Monday, September 24, 2012

Thank you for being a friend

red wine toast


Hi, I’m here. All humbled and shit from the OVERWHELMING outpour of love and offers of wine I received from the Internet. You people rock and make me feel so much better after my curse-filled rant. Getting that off my chest was hugely cathartic. I truly have reached the point of not caring, and that being said I harbor no ill-will toward any of my old pals.

I walked around town this weekend, looking over my shoulder expecting to see my old group of friends shoot me a collective middle finger -  which would be AWESOME and make me want to go over and hug them all and totally risk a punch to the face.

Life happens, things change and people move on. Some do it with grace and aplomb while others get all twitchy and flick people off while saying “fuck” a lot.

On a positive note, my social calendar is now full for the next 3.67 years with offers to drink wine and chat. There are few things that can’t be solved by good company and a full-bodied cabernet.

I. Am. Honored.

I am also preemptively looking for an AA sponsor.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

All apologies

I am pissed off and I want to talk about it.


When I got divorced, hell even separated, I was a mess trying to figure out to do with myself. I couldn’t decide what do with my ever-changing emotions. I went through the seven stages of grief every hour and I didn’t make for very good company. In fact, I was so concerned about the feelings of others that I ostracized myself to preserve my relationships. Who wanted to hang out with a depressed, angry, sad, liberated woman in denial?

As I sat, brewing, stewing, I was losing friendships. My reclusiveness was offensive apparently. I didn’t call people enough. I didn’t include people enough in my misery, or I was too chipper on the phone when they did call.

“Well, don’t you sound happy?” I was once asked.

Well, excuse the fuck out of me for not slitting my wrists.

I scrolled through the misery-inducing news feed on Face Book, wracked with sobs at the pictures of my old friends arm in arm, faces beaming at outings I wasn’t invited to. Week after week, month after month, I tried to pull my shit together enough to show my face to the world. The harder I tried, the further away that reality seemed and I cried into my keyboard as I let fucking Face Book shred my heart.

As time went on, I became stronger. Surer. More OK with my new life. I was ready to be at least pleasant to others. Oh how I longed for the company of my friends! How a girls’ night would renew me! I needed the company of women and the buzz of red wine to replenish my broken spirit. What a stab in the heart it was to learn I was no longer welcome in my den. I was banished and I didn’t even know why.

The pain in my stomach still lingers.

When divorce was eminent, when the last person to believe it (me) finally realized that my marriage couldn’t be salvaged, I was comforted by the support system that I had to get me through the rough spots. I envisioned my friends talking me through my sadness, picking me up and getting me out even when I protested. I imagined laughing through my tears and hugging the women who helped me to see the silver lining in the dark cloud of divorce.

Instead my phone never rang. My evenings blurred into nights and I spent them alone. I foolishly gave my friends the benefit of the doubt – surely they’re busy with their kids or jobs and haven’t had time to call. GNO pictures on Face Book! Maybe they don’t know what to say. My ex-husband at parties of my old friends!

I’ve stewed about this for months. I’ve excused the hurts doled out to me because, well, divorce is uncomfortable, right? People don’t know how to handle me as a separate entity. Who should they side with? We’re both nice people – what are they to do?

I’m here to apologize for fucking up your guest list. No really. My MARRIAGE IS OVER, but please. Allow me to extend my deepest fucking apologies.

I’ve thought endless times that if I post how I really feel that I risk losing friends. I thought that perhaps one day, my old crew would accept me and welcome me back. Maybe one day things would be as they were and we’d drink wine and laugh about the trials of being women. Maybe one day I’d be a part of the group that left me like a bad habit when I decided to end my marriage.

I guess I grew strong enough to not give a shit. Anymore.

Surely I’m not the only one this has happened to? The cliché that you divorce your entire life exists for a reason, right? Have you been a victim of losing your friends along with your spouse? I’d like to hear your story.

I know it feels good to finally tell mine.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

9/11–Eleven years later

My son asked me today what Patriot Day is. I hesitated, unsure of how to answer his question and maintain his innocence. Do I want my six-year old to know of the horrors that exist in this world? Do I want him to fear airplanes flying in the sky or people who have different beliefs than us?

The answer is no, but I answered him honestly nonetheless.

I explained that there are people in this world that are filled with hate, and they use that hate to hurt others. I told him that on this day, eleven years ago, some bad people crashed airplanes into the Twin Towers and many people died. I told him the buildings are gone now, but our country built a new one to take their place. I showed him a picture of One World Trade Center and he said, “Cool!” I hugged him a little longer than usual before he walked away.


I stared at the photo of One World Trade Center and felt a mix of emotions. This building represents our nation’s resilience, our ability to overcome adversity and rebuild. The reflective glass symbolizes our remembrance – we will always reflect on the loss our country endured.

I also felt emptiness as I gazed upon the photo. Despite the majesty of the new structure, it can never be what once was. It can never replace the lives that were senselessly taken or erase the scar with which our nation is forever branded.

I read my 9/11 blog post from six years ago and although my life has changed, my feelings have not.

It has been eleven years since that horrible day.


Eleven years ago, on September 11th, our country suffered the largest terrorist attack on U.S. soil in American history. And for eleven years, on this day a heaviness settles over this country as we mourn the loss of thousands innocent lives.

Our country, divided during this election year, comes together to honor those who lost their lives. We mourn with the families who grieve their lost loved ones and we remember the indelible mark left on our great nation. We will never be the same, and we will never forget.

Wednesday, September 05, 2012

Unadulterated Joy

We rented a huge water slide for our Labor Day weekend party. There were eleven kids and just as many adults at my house and the slide was worth every penny. It had two slide lanes and the kids had a blast racing each other to the bottom. They spent hours climbing the slippery ladder, gripping the rope as they climbed toward the sky. The summit of the slide stood 22 feet above the ground. It wasn’t called the Tsunami for nothing. Wet, muscled bodies of kids ages 4 – 14 slid down and splashed in the water below.

photo (10)

After our BBQ dinner was served and the black plastic trash bags were over flowing with red solo cups and soggy paper plates, the adults donned their suits and braved the Tsunami. Kids and parents paired up to have tandem races. My neighbor even went in her dress! The 30-Somethings felt like kids again, laughing and wiping away mascara smudges, as our kids watched with eye-rolling giggles.

As I pulled myself up the ladder, I spotted my son, Sam at the bottom waiting his turn to begin his climb.

“Sam!” I yelled, motioning with my hand for him to climb up to meet me.

I stood aside and let the other kids pass until Sam and I were together. We reached the top, dripping hose water and breathing in the faint smell of canvas and mildew.

“C’mon!” I beckoned, sounding like a 12-year old girl with my voice screeching over the sound of the dual blowers.

Sam sat in front of me and Uncle Patrick positioned himself in the lane beside us. Together we yelled, “1 – 2 – 3 – GO!”

I pushed off as hard as I could, trying to get purchase on the wet slide. I wrapped my arms around my son and felt my stomach leap into my throat as we descended.

SPLASH! We landed in the pool at the same time and almost emptied it with our enormous wake.

Sam jumped up and pumped his fists yelling, “THAT WAS AWESOME! THAT WAS AWESOME!”

His voice cracked under his excitement. Adrenaline pulsed through him as he shouted his delight.

I lumbered to my feet, hiding tears behind my water-soaked face.

I hugged Patrick and laughed.

The moment when my serious, subdued son let out screams of unadulterated joy was pure magic. Never had Sam reacted to a gift or toy with such enthusiasm. I stood in the pool at the bottom of the slide and the entire world melted away from me. All I could see was Sam, pumping his fists in Michael Phelps fashion, not from something I had given him, but from something we did.



I’ll remember that moment for all of my days.