, or next time to get it right, or next time will be a better fit,  is worth trying for.  You heal, and the good thing about being blindsided is that it clears up your eyes so that you begin to really see what matters.  Being loved and loving someone is worth giving it another shot, always.

I know that my story of a dopey boyfriend when I was in my 20’s pales in comparison to some other women’s stories…to have the father of your children announce shortly after returning home from a family trip to Disney World that he no longer loves you, or to have your husband who has spoiled you and treated you like a princess for ten years announce one afternoon that he is no longer in love and has already signed a lease someplace other than the home you share…those are bigger and sadder stories but blindsided is blindsided whether your story is big or your story is small.  When we are blindsided by somebody we love, whether it’s a boyfriend and his family, or a husband, or a partner, or even a friend, it’s easy at first to think, “never again!” because the hurt is so much more powerful than the hope…but today’s message is for any of you who have been blindsided, do not give up hope, do not give up believing, just dry your eyes and let them heal, and open them wide and see all of the possibilities…