MATTERS OF THE HEART AND OTHER FAIRYTALES AND QUANDARIES

Often times little girls are misdirected into believing love is supposed to be some once upon a time fairytale just waiting to happen.  They read about love, dream about love and expect love to happen just as it's written. So what happens when those little girls get disillusioned and suffer from a broken heart? Some of them learn how to cope with real life while others become maniacal bitches who nag, manipulate and feel like they have to beg a man for his attention. They become willing to do anything just to be loved.  Yes, sometimes their lives become a scene right out of the movie, Fatal Attraction and when confronted with reality, they get insulted that anyone might think their behavior is erratic, illogical and just down right mean or insane at times. A snake has more warmth than a spurned woman and its bite is a lot less venomous. Doesn't the old saying go something like, "hell has no fury like a woman's scorn?"

What happened the first time you had mind-blowing sex with someone and they never called again? Hopefully, everyone is saying to themselves, "I don't have an answer to that question because I've never had a one night stand."  Hopefully, each one of you has had mind-blowing sex followed by years of unadulterated bliss with the same person or you haven't suffered the slings and arrows of unrequited love. Unfortunately, for some of us that doesn't happen.  Unfortunately, some of us have mind blowing sex and if anything follows at best, it might be a mind-blowing abusive relationship. Yep! Some of us allow ourselves to believe that we can conquer or fix anything and everything and each time we allow ourselves to remain oblivious to the writing on the wall, we get repeatedly hurt  Being blinded by false love only gives the green light for more abuse to occur.  Sure, we're afraid to walk away because we have a fear of the unknown. Because of that fear we allow our self-worth to be so badly beaten down that sometimes it becomes non-existent.  For the lucky ones when enough abuse occurs, our survival instinct finally kicks in and we get the hell out of Dodge quickly with our suitcase and what's left of our dignity in hand! But a crucial lesson we all have to learn is not to piss and moan continually about the Neanderthal we live with unless we're ready to stand up and do something about our situation.  Until we have the strength to help ourselves, we really can't expect people to support our decisions and to give us the empathy we need. Before then it's just another sad soap opera playing out and we are the drama queen extraordinaires.

Yep, I've been through it myself...looked down the barrel of a loaded gun more than once. Been tied up for a sessions of sexual fun and games only to end up having my breast used as an ashtray. The scar makes me shake my head and wonder what the hell I was thinking then...obviously I wasn't thinking and didn't have much self-respect or self-worth.  The definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly with the expectation of a different result. Well, quite a long time ago I decided to get off that roller coaster ride and walk on flat ground again.  It was then I decided that the insanity I was living really wasn't appealing and I deserved a better life even if that better life meant being alone and as I always say being alone is a much better place to be than being with the wrong person...and a much safer place! Finding the courage to admit that and then actually removing myself from the game long enough for me to reevaluate my priorities and needs wasn't easy to do, but I did it because I knew I was long overdue for a change.  The insanity, the drama, the turmoil and the negativity had to stop!  Now, after 9 long years of being out of the relationship/dating game, I'm slowly getting to know someone again that I knew when I was a young girl before all the madness began.  Time will tell what happens, but until then at least now I know what I do and don't want and need and I have the courage to walk away if I see any red flags.  The hardest thing for me right now isn't telling myself that I'm worthy of getting to know.  It's believing it!

Repost from June 24, 2014

UPDATE: Here it is January 9, 2023, I'm still floating free in the cosmos amongst the other galactic matter...

LIGHTBULB MOMENTS

The post I wrote yesterday titled My Secret Admirer was about a disastrous 5-year relationship I had with a man named Sal. One might wonder how an intelligent woman would get hoodwinked into such a relationship. I've asked myself that question many times. I think the best answer I can provide is that I was at a low point in my life when Sal came on the scene. I had just given up drugs and there was a huge void in my life where drugs had been. That void was where all my self-destructive tendencies seemed to play out. I replaced drugs with work and Sal. They became my new addictions. Plus Sal was a master manipulator. He knew how to get into people's heads and how to work them. He was very clever at it.

I know we all have had relationships with people that were not meant to last for one reason or another. So why do we get into those relationships in the first place? Why don't we think things through from the beginning and sidestep the ones that are only going to end in pain? Are the relationships that don't last meant to be learning experiences to take with us into the ones that do last so we'll know what not to do? Is there never any foresight in relationships and only hindsight?

My situation with Sal grew dangerous and involved the two of us owning things jointly even though we never married. I did have some wisdom to never do that even though he asked me to marry him almost every day we were together. When it had gotten to the point of no return and I had gotten arrested (a story for another time), I had no choice, but to do the rational thing and that was to pack my car with what I could, put my children in it, drive away and not look back. Sometimes you just have to cut your losses when you can before you lose your life.

On the flip side I've also been the recipient of unrequited love, the situation started as a casual one, but  realistically how many of those things ever stay that way the more two people see each other especially if great sex is involved? Okay! I know men and women look at sex differently most of the time. I do know men can have sex as just a physical act and it can be just that and only that without feelings ever being involved and that's okay if that's what the initial agreement between the two people is, but if no such "talk" was had to begin with and then it's a whole entire ballgame! In my case, no "talk" was ever had to keep things light and casual. As the two of us spent more time together, I developed feelings for him and he didn't for me. He monopolized my time because he liked the sex. 

All the situation it did was kept me hanging onto to something I never had any chance of calling mine and ultimately it made me feel used. The nicer thing would have been for him to have been honest with me than for him to be a "nice guy" and to keep coming around because he needed someone because he was lonely and at a lowspot in his life. All it did was kept me from moving on and finding someone who would and could love me the way I wanted to be loved. I wasted a great deal on time and effort on him for nothing. He just wanted how I made him feel whenever we were in bed together and that's it. This woman needed much more than to be someone's booty call. From start to finish the relationship if you can call it that lasted over two years. Looking back, I can't believe I let it drag on that long. I guess I did him a favor by ending it because when I did within a year after that he was married.

I learned a lot from those experiences, but also those things robbed me of much that I'll never get back. While the Anti-Christ (Sal) may have stolen a piece of my soul, the thief who stole a piece of my heart may very well be the reason I found Sal or he found me. The sting of being used and feeling unworthy stays with me still to this day. My ego was badly damaged in ways I never thought it could or would. I give myself all the pep talks, but nothing I say seems to help. Yes, Sal may have been the Anti-Christ, but Johnny was the real snake in the grass.  

TO MILDRED FROM MILDRED

There are few absolutes in life. With the exception of birth, death and taxes everything else falls in a hazy gray area subject to loopholes, pitfalls and mediocrity. There is however one other thing I can say with 100% certainty about my life in general. No one should ever use my life as a model for sobriety. The road I've walked to get here has been an exhausting one. I did everything the Mildred Ratched method instead of doing them in a way that would have been faster, easier and with better results. Never being able to completely surrender has always been a huge problem for me. My inability to learn by other people's mistakes and having to do everything the hard way isn't due to any genetic mule-like tendency. My real problem stems from lack of trust. When a person is damaged at a young age, they spend their entire life either trying to heal or trying to run away... or both. 

Their futile attempts of trying to gain normalcy is like some slow emotional death sentence. Somehow they manage to prove ourselves right time after time by the unhealthy relationships they form and the tangled, drama-filled situations in which they become involved. The outcome is always the same...disaster, disappointment and despair. Throughout life I have learned how to skillfully navigate through failure, but never have learned the proper keys to success. As long as I manage to remove drama and negativity from my life, I'm able to stay afloat. As long as I isolate myself from having any intimate relationships involving love and sex, my thinking stays relatively unclouded. As long as I have virtually no life, I can live drug free. So what! So what if I can say "Hey, look at me. I stopped doing drugs!" My life absent of drugs is far from what anyone would call a life. Every fiber in me screams at anyone looking at my life for answers to look elsewhere. Anyone looking at me needs to quickly come to the conclusion that they need to do things the right way and not the Mildred Ratched method. They need to find a way to let go and trust others. They need to stick with it and know anything good in life requires great patience and extreme effort.  

So here I am 50 something years old and I'm wondering when the hell that happened. How have I managed to come so far, but never leave square one? The ugly truth is that I isolate myself just to stay sane, sober and safe. Surely, there could have, should have been some other way to get here, but Miss Mildred Mule picked the path of least resistance. She picked the path where all she had to do was do what she does best...listen to herself and no one else. Trust herself and no one else. In doing so, Mildred picked the path once again of self-destruction. Mildred's addiction without drugs is like a gun. She just keep loading her gun, placing it to her head and firing away. So far, her gun has shot blanks. So far all her gun has done is numb her to its horrors. So far, all her gun has done is kept her from living, from being able to succeed and be happy, from being able to accomplish anything that requires effort, focus and stamina. Pulling that trigger everyday is the easiest thing Mildred has ever done!

* reposted from November, 18, 2011

ME TOO! PART ONE

You see it time and time again. Some woman, any woman, maybe even some woman you may know personally experiences any sort of sexual assault and as soon as she gets the courage to speak out about her experience, she's immediately confronted with opposition instead of support. Sexual assault/abuse comes in many forms (anything from some unwanted groping to being raped) and every form of sexual abuse/assault causes permanent scars. These scars aren't visible. The scars a woman carries with her from sexual abuse have been hidden away, yet under close scrutiny those scars are worn with everything she thinks, she feels and she does. All one needs to do is open their eyes and see the pain.

I totally understand why it takes some women years to be able to speak about their experience. I understand the years of self-hatred and shame they bear. I understand the feeling of knowing how speaking out will open an ugly can of worms devouring maggots and once it's open, it can't ever be closed again. I understand the feeling of knowing how some people will think you have an over active imagine, you just want to cause trouble and of course, some people will do the worst thing possible. They'll pity you and try to keep you in the "victim" box. It's especially damaging to anyone who has managed to move past being a victim to be constantly stuffed back in that cold, dark box by everyone around them.

I understand being reluctant to say anything because once you say anything, a barrage of questions follow. How could something like that happen? Are you sure it happened that way? Why has it taken you so long to say something? Why didn't you just say no? Why don't you remember all the gory details? Being the center of attention is the last thing anyone who has been sexually assaulted wants.

I understand how people question how it's possible to forgive the person who assaulted you. Forgiveness has little to do with  the person who caused you pain. It has more to do with taking back your power and allowing yourself to heal. In order to do that forgiveness is required. That forgiveness includes forgiving yourself for being too weak to stop the assault or for putting yourself in harm's way. How many times do you hear "well, she asked for it?" No one asks to be sexually abused unless they're a masochist. For most, sexual abuse is a horrifying, crippling experience and it takes a lifetime to heal.

Imagine in some cases having someone you know and trust sexually assault you. Imagine not knowing who to tell or how to tell someone because you don't know if anyone will believe you. Imagine feeling conflicted about saying anything because you know if you say anything it will cause pain for the person who assaulted you. Why in hell should that matter? Trust me, it does matter, A twisted sense of loyalty can form to protect the person who assaulted you if you know and love that person, but along with a twisted sense of loyalty a permanent sense of dread forms as well. If someone who's supposed to love you would harm you in that way, then what is the rest of the world going to do to you? What are all those faceless nameless individuals who don't care about you going to do? You feel as long as you protect your abuser, you protect yourself as well.

Being constantly on guard takes its toll on a person. Sometimes the person lets that guard down and says "what the hell!" Some people become promiscuous as a way to deal with their pain. They see having sex as a way of being in control. So the more sex you have, the more control you have. Some people turn to drugs and/or alcohol to numb the pain. In the end, nothing works. The pain stays with you staring you in the face each and every day.

I understand that it's an ugly topic to discuss. People who have been subjected to sexual abuse would like nothing more than to keep that ugliness hidden away, but the longer it's hidden away, it festers and affects how you look at the world. It affects every relationship you have and often times, it prevents you from having a lasting relationship. Many people who go through this experience spend their entire life seeking something they just don't know how to have or where to find it.

* reposted from 9/18/18

Is There A Contractor In The House?

I was just sitting here scanning over my adult life in respect to the serious relationships I've had and well...it didn't paint a very pretty picture. It probably most resembled a Jackson Pollack masterpiece "Male and Female."  Understand that and you might understand the jumbled mess inside my head. I can't say I've ever had a healthy, intimate relationship with the opposite sex.  Once sex got thrown into the picture all bets came off the table.  Why that is I most likely can come up with a fairly accurate answer, but at this stage in my life I'm wondering how much does it really matter. Don't we all have baggage? Some suitcases just weigh more than others.

When my last relationship ended, I put myself in what I called "time out."   I guess for most people after a break up, they need time to adjust before they get back out there and throw their line back in the water to do some fishing again, but my time out has lasted 15+ years. Oh yes, you read that right. I have been celibate for 15+ years and I'll go a step further...I haven't even been on a date in that time period. Before all of you scream "WHY?" in unison, I'll give you my five cent explanation. It's rather hard to go on a date or to meet anyone if you've become a hermit. I had a rather cozy cave.

I jokingly referred to myself as a hermit on my blog over the years, but I don't know how many people actually took me seriously or knew to what extent my being an actual hermit had become a reality.  I think I was really on the verge of developing agoraphobia. When someone once called me a troglodyte as an insult, I adopted the word because I liked it better than the word 'hermit". Hermit sounded too common and who likes being thought of as being common or ordinary...or normal? Certainly, not me!

Anyway, in January of 2019 my hermit days abruptly came to an end. A childhood friend, came for a visit and ended up moving in right next door to me. Martha (Linda) was the little red-headed girl who lived next door to me in Maine and we grew up together. We've known each other since we were 4 years old and did typical Mildred and Martha secret, naughty things growing up.  Having Martha back in my life was a much needed wake up call. It was one that I hadn't fully realized I needed until now.

Physically, I was barely living when she arrived. I couldn't stand up for more than a few minutes without the pain being too intense for me to bear.  In fact, I struggled to stand up from a sitting position and sitting was uncomfortable. Doing anything seemed like a struggle.  I had fallen down the stairs and fractured my vertebrae and the recovery was very slow.  Sometimes I wondered if I was ever going to recover. My legs and feet were swollen to the size of tree trunks, but not from the fall. I didn't find out until later that I had fluid around my heart. Before Martha moved here I went days without getting out of bed and I just didn't care about myself anymore. I had given up and no one was getting on my ass about it.  Nobody wanted to deal with the wrath of Mildred so my family just left me alone unless it dealt with my safety like when my adult children banded together and moved my bedroom downstairs after I fell. They banded together because they expected me to give them a real hard time about it, but I fooled them when I never said a word.  I knew I couldn't walk up and down the stairs and they were doing the right thing. I would have been a real bitch if I had given them a hard time about being concerned about my well-being. I'm a lot of things, but being a real bitch isn't one of them. All you assholes out there who think I'm a real bitch better keep your opinions to yourself or else Mildred will have her way with you! lol 

After Martha got here, I started doing more physical things and now I can work outside all day long in the heat and humidity of Florida like I did when I was younger. In fact, I'm in better shape now than I have been in 20 or 25 years. I've lost a ton of weight and I feel good physically and mentally most of the time.  And when I don't, I smoke some weed and then I feel better. When my back hurts, the weed comes out.  When I have trouble sleeping, you know the drill. And when I just feel like kicking back and getting stoned, well I kick back and get stoned. What can I say? I'm a hedonist!

When a person becomes a hermit they forsake their need for other people.  When I went into "time out" I went into time out all the way. I wanted to cushion myself from the world and I did a great job of it for 15+ years. Nobody came knocking until Martha rapped on my door. You see, I thought it was just going to be a visit and then she left to move to South Florida. but when she left I knew she was going to move back here even though she didn't know it at the time. It was just a feeling I had and I was okay with that feeling. It didn't put me in a panic to think about not being a hermit anymore. 

And I was right! She moved here shortly after she left for South Florida. Who wants to live in South Florida with all those people anyway? (There goes that hermit in me talking!) When the house next door to me came up for rent, Martha jumped on it and moved in. What I discovered is that I'm not a hermit after all. I enjoyed having a friend to do stuff with and even when we weren't doing anything, but goofing off doing nothing we still had a good time doing it. You know why? Because we're Mildred and Martha and Martha and Mildred, that's why! We're one hell of a team!

Unfortunately, Martha moved back to Maine about a week ago.  Sometimes things happen and make it so we have to make difficult decisions.  Doing the right thing is rarely easy.  Right now, we all live in difficult times.

I'm empty now and I'm scared. I definitely know how to be a hermit, but I don't want to be a hermit again.  Is it wrong that I want someone? That I need someone?  Oh, I know we're in a pandemic...blah, blah...BLAH and social distancing and all that hoopla and I have to be a hermit to some extent and yeah, I can do that. I'm good excellent at it, remember? I did it for a very long time! Geez! I thought something was wrong with me when I kept reading on other people's blogs about how blue they were about being locked down during the coronavirus. I was afraid to tell anyone that I was okay with it because I had been doing it for so long that it was just second nature to me. It was no big deal. But now, what?

My grand plan that Martha and I used laugh about was that when the pandemic was over and I felt I was back to my old running shape I was going to start hanging out....not in bars...fuck that! but I'd go to Lowe's or Home Depot in the Contractor's section and pick-up a contractor so I could get someone to help me to fix my house (you know we could work something out in trade...). I'd say, "Baby, show me your tool belt, your tools and your truck...and definitely your financial statement!"  He'd probably call security on me and have me kicked out of the store.  Hey, it's been awhile since I've picked someone up, but I bet I can still do it.  My daughter gets aggravated whenever we go anywhere together and men flirt with me and not with her. ha! I think it's hysterical.  My pheromones must be stronger than hers.

Anyway, I miss my Martha. I talk to my dogs. I talk to the birds and of course, Cecil. I talk to all the plants I planted in my backyard. I talk to myself. That's a trip. Damn it! I need a person. Maybe I should buy a mannequin or a blow-up doll. What do you think?  Does anyone want to volunteer to be my person?  Mildred does not bite! Much :)

Sex and the Red Sox

2018 World Series Champions - Boston Red Sox

Way back in 2005 (when blogging was still in its infancy) as part of a lost bet, I was "instructed" to compare the Boston Red Sox to sex and then post it on my blog for all to see. Here’s what I came up with:

Men claim there's no such thing as bad sex. They claim sometimes sex is just better than other times. If that's the truth, it works that way with the Red Sox and their various seasons as well! A Red Sox season might start out with incredible chemistry and endless possibilities, but all too often turns limp and impotent after the seventh inning stretch or during September when giving it your all really counts. But sometimes on a good day when the moon is in the seventh house and the Jupiter is aligned with Mars, a season gets burnt into the Red Sox Nation’s collective memory. When that happens, all other memories pale in comparison. I've got to admit win or lose, like sex, ALL Red Sox baseball is good, but winning is great.

Maybe it's that arrogant cockiness of knowing something great is about to happen that makes a fan breathless in anticipation of what comes next. As with any memorable interlude that starts out with maybe a look across a room and ends with a night of fiery passion with someone you just can't seem to get enough of, the Red Sox command the same type of passion with its fans. The whisper of a sweet nothing between lovers translates into "I don't believe in curses" and ends with doing the impossible. Oh My God! The Red Sox started an explosive orgasm felt worldwide by winning the 2004 World Series.

So we, the Red Sox Nation act like puppies in search of yummies. Year after year the fans have been subjected to unsatisfying quickies and performance anxiety. We continually hear what seems like, “not tonight honey, I have a headache” yet year after year we remain hopeful. We remain faithful. We chose monogamy over "playing the field" when going elsewhere for satisfaction would have been easier and much less frustrating. We keep hoping that hanging in there long enough the Red Sox might stumble onto the right combination of moves so a real explosion will occur. As with sex, so goes baseball...the chemistry has to be there and every step, every move has to be taken in unison and when the climax finally occurs, the game is won and the fans go wild in the stands and in the bars and in the streets everywhere across the nation.

I remember the first moment I knew the Red Sox were going all the way. The Yankees gave the Red Sox that memorable ass-kicking in their own house during the 3rd game of the 2004 ALCS, but the Sox came back to beat them in Game 4. That was when I knew! I felt the fire! I told everyone, but no one believed me. Most people laughed, but I knew that they had finally blossomed and was ready to be deflowered. While I believed, most of the world thought the Yankees would be the team once again going to the World Series. Everyone loved pointing out that the Red Sox would peter out like a frustrated old man with erectile dysfunction who never quite goes the distance. Those doubters were wrong! The Red Sox beat their nemesis, the New York Yankees and as I watched the last minutes of game 4 of the World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals, I held my breath...I couldn't breathe...I wouldn't breathe! My son looked at me as I started to turn blue and told me to breathe or else I'd pass out, but I hear oxygen loss heightens the climax! Ha! Could it be possible that the Red Sox would sweep the St. Louis Cardinals?

How could I explain to him the moment at hand was a moment I had waited my entire life to witness and to feel? A moment I had truly thought I may never see happen, but there it was happening right before my eyes. While other teams have moments like this often and their fans cheer them on, The Red Sox waited EIGHTY SIX years to have a gushing multiple orgasmic moment that not only rocked the world, but made people everywhere (even the Chicago Cubs) believe anything is possible. I hate to sound greedy, but 86 years to remain celibate is a little much for anyone! But once their virginity was lost, the Red Sox learned to play like champions and win like the champions we all knew they could be! Then 9 years later with not one, but two World Series under their belts, once again the Red Sox Nation was hungry. We all lusted for more as the Red Sox once again played the Cardinals and once again the Red Sox got the job done and left a smile on every face of the Red Sox Nation.

Now, on October 28, 2018, the Red Sox went all the way once again and every person who resides in the Red Sox Nations knows without any doubt win or lose, we will still love the Red Sox tomorrow and forever and always. Congratulations to the 2018 World Champions on another job well done! You guys continue to rock my world and I hope I'll be able to repost this many more times in the future!

THE ROAD TO NOWHERE - PART III

So how does one get properly "rubbed" in Nub City? I have to admit that being a Yankee was a definite disadvantage at times, but being fresh meat more than made up for being a Yankee. Hey, believe it or not, many Southerners are still  fighting the Civil War and I definitely enjoyed enlightening them about who won that war. Yes, this Yankee had big brass balls that made riding on her broomstick a difficult undertaking.

After spending the summer in Maine, As I previously mentioned, I traveled South with my two brothers, Jeff and Brian and Brian's family.  Brian had enrolled in a school in Northwest Florida, so instead of flying home at the end of the summer, I hitched a ride on the family caravan going South. The August days in Maine had already started to feel like fall, so when we arrived at our destination to find summer still alive and well, we all were happy.  After settling in, we explored what there was of a town and easily found the local swimming hole.  It was located at wayside park just outside of town on Holmes Creek.  Of course, we became the immediate center of attention.  As newcomers, we were objects of continuous scrutiny, only to be studied from afar and not approached...at least not yet.  We needed to be fully vetted first before any serious mingling could happen.

We arrived at the creek in a 1969 green convertible Mustang, top down and music blasting. The Yankees had arrived! When in Rome, do as the Romans do... so we took turns jumping off  the rope swing into the spring-fed creek.  I can't adequately describe the sensation of hitting that frigid water, but if you've ever done it, it's an experience you'll never forget.  When playtime was done, we loaded up and left the park as pristine as when we arrived.  As we sat at the park entrance waiting to turn out onto the highway, suddenly behind us appeared a bright red Chevy Chevelle SS with wide black racing stripes.  Inside were two young Southern gents who were obviously a little braver than all the others had been.  From the backseat of the convertible, I motioned to my brother to gun the engine and peel out as we left.  The Chevy stayed right behind us...close enough so I could see the faces of the two guys inside.  As I looked directly at them, giving them my best "hello boys" look followed by blowing them a kiss, I said to my family, "I wonder who these two jokers are!"  As soon as we crossed into the "city" limits and turned down the road on which my brother lived, the two jokers disappeared into the haze of the lazy summer heat. 

I was an eighteen year old new kid on the block in this small Southern town with a population of less than one thousand.  This new position wasn't exactly the position I had on my bucket list, but this position definitely had its advantages. I could tell by the inquisitive looks people gave us as they drove by my brother's place that they hadn't quite figured out who belonged with whom and what was going on inside. This was something I was used to by now and always liked the initial reactions I got when the truth finally came out. And the truth always did come out...eventually! But for the time being, I was going to savor the looks I was getting and just sit

back and let people wonder. Being the object of speculation sometimes can have very interesting outcomes. I think it might be described best as mental foreplay. And in this case, the outcome was not only interesting, but a lasting one as well.

My brother, Brian liked the game. He liked being admired. I laughed when he set up his weight lifting equipment outside in the front yard next to where he kept his customized BSA motorcycle. Not long after he started his daily workouts, the drive-byes increased. The brave ones did walk-byes and even waved hello occasionally. We'd been there several days, when early one evening Brian decided it was time to take a walk "uptown." We strolled through the center of what seemed to be a one-horse town...a post office, a grocery store named the Dixie Dandy, a small hamburger joint named The Burger Smith, a gas station, a convenience store and of course, a real live honky-tonk on the outskirts of town called The Cat's Eye. 

A group of locals were clustered around a bench placed outside the post office. The area was considered the town square. As we approached, the noise from the small crowd died down in anticipation. When we reached the group, Brian stopped and we introduced ourselves to the handful of people who seemed quite mesmerized by our presence. We chatted long enough to show them that Yankees could be friendly. As we left we knew we had given them plenty to talk about for days to come. 

The ice had been broken and now I was anxious to see what would follow. In the next few days I met another female who became my first friend in Vernon. Carol was from Miami and like me, she had found her way to Vernon under unusual circumstances. Maybe the fact that we were outsiders was what gave us an immediate common bond. From the moment we met, it seemed like we had been friends forever and at our age that title came with the subtitle of "partners in crime." We were two new females in a very small town.  That dubious distinction earned us the title of being new meat...me, a thinly sliced, medium rare piece of roast beef riding shotgun and Carol, a slightly thicker sliced piece of brown sugar cured ham was at the wheel of her white Duster.  From the moment I met Carol I had a hunch that our time in Vernon was going to be a learning experience for both of us.  Looking back now all I can proclaim is how right I was!

Seldomly, do we meet people in life that can give their friendship without a price tag. I was fortunate to have found a friend in that one horse town who not only loved unconditionally, but also withheld making judgment calls as well. Carol was a true free spirit. Yes, she had faults and it was one of those faults that heightened the danger factor of our friendship and made our time together always an adventure.

I tend to gravitate towards the edge. It’s where I feel most comfortable. Maybe it’s the suspense, the thrill, the uncertainty of the outcome that makes teetering on the edge so appealing to me. Whatever it was, that certain something was a definite factor in what kept a smile on our faces in those days. The day I met Carol, we headed off to Panama City Beach to have some fun in the sun. The guy Carol was "with" had a friend, so the pairing off was a given. I usually don’t do prearranged dating set up by a friend, but I was bored and in dire need of some male attention, so WTF?

That trip to Panama City Beach turned out to be one that stayed with me my entire life. Donnie Arnold was the guy I was paired up with and I can't honestly say if under different circumstances he'd be someone who would have piqued my interest, but that day he had my full undivided attention. Carol and Jerry McDade "disappeared" down the beach while Donnie and I frolicked in the Gulf of Mexico and had sex for the first time right there in the warm salt water. We laughed because I lost my underwear and pictured some tourist finding them later washed up on the beach. We could picture that person trying to figure out how some female lost her panties on the beach. I should have stamped them IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO OWNER (with my address in very small text.)  I did, however manage to hold onto my shorts, so I didn't have to exit the water bare-assed.

 

We stayed overnight in a house near the beach and it wasn't until years later that I discovered that Donnie's family owned many beach properties and also a motel somewhere on Panama City Beach. I wouldn't be surprised if it was named The Dew Drop Inn or something equally redneck sounding. Looking back, I'm fairly sure that the place we stayed was owned by his family because there was no checking in process and like magic, he pulled a key out of his pocket that unlocked the front door.

Donnie and I didn't really talk that much because we were too busy doing other things. Getting to know each other didn't seem to be high on our agenda. Our midnight rodeo lasted all night and by the time morning rolled around, I felt like I had been bull riding and the bull had gotten the better of me. YEHAW! It actually hurt to walk, but I was too proud to say anything. My only request was discreetly asking Carol if she had a clean pair of underwear I could borrow since I lost mine the day before. Ordinarily, I would have gone commando, but I was so sore my shorts rubbing against me made the pain worse. We all had breakfast and then headed back to Vernon. It wasn’t until that morning while we ate breakfast that I found out that Jerry was not only married, but was married to a legendary bitch in those parts. Rumor had it that his wife, Peggy would just as soon shoot you as look at you. Yes, birds of a feather flock together and just as free spirits (aka "saucy tarts") tend to seek each other out and form alliances, the psycho bitches of the world do the same.

The next day I tried to hunt Donnie down to retrieve my ring he had slipped off my finger and had decided to hold hostage. When he removed my ring and put it on his pinkie, I assumed that he did it as a way of seeing me again. He knew I'd come looking for my ring, but when I did, I found out he had been arrested and was in jail in Chipley. Carol, a guy named Chip Coatney (he was one of the "jokers" in the red Chevy Chevelle I previously mentioned) and I drove to Chipley to get my ring. We stood outside the old jail and hollered up to Donnie on the second floor to get his attention. Chip immediately started to razz Donnie about being in jail and put his arm around me as he gave Donnie a hard time. I looked at Chip like he had lost his mind and Donnie laughed at Chip as he threw my ring out the barred window. And that was the last I ever saw of him. I never did find out why he had been arrested and to be honest, I wasn't curious enough to inquire. I just went about my merry way and figured if he was interested he'd look me up when he got out of jail. Until then I turned the page and started a new chapter.

THE ROAD TO NOWHERE - PART II

So how do you mend a broken heart? Chin up? Chest out? One foot in front of the other? At 18, all I wanted to do was dull the enormous ache in my heart until it completely went away. For me, it was all about living in the moment and rarely saying no to anything. The crazier it was, the better I liked it. If it rattled around in my head long enough and became an actual thought and if it brought a twinkle to my eyes and a smile to my face, it definitely got done regardless of the consequences. 

Going back to Maine that summer was a trip in every sense of the word. For the first couple of weeks I was there, I didn't leave my brother's house nor did I try to contact any of my old friends. Although I wanted to see all of them, I was scared to death to see any of them. When I finally worked through my fear, I boldly went to my old neighborhood...unannounced, of course. As I walked through town, everything seemed much closer to the street than what I remembered...and smaller. When I reached my old house, I stop dead in my tracks. The driveway seemed so short compared to what I remembered. Later, I was told it seemed much longer to me then because most of the time I had to crawl up it to go inside my house. Not really! But it was true that my brain was remembering things through the clouded vision of a druggie. I was always high from morning until I finally closed my eyes at night. Drugs threw off my perception of everything and everyone around me.

As I went through the process of trying to figure out what I was doing in Maine. I picked up the phone and called the drug rehab (Kinsman Hall) I had been released from only months earlier.  I still had friends there and there was someone there I wanted to see that I felt I should have a conversation with and see if he'd agree to see me. It was important to me that I finally tell Stacy how much he meant to me even if he didn't feel the same way about me. I knew all outside calls would have to go through staff so I was hoping to catch a friendly face. I was glad when it was Mike Morra who took my call. What I wasn't counting on was being told to stay away from Stacy. This seemed to be the same theme from day one for Stacy and I as far as Kinsman Hall saw it. I never figured out why staff was so dead set against he and I being together but that's how it was. I was forced into accepting that when I left Kinsman Hall I'd never see Stacy again.
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When I finally came out of my self-imposed prison at my brother's house, I was told repeatedly by people how good I looked and how healthy I looked. Go figure! Two plus years of being clean will definitely do something to a person. I ate right. I got enough sleep and I wasn't high all the time and nor was I engaging in risky activities. I knew what being around my old partying friends would lead to, but I went around all of them anyway. Willpower isn't one of my strong points unless willpower is fueled by desire and determination. After all I did quit smoking cigarettes over 25 years ago while living with a chain smoker. With the right fuel I can do most anything. So needless to say my willpower flew out the door and I eased my pain in a way that seemed so familiar (like an old comfortable shoe or a great fitting pair of jeans). I scratched that itch, but I had a much bigger itch that needed scratching. I needed to get laid! I'm sure I could have rustled someone up to do that thankless task, but I held off until left Maine and returned to Florida. My scorecard remained at one in Maine. My first love was the only person I slept with while I lived in Bangor. For some reason I felt I needed to keep that record unblemished by keeping my pants on my body and avoid being horizontal around anyone tempting including him. By the time I left Maine that summer, my hormones were at a fever pitch and I was ready for some good old promiscuity. I wanted cheap, sleazy sex and I wanted it from someone who could go the distance without a lot of hoopla. 

Instead of returning to Pensacola, I tagged along with my brother, Brian and his family. My brother was going to attend a heavy equipment class at a vocational school in Chipley, Florida.  Being the new kid on any block is a difficult situation regardless of where that block is located. This new fishbowl I landed in was an unfamiliar rural Southern country town that could have been taken right out of the movie, Deliverance.  Everywhere there were faces of strangers waiting and watching, but what they were watching and waiting for made me a little uneasy.

Vernon was dubbed "Nub City" because so many residents there make limb loss insurance claims to supplement their income. In 1981 several years after I lived there Vernon was featured in a documentary highlighting the eccentricities of the people who lived there. The movie angered many residents who felt the documentary portrayed the area in a negative light. Negative light?  How could blowing off your arm or foot with a shotgun for insurance money be considered negative?  Shouldn't it be considered creative and ingenious instead? Oops! There goes my good old Maine sarcasm acting up again! Boys will be boys and rednecks will be rednecks and if you combine the two and get lucky what you get is something the Beatles sang about...Happiness Is A Warm Gun. 

I was ready to get this show on the road and stir up this tiny fishbowl. I desperately wanted someone's finger on my trigger, so the only logical thing to do was to put checking out the local talent at the top of my list. I was confidant I could find a suitable warm gun to scratch my itch. Bang! Bang! Shoot! Shoot!

THE HOUSE WITH PEACOCK CURTAINS

The year was 1974. I remember eating a lot of bologna sandwiches and actually liking them. Sometimes those bologna sandwiches were washed down with mushroom tea. I guess when you’re young and perpetually high, eating anything tastes great even the putrid tasting mushroom tea cut with kool-aid in attempt to hide the horrid "earthy" taste.

We lived in a small 2 bedroom house on Highway 90 in Chipley, Florida (population: approximately 3,000). My bedroom had peacock curtains. Looking back, I really think those curtains were symbolic of my life and times…loud, proud and wowed. We would fell asleep each night listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd and Pink Floyd then awake to Bad Company. And in between there was sex, sex, sex…lots of drugs and a few bologna sandwiches to keep our strength up for those midnight rodeos.

We were 3 females, Carol, Theresa and I who lived together, worked together at Evergreen Construction Company and played hard together. Of the three of us, I was the only one who stupidly got pregnant during that era. I had a beautiful baby girl, but my life was meant for anything, but traveling down some conventional avenue. I was on the fringe teetering gracefully on the edge and there I have remained doing my own thing whatever and wherever that thing has been over the years. Carol married and became a teacher. Theresa remained single and I have escaped finding a love as colorful as those peacock curtains. 

Those days seem like so long ago, yet when I get together with Theresa or any old friend it all seems like just yesterday. Our lives have changed immensely over the years, but I think the more things change the more they ultimately remain the same. So in remembrance of those good old days and the people who imprinted themselves upon my life, I flick my Bic and inhale slowly…deeply until my smile glows from within and the memories warm my chilly heart. Here's to you, the peacock curtains and the love I've yet to find!

SEX AND THE KITTY

The past week has been hard for me. The lightbulb has gone off several times and I've found myself saying, "WOW! an epiphany!".
What's strange about these lightbulb moments are that they have come at odd times when I wasn't really engaged in deep thought. It's almost as though some stuff I've kept stuffed down for so long is surfacing because it has no place else to go, but up. These moments are allowing me to see me in a different light.

I think the strangest of the epiphanies is the one concerning sex. Since a very young age I've looked at sex through hedonistic eyes. At times, I've been very promiscuous, but I've never felt bad about being sexually uninhibited. For the last 5 years I've been in self-imposed "time-out." Okay, that time-out came as a result of a broken heart, but nonetheless it has given me time to distance myself from something I always felt clouded my judgment. In my case, sex makes me brain dead. The more I have, the more comfortably numb I become. Sex has completely destroyed my judgment skills and has left me morally bankrupt. Now throw drugs into that mix and yourself have free-spirited, pleasure-seeking junkie!

Can I link my bad behavior to any particular cause? You betcha! But instead of feeling angry, I feel sadness. I feel sadness for all the time I truly wasted on cheap, sleazy sex and thrill-seeking scumbags. I feel regret for all the "nice" men I've known and have never given a chance because they weren't Billy Badass. I always believed nice=boring and for me nice just didn't get it done. Masturbation was more stimulating than sex with a nice man. I can't tell you how many first dinner dates I sat engrossed in pleasant conversation with a perfectly nice man while my head is screaming, "NOT IN THIS FUCKING LIFETIME" as I tried imagining my long legs wrapped around my dinner date doing unmentionable things with them.

What disheartens me the most is realizing that my most memorable personal accomplishment is having a lifetime filled with being self-destructive. Oh, but instead of getting the job done all at once, I felt I deserved a lifetime of being dragged slowly over the coals to kill myself a little at a time. Now, I'm trying hard to find ways to break that cycle. For someone who has always acted on impulse, it's difficult to leap cautiously back into life and then stop myself to ask questions first before I do anything.

Do I really want to do this? Is this the right thing to do? How will it effect me? Those are basic questions that most people have been asking themselves all their life, but those questions are a major thing for me! Being "normal" is overwhelming to say the least! I really didn't realize how far down into the pit I've fallen until I started trying to climb out. Hopefully, what hasn't killed me will only make me stronger. Hopefully, as I peel away the layers of semen-laced crud, I'll see the person others see. And hopefully, as I climb my way out into daylight, I'll be able to forgive myself as easily as I have forgiven others who have caused me pain.

Gratitude statement: I'm thankful for having 20/20 hindsight.