Frank...

As I left my office I could see him standing at the reception window. Making payment for his assessment. English accent? I couldn’t tell. But I thought I heard one. He was well dressed from the waist up with a shirt and sweater. His hair slicked back like a throw back from the 1950s. He’s about 65 I thought.

He stinks to the high heavens. That’s what the receptionist told me once I rounded the corner and made it into the office. I hope he didn’t hear her. The glass window isn’t sound proof. That’s what I was thinking. It’s bad enough he’s at a drug rehab facility let alone hearing that he stinks.

Frank was diagnosed with major depression 14 years ago. His face was round. His mannerisms were calm. His voice was purposeful but very soft. An elegant man. I thought to myself. An elegant man wearing what once was a beautiful wool sweater and worn sweat pants. He crossed his leg until he realized that I could see the holes in the bottom of his once expensive shoes.

I wanted to leave. I wanted to help. I saw God sitting before me. That’s how I do it. I cope. It’s God sitting there. God is me. Is you. The good. The angry. The insane. The smiling. The confused. The lonely. The hurt. They are all God. There but for the grace of God go I. Don’t judge. It could be you. Yes. It could very well be you.

He did smell badly. Terribly. I had all I could do to block out the putrid smell of urine in the room. I made an excuse to open the door. Finally some relief.

His history was both wonderful and horrific. Never married. No kids. 58 years old. Mother with dementia. They live alone. Frank tried to kill himself twice. Once, he said, was creative after he watched a movie where someone froze to death. He drank. And drank. And drank. Then after removing all of his clothes, he walked out into a blinding snow storm. 3 hours later he woke up in an emergency room.

What brings you here? I had to ask. A seizure came first. Then a car accident. The fire hydrant won. The hospital said that I soiled myself. Frank said while wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Not humiliated. But embarrassed. I still have my dignity I thought to myself. Frank needs his too. But, Frank said. I don’t believe them. I would never do that to myself. I would never be that bad.

Water gushed from the hydrant. Frank explained. He panicked and took two additional xanex just to calm his nerves. How will I tell him he has soiled himself? I wondered. Should I tell him? What would Miriam do? Should I? How? Frank was MICA not substance abuse. Now dual diagnosis as MICA isn’t nice.

I knew he didn’t belong here. My supervisor didn’t even have the chance to disagree. I had already started making phone calls the moment our intake was finished. Frank peed in a cup. I made phone calls.

Now I had to tell Frank.
What were you wearing when you were in the accident Frank? I asked looking him straight in the eye. Dignity I kept thinking. Dignity. He was wearing the same outfit as he is now. And the hospital said you had soiled yourself? I asked. Yes. Frank said. Yes they did. But I didn’t. I think you did Frank. I think you did. How do you know? Because I know Frank. I know. Then. Silence. Not one single word. He looked away and put his head down. I didn’t tell you that to hurt you. I know intentions are meaningless to the heart Frank. Please know I don’t want to hurt you. But you need to know. Thank you he said. Barely. But it was said.

I wanted to leave. I wanted to help. Now I wanted to cry.

That’s how I wish it went. But it didn’t. The truth? I didn’t tell him he had soiled himself. Dignity? Was it bad enough for him to be here? For him to have to leave? I don’t know. But I wish I had. Because I would want someone to tell me. That’s why.

Well I guess I’m done here then. He said graciously as he stuck out his hand and offered a firm hand shake. I’m sorry Frank. You wouldn’t be helped here Frank and I’m sorry for that. It pains me to tell you that as you’re actually here for help. Not many are. But you are and I’m actually sending you away. I’m so sorry. That’s all I could say. Thanks for your candor Mike. Is all Frank could say. I just appreciate your candor. It’s rare he said as I handed him a piece of paper. I hope you call these people Frank. I think they can help you. We’ll see he said. It’s not close to any bus routes and it’s too far for me to ride my bike he said as he walked away.

I haven’t seen him since. But I see him in my minds eye. Frank. God. Me. You. I.

Relax?

I don’t think it’s humanly possible for me to have one more thing on my mind.

Last night I counted the number of thoughts that raced through my mind as if they were on a giant movie screen. What was the final number? I lost track at 35.

My shoulders are up to my ears. I can feel the tension in my neck and back. Tried to take a bath last night but I don’t fit in our doll house-ish bathtub. Too tall. Damn. Relax. Breathe. I tell myself. Breath in, breath out. Deep breaths. Focus on the breath. It works, sometimes. Not always.

I listened to a meditation tape last night. A friend at work told me about it. I lasted about half an hour. Then I realized that although I was supposed to be “relaxing” and “breathing deeply” I was climbing mountains, scaling walls, taking hot baths in mineral water, imaging a happy place, looking north and coming up with magic movements that opened closed doors. That was what the tape wanted me to do in a half an hour. All that work isn’t relaxing. Is it? I turned it off.

What will life be like when there isn’t anymore drama to think about? I won’t know what the hell to do.

True Colors...

My all time favorite song has to be True Colours. Of course it has to be sung by Cyndi Lauper.

You with the sad eyes
Don’t be discouraged though I realize
It’s hard to take courage,
In a world full of people you can lose sight of it all,
And the darkness inside you makes you feel so small.

But I see your true colors shining through,
I see you true colors and that’s why I love you,
So don’t be afraid to let them show your true colors are beautiful like a rainbow.

Show me you smiling,
Don’t be unhappy,
Can’t remember when I last saw you laughing,
If this one makes you crazy and you’ve taken all you can get
You can call me up because you know I’ll be there.

I see your true colors and that’s why I love you,
So don’t be afraid to let them show your true colors
Your true colors are beautiful like a rainbow.

P.S.
I saw Dolly parton on Reba tonight. Damn she’s had too much plastic surgery and too many collagen injections. Poor thing. Looks like a fish with its lips pressed up to the fish tank for too long.

The Saga...

It’s been a complete saga.

First the offer. 10 thousand less than listing price. “Rich” couple from fu-fu area buying it for their “servants.” Fine. That was 27 days ago. We said no. Already have an offer for top dollar. But they are paying cash. So what? Still no. Why would I eat 10 thousand dollars? Not that hungry.

A few days pass. Nothing. Buyer is out of the country. No word. Then contact. We need to make our home a mother-daughter “legally.” Apartment in back is now a problem for the “buyer.” For us it would mean our taxes would sky rocket. No signed contract, no. Sorry.

A few days pass. Home inspector comes. Then nothing. A few days pass. Nothing. Buyer is out of the country again. Is he out of this world or out of the country? I asked our realtor. I just quit my job last year working for a major cable co. and the owner flew all over this world. TV went on. He’s full of BS. He’s stalling.

A few more days pass. Lower the price by 10 thousand dollars again. The “buyer” says. Our realtor says we should by 5 not 10. We do. But we say there must be a signed contract by Friday 5pm or we aren’t playing anymore. Poop or get off the pot I told our Realtor. I wonder if she told the “buyer” that. I hope so. I think he’s an ass.

Friday 10am. Our attorney calls and says we need a copy of the deed for the contract. Before it can be signed. David rushes from work to some town office and gets it. Barely makes it back before his pager goes off for an emergency C-Section. I’m too busy calling 911 at my internship because my 10:15am intake has the DT’s. He was starting to die right in front of my eyes.

The “buyer” says he’ll agree to the 5 thousand dollar reduction in price. I hope so. I’m glad. As of 2pm we didn’t know why the hell we dropped the price to begin with. Friday 5pm. No signed contract. The phone rings. It’s our realtor. The “buyer” wants to come over to the house tomorrow at 10am to have another look. This is the third showing. First him and wifey pooh in their “S” class, then the servants, now the “buyer” again. Why? No one knows. I do. They do. They just don’t want to say it and I don’t want to either.

Sure, David says while rushing into the ER again. I couldn’t be reached.

Hours later and I call the realtor. We’re done. We’re cooked. We reject the offer. No more games. It’s Friday 9pm and we still don’t have a contract. Now the “buyer” wants to come over and tear the house to shreds then make another offer. He’s not coming here to give us a hug. He’s coming here looking to knock another 5 grand off the house.

We just officially – no I just officially – unsold our home. But it wasn’t sold. Or was it? I hate second guessing decisions. It’s a game to him. That’s what the realtor said. It’s a game to him. It’s only a game I said if we play too. It’s no fun playing a game alone. I choose not to play. I’m taking my toys and going home.

Now what? If he calls our bluff there’s no sense in house hunting anymore. We’re done. We’re cooked. We’ll rent where we’re moving.

It’s a funny feeling taking control. It feels good to cut the strings but it hurts. Being a puppet – a desperate puppet – isn’t fun. But it sure as hell is scary.

No...

No. It’s a simple word. Two letters. Short and sweet. One simple little two letter word. No big deal. Right? So why the hell is it so hard for me to say?

Most people don’t like the word no. They want to hear yes. Needs must be met. No is the last thing they want to hear. Have they ever been told no before? I know I have. Didn’t like it but it’s a fact of life. Not everything is yes. But it is if you knew me.

If I say yes I please everyone. Right? Your happy. She’s happy. He’s happy. They’re happy. But I’m not.

Saying yes means you’ll like me. Saying yes means you have power over me. I need you more than you need me. I need you right now more than you need me. So I can’t say No. I have to say Yes.

Not so much anymore.

Drop the price of your home by 10 thousand dollars! Answer: No.
Can you work Thursday night’s? Answer: No.
Can you look at more houses Sunday instead of Saturday? Answer: Yes.
Do you trust me to watch Lilly alone at night? Answer: No.
Can you work Thursday night’s again? Answer: No. Still No. Always No.
Can you take another summer class this term? Answer: No.
Will you cover my group for me again this week? Answer: No.
Next week? Answer: No.
Can you come in early this Friday? Answer: Probably, but No.

I’m learning. No. What a wonderful, wonderful, word.

Ultrasound Effects

ULTRASOUND EFFECTS

Journal Entry, May, 2003
For half an hour, the earth just simply stood still. All I could see while watching that monitor was my life, my past, and future, flashing before my eyes. Maybe it was because we live so far away from Michelle and haven’t seen her since we did the inseminations, but it almost seemed at times like we weren’t actually pregnant. Standing there watching that television monitor brought it all home. What an incredible experience. There’s actually something living in there! Squirming, rolling around, having the time of their lives.

Our trip to Reno seemed especially grueling this time around. All I could think of on our flight was the upcoming ultrasound the next day and I couldn’t wait to get there. It didn’t help matters that sitting across from Mom and me on the airplane was the proud mother of a bouncy and happy eighteen-month old blonde-haired, blue-eyed, little boy. That’s what we’re going to have, I thought to myself. We’re definitely going to have a little boy.

We landed in Reno and made our way to the “resort” again, and that’s when it dawned on me that I hadn’t brought Michelle’s new cell phone number along with me which meant, of course, that I couldn’t call her and let her know that we had made it there safely. It also meant, more importantly, I couldn’t even find out what time the doctor’s appointment was the next day. I had kept a business card with me that I had scribbled down any and all important phone numbers. But, most, if not all, either didn’t have names next to them, or had faded beyond recognition thanks to being crammed in my wallet. So, I did the next best thing. I called every number on that business card that even remotely rang a bell as being Michelle’s and left message after message. Some unhappy campers were going to come home that night to the following message: “Hi Michelle, it’s me! Mike. Mom and I are here, David sends his love. We’re here safe and sound. Hope James and the kids are good. Listen, I can’t find your phone number and I don’t know what time the doctor’s appointment is tomorrow for the ultrasound. I still can’t believe we’re pregnant can you? It’s the coolest thing. Oh, and does James have to work tomorrow? Okay, well call when you can, like I said, Mom and I are here. I can’t wait to get a peek at that little munchkin in there.” Nice huh? Mike, Mom, David, Michelle, James, the kids and the ultrasound. God only knows what people would think.
I was just about driving Mom crazy that night fretting and worrying while I waited for the phone to ring.

“Why don’t you just get in that huge SUV and drive over there?” she asked. Good idea, I thought. Five minutes later we were standing on Michelle’s doorstep.

“You’re here!” Michelle said in disbelief.

“Yep,” I said with a hug, “we made it! Did you get any of the messages I left?” Of course she hadn’t. Michelle looked wonderful. She had put on some weight and was starting to show, but seemed to just glow from being pregnant. She was in great spirits.

“Every now and then there’s movement,” Michelle said as she pointed down to her tummy.

“Hopefully she’ll move around in there and you can feel it.” I put my hands on
Michelle’s tummy several times, but wasn’t able to feel anything. It was so great to see all of them. James had already left for work so we stayed for a while; played with the kids a little bit and then crawled back to the “resort” to get some shut-eye. Of course we tried our hand at a couple slot machines. Mom had become hooked on a slot machine called Texas Tea and couldn’t resist the temptation. I couldn’t either. They were nickel slots after all. The problem was that you had to lug twenty dollars of nickels around in a plastic cup all night.

The next day we met up with Michelle again after stopping by the drug store to buy a VHS tape to have the ultrasound recorded on, then we headed off on the half-hour drive to California for the doctor’s appointment. Before we knew it, Michelle was lying down on the exam table having jelly spread all over her bulging belly. Within seconds, and I mean seconds, a tiny little black and white life-form appeared on the overhead monitor. It was truly incredible. Fuzzy, blurry white images started to become crystal clear against the stark black monitor. There “it” was, happy as a clam and not a care in the world.

“Don’t even think of starting to cry, Michael,” Michelle said, “or I’m going to start crying.”

“Too late,” I said. “You’re too late.” The three of us watched as the black television monitor in the room lit up with signs of squiggling, squirming and thumb sucking. All of it was amazingly clear but somehow so unreal. The very first image that came on the screen was of him or her, sucking their thumb.

The ultrasound technician checked to make sure all was okay and even pointed out the stomach, kidneys, spine and heart. But, she seemed to be having trouble figuring out the gender. “If you’d like,” she turned to us and said, “you can go outside, walk around, even jump around – just go and move around a little bit then come back in and we’ll try to see if it’s a him or a her.” You never saw three people move faster in your life. Half an hour later we were back. Michelle was covered with jelly again, and after what seemed like an eternity and some heavy poking and prodding, the tech turned to us and asked, “You do want to know the gender, right?” All three of us said, “Yes!” in unison. “Well”, she said, “I’m ninety-five percent certain that you’re going to be having a little girl.” “She’s got her legs crossed pretty tightly,” she continued, “so I can’t be one-hundred percent certain. But I’d bet you it’s a girl.” Good, I thought, let’s hope she keeps them like that until she’s at least thirty -- I’m certainly not going to be ready to be called Grandpa anytime soon.

For the next half an hour, the earth just simply stood still. All I could see while watching that monitor was my life, my past and future flashing before my eyes. At first, I remembered coming out to my mother and how she hung her head and cried. The last thing a son wants to do is make his own mother cry, but that’s all she could do. I remembered her saying, “You won’t be able to have children of your own, Michael, and you would be such a wonderful father.” I reminded her that there would probably be options open to us by then. “True,” Mom said, “that’s true. But it’s a long road and a difficult road from now until then and you never know. It’s such a shame.” Now, almost seventeen years later, there we were watching my “daughter” having the time of “her” life. I looked over at Mom and thought about how far we had come, and she had broken down in tears.

I also kept looking over at Michelle. She was having the time of her life. Her face was glued to the monitor and all she could do was smile and giggle. I thought about how remarkable it was to be standing in a room with my mother and my surrogate mother watching my very own daughter right before my eyes. Then I flashed to the future and saw our little “girl” running around the yard laughing and giggling without a care in the world. It’s the kind of giggle that goes right to your heart and pierces your soul.

Tough questions. Honest answers?

Every now and then the “subject” comes up. Most people assume we adopted. Some I correct and others I tell the “truth.” Women always are the ones to ask. Men don’t seem to care. Last week I told the truth. Then came the questions most everyone has the balls to ask. Tough questions. Some of them. Honest answers? You decide. That’s the hardest part. It’s easier to lie. Much easier. But why?

How did you meet her? This surrogate Michelle. Through an agency. Yes. There are agencies that handle everything. Ours didn’t. But we paid dearly for what little they did.

Is it her child too? Yes. It’s my biological daughter and Michelle’s.

Does she have other kids? Yes. She has two. A boy and a girl. Her family is “complete.”

What did her husband think? I don’t know. I don’t read minds. He was very polite to us. It didn’t seem to bother him at all.

Did you pay her for the child? That’s the hardest question of all. By far. At first I would usually cringe. My throat would tighten. My lips would purse. Heart would race. Here comes the judgment. I bought a baby. That’s what you think.

Not anymore. It's different now.

Yes. I said. We did pay her a fee. So, isn’t that like buying a child because she wanted money, I mean, right? No. I said. My voice didn’t raise. My throat didn’t tighten. If Michelle was pregnant and approached us asking a price for her child then yes, that is buying and selling a child. That didn’t happen. Michelle was not pregnant when we met her.

But, there was money involved. She said. Her head turned asking for more information. No judgment in her voice though. Yes. I said. True enough. If we adopted there would have been money changing hands too. Just to a foreign country. At least we know the birth mother. At least we know she wanted to do this. At least who know who she is. It’s not easy being gay and wanting to be a parent too.

But you paid her for the child. That’s the comment that always hurts. No matter what. No matter how much time that passes. It still hurts. We paid her. Yes. I always say we. We paid her for carrying our child. For taking care of herself. For putting herself at risk. For putting her family at risk. Do they not need a mother? Her two kids that is. She risked her life for us. What we paid her wasn’t nearly enough.

Will you tell her the truth? That’s a question that makes me smile. I don’t know why. Yes. I always say. We will. If not there would come a time when Lilly would turn to us – two men that is – and ask where her Mommy is. Don’t you think? We could say she’s adopted. But why? We aren’t ashamed.

Why didn’t you adopt? Another question that always comes. We’re gay. I always say. It’s not easy to adopt when you’re gay. One can the other can’t. So you lie. Foreign countries won’t let you do it anymore either. Not many of them. Plus the child’s a different race. Two dads. Two gay dads. A different race. Too many whammies. I call them whammies. Issues really. Is that all fair to the child? You’re a black adopted boy with two daddies and a crack addict mother who couldn’t raise you and you don’t know who your father is?

Do you think she regrets it? I don’t know. You’d have to ask Michelle. If she does she hasn’t told us so. We’re planning a sibling this fall. Why would she do it again if she regretted it?

How could she give away her own child? I could never do that. No woman could ever do that. Okay. That’s a judgment. You couldn’t give your child to someone else to raise so if someone else does they are wrong to do so. I get it. Well, not really. I don’t know. You would have to ask Michelle. Tens of thousands of children – if not hundreds of thousands – are adopted every year around the world. They were “given away.” I guess mothers should abort? I really don’t know. Then don’t have a child and “give it away.” That’s what I always end up saying. My throat gets tight though. My voice does raise.

Did she do it for the money? That’s another tough one. Honesty sucks. Doesn’t it? Yes. I say. Always reluctantly. I think she did. Some of it. Not all of it. I think the money helped. I saw the look on her face when Lilly was born. That was priceless. I saw joy. Love. Pride. Mostly love. Money can’t buy that.

How will Lilly feel someday knowing her Mother asked money for her? I don’t know. I usually say. I really don’t know. However she feels I want her to be honest with us. We can deal with the truth. We can’t deal if she doesn’t tell us. Maybe counseling someday. Maybe not. At least she’s wanted. Loved and wanted. That’s more than I can say for lots of kids. Ever think of that? That sounds defensive. I know. Why is money so evil? Too much emotion attached to it I think.

Tough questions. Honest answers.

House shopping...or not.

We looked at four houses last week. Having just sold ours and gone through over 25 showings I know the horror of buying/selling all too well.

One of the houses we looked at was a 4,000 sq. ft. contemporary. I think the fact sheet said that it was built in the late 1980s. It listed for $500,000.00. All I kept thinking while walking around it was Bette Davis sitting in a chair smoking a cigarette saying, “What a dump.” Although I would have thrown in an expletive. Maybe two. Not quite a dump as it just needs a lot of cosmetics (new carpets, floors, updated kitchen, etc…). But still.

I’m not sure what disorder the owner had. But she had one. Big time. What’s it called? I have to know. Hoarder? Maybe. Oy.

There were bags, and bags, and bags, and bags, and bags of clothes. Everywhere. In every room. Stacked 10 high in some rooms. I kid you not. The master bedroom was the worst. Black garbage bags stacked up against one wall so high they nearly touched the skylight. Closets so overstuffed with clothes they were literally bursting at their seams. I thought she might have been packing - getting ready for the move. No. She made that perfectly clear. "the house always looks like this" the daugther who is an "artist" said as she rolled out of bed so we could see her bedroom.

I tried to peak at a label and see if they were designer or not. Couldn’t see. Didn’t dare open the door any wider than it was in fear we would lose Lilly forever. Our realtor said he thinks it’s a “nasty” divorce situation. I don’t blame hubby one bit.

We also toured a 1,700 sq. foot ranch built in the 1970s. 3 Bedrooms, 2 ½ baths, new kitchen, hard wood floors, new patio. Very nice. Asking price of $430,000.00 Very nice. Except the floor was buckling in the master bedroom and there was no access to the basement from the main house – you had to enter via the garage and take several small tunnels – yes tunnels – to get there. Not. Scary.

The last home was listed for $550,000.00 4 bedrooms, 3 baths, brand spanking new with gleaming hardwood floors. The issue? There were many. First the kitchen was literally from home depot. Not the nice ones either. No grass, no driveway, no trees on the property and it sat on ¼ of an acre surrounded by other homes. If I stood in the kitchen I could see into the bathroom of the home right next to ours. Not. No thanks.

3 of the home owners followed us and our gay realtor around. Wow was that aggravating. I couldn’t make any fun remarks with the owner two feet away. At one point I tried but sure enough she heard me and came running over to explain that they were getting rid of the “distressed” sofa once they moved. Distressed? Um, hells no. It’s just older than dirt. Dump it. Unsolicited advice from a stressed out gay guy looking for a home with a partner and 18 mo. old daugther in tow: If you live in an estate that has some form of notoriety fine. Then be a docent and gimme a tour. If you’re a house wife with an average home for sale in an overpriced NYC suburb take a walk while you’re realtor does the work. Thanks.

Welcome to the NYC suburbs folks.

Baby Clothes and Driving...

Baby clothes. Some are really cute. Others are just God awful. Once they know it’s a boy it’s blue. Girl it’s pink. Don’t like it? Too bad. You’ll get pink and blue. We gave/give green. Neutral. We’re men. We’re gay. Maybe that’s the difference.

There were many things I hated about baby clothes. Mothers loved all of them. I hated them. Onezies. Hated them. Who wanted to fuss with snaps the size of pin heads at 2am? Not this gay dad. Cloth diapers? Loved them for spit ups. Not for bottoms. Diaper genie? Loved her. Then. Not now. Too stinky. Dr. Brown’s Bottles? Loved them. Swing? Loved it. Bouncy seat? Loved it. Wish they made them for adults. Well, when David drives I kind of feel like I’m in one. Don’t tell him. He gets mad when I pick on his driving. Jack rabbit starts. Slamming on brakes. Head goes back and forth. Gay bobble headed doll. 40 years old though. Even Lilly has barfed when he’s driven before. Don’t tell him. I told him it had happened to me too. Liar.

I went through Lilly’s closet the other day. Weeding out. Cleaning up. She’s 18 months. Unreal. I wouldn’t want to wear some of her clothes if I were a corpse. I would wake from the dead. Find you. Hurt you for it. Nasty. Just nasty. Some of them.

My sister sent me bags of clothes. Ungrateful? Yep. Most were wooly mammoth things that you would wear if you lived in the great arctic north. Not fit for a baby. I said as I shook my head. I’ll give them to good will. She’ll never know. Until David spills the beans someday at a family picnic and I must glare at him. Then scream when we get into the car. Well. Sometimes I do both. Glare. Scream later. Or Glare and scream then. Then scream later. Whichever works.

The colors of some kids’ clothes are terrible. I must say. Plaids and polka-dots? Together? With bows? Nasty. People get paid to design this stuff right? I never tried LSD, Crack, smack, wack, coke, whatever. But. If I had. I would have designed some of these clothes and chosen the colors. Nasty. Nasty stuff some of them.

Fallen Idol?

We watched the story last night. Said we wouldn’t. But we did.

I felt bad for the other contestants. Their hopes. Their dreams. They looked devastated. Angry. Hurt. Shocked. Broken. But not quite.

Why did he do it? Why now? Money. Selling records. Why did Paula do it? Power. I guess. Simply because she knew she could. Knew it was wrong. Hid it. Lied about it. Arrogance. It’s a deadly sin. Isn’t it? It should be.

Was it cheating? Yes. Was it fair? No. Did the other contestants have a judge helping them out behind closed doors? No. Was it appropriate? No. Should she resign? Yes. Will she? No. If she didn’t do anything wrong why did she fight it? She’s guilty. Knows she was wrong.

Lessons Learned: 1). Show business is just that: a Business. 2). If it doesn’t feel right/good don’t do it. 3). Being a celebrity with lots of money and power doesn’t mean you have self esteem, common sense, or morals. It just means people feel obligated to do what you ask/want. 4). When you’re given a chance don’t blow it. Relish it. Cherish it. Don’t feel you’re owed it. Paula. Use the brain God gave ya.

What’s ironic? People will defend her. People stand up for her. He’s the criminal. Not her. She’s the victim. Right? Victim’s don’t put themselves in stupid places deliberately knowing that what they are doing is wrong, immoral and hurtful to others. Paula knew what she was doing. So did he. She’s a star being given a huge 2nd chance. Her career died. Now it’s alive. He has a record deal. No victims between them. The victims are the public and the other contestants who had no clue they were being cheated. Such is life. It goes on. The money flows.

Many will ask who cares? We care. You are. I care. I watched and so did you. Probably. It’s “reality” TV remember? That’s real life. Right? Reality TV tells us that as much as we try someone has it easier. Someone right next to us trying to do the same thing is prettier, wealthier, nicer, thinner, smarter and on and on. They win. WE lose. Or is telling us something else? Life is what we make of it? If we do stupid things stupid things will happen to us. Right Paula?

Both got their 15 minutes of fame. That’s all that seems to matter anymore. Isn’t it? Run away brides. Run away husbands. Marrying millionaires. Fighting to be hugged by Trump. Wanting to be Martha. Eating things that weren’t meant to be eaten. Making a fool of yourself for a buck and a half. Did Richard pay his taxes yet?

That’s reality? Not mine.

Done...Next!

I just did the unthinkable. I took care of myself. Sounds stupid. Sounds rather simple. But it was harder than hell.

Damn it feels pretty good.

I dropped a summer class. There I said it. I did it.

The mind chatter was constant. But underneath the guilt, the shame, the embarrassment, the fear, the little kid, the big kid, the pride, the striving for perfection was this little tiny squeaky voice telling me to take care of myself. You’re taking on too much. It said. You’re trying to do too much. It said. Take care of yourself first. Then. Them. The answer is simple. Drop a class. What’s the rush? Life? Death? No. Then what’s the rush? Me. Myself. I. That's all.

The phone call was made. No yelling. No fighting. No guilt. Just. Sure. Send us a note to confirm and what’s done is done. Have a great summer. School could have cared less. No sweat. What? No shame? No asking me why? How could I? What am I doing? I’m fucking up royally? Nope. None.

Just peace. Peace of mind.

Now on to Mother’s day.

Raven said if she had a mom she would drive four hours to see her. It hit home. Big time. Nothing is more important than family. Family first. Houses second. We see a house or two. We see Mom. Mom won't be here forever. I thank God she is now. I do. I also thank Raven. You spoke. I listened. Isn’t that amazing. From one blogger to another. One friend to another. Thank you. Two very simple words. But deeply heartfelt.

Guilt anyone?

This morning ended with my literally walking over to the bedroom door and banging my head on it. I couldn’t find a brick wall so the door just had to do.

Mind numbing angst and guilt. That’s what led to the head banging.

It’s Mother’s Day this weekend. Time for the trip to pay homage to Mom. I wish it were that easy. It should be. But it isn’t.

I told Mom that I would talk to David about it and see if we can make the 4 hour drive or not. So far Mom has emailed three times letting me know that they are now expecting us to be there, asking what time we’ll arrive, buying things for dinner, and inviting my sister over for brunch, lunch, or dinner. Bang that head. Bang that head.

The thought of emailing my mother and telling her that we might not make it for mother’s day is enough to send my chest into pains. I’d rather stick a red hot poker in my eyeball (or up elsewhere) rather than tell her we’re basically too busy this weekend to fit her in. Guilt. It’s a wonderful feeling.

So. In order to avoid saying no, hurting someone’s feelings, and trying to make everyone happy, we’ll drive two cars to where we’re moving to see some houses on Friday. Then drive another 2 – 3 hours upstate to see Mom for one and half days. Lilly will be great for most of the day. Then on our way upstate she’ll start screaming her head off which makes for such pleasant driving conditions. We’ll stay Friday night and Saturday. I’ll probably argue with my sister as she’ll be too busy to see anyone over the weekend. Then, we’ll leave Sunday morning. Arrive home Sunday evening with a screaming 19 month old in the car and be miserable as we didn’t enjoy our weekend at all. Martyr? What’s that? Me.

I’ll tell my shrink all about it Monday. She’ll look at me like I’m nuts. And then ask. “What in the name of all holy hell were you thinking???????” I wasn’t. I will say. I was feeling. I’ve got feeling and thinking down pat. Just ask my heart and my head. It’s the doing and saying no that’s the problem.

The little kid inside says oh do it. Make ‘em happy. You can do it. It’s Mom. The adult outside says you’re nuts for even thinking of doing so much this weekend you’re going to end up dead by the time you’re 45 from stress. I want to go on vacation for a year or so while mini-me and adult-me battle it out.

Bang that head. Bang that head.

Thinking....thinking....thinking....

Woke up at 5:30am. My mind was thinking. And thinking. And thinking. Mind chatter. That’s what my shrink calls it.

David was up too. Clickity click on the keyboard with the light on. He always sleeps. He must have been thinking too.

The house is sold. So far. Rich couple from Old Westbury is buying it for their…servants…helpers….I’m not sure what to call them? Her? Him? Maid and butler? I honestly don’t know. Paying cash. Nearly 400g’s in cash. Unreal. I guess they worked for them for over 20 years. Low balled us at first. Thought we’d eat 10g’s. We didn’t. The rich get richer. Maybe not this time. What if they change their mind?

2nd car broke down yesterday. A loaner from my parents. 1994 mercedes benz. Looks pretty sitting in the driveway. Key won’t turn though. That’s what you get when you get old. Right? 135K miles later. Still a good car. Even on a flatbed being towed. What if the bill is too high?

We leased a new car yesterday. 4Runner. It’s huge. Too huge. Didn’t realize it but it is. Can we afford it? Not now. Should have waited. Later. Now? Do we need it? Need a reliable car. Why so big? Is it too big? I’m not working. It’s terrible timing. It’s ours now. Looks good in the driveway next to the Merc that won’t start. What if we did it too soon?

Start a new internship today. At a drug/alcohol rehab center. I’m nervous. Don’t really know why. But, I am. Too many hours I think. 300 hour internship in 8 weeks. Can it be done? Did I bite off more than my big yap can chew? Will they like me? Will I like them? What the hell am I wearing? They want me to lead a group. Can I do it? What if I can’t do it?

ACOA’s. We have a hard time saying no. Say yes to everyone and everything. Then regret it later.

Looking at houses this weekend? Not sure. They are expensive there. Can we afford it? Are they too expensive? Taxes are terrible. Will we close on time? Where will we live? What if we sell too early? What if we can’t find a house that we like?

Lilly is getting so big. So big. She’s a little person now. Threw a fit in the car dealership yesterday. I told her no. She slapped my cheek. How do I teach her not to hit without hitting? Parenting is hard. Will I be a good parent? Where did she learn to hit from? She isn’t hit. Other kids? Daycare? What if I can’t teach her to not hit?

Found four grey hairs yesterday. Turning 40 didn’t feel like it though. Should I use that Grecian stuff? Too old? Too young? Why now? What if I pluck them and more of them grow back?

What if….what if….what if….

Histrionic. “Tell your mind to shut the hell up.” That’s what Miriam says. My shrink. I need Miriam in my brain to tell it that. What is a shrink anyway? What if I'm called a shrink? Will I like it?

Oh the mind. It’s a terrible thing when it thinks. I think.

Quit Date...

Your Quit Date is: Wednesday, March 02, 2005 at 10:00:00 AM. Time Smoke-Free: 60 days, 23 hours, 13 minutes and 41 secondsCigarettes NOT smoked: 2134Lifetime Saved: 16 days, 7 hoursMoney Saved: $533.75

Wow. I woke up and this email was waiting for me. Who would have thought? I guess I still don’t consider myself to be a “non-smoker” as I feel like at any given day I could buy 10 packs, cram them all in my yapper, light up, and smoke ‘em all. Stress isn’t fun.

Unreal to think that I haven’t smoked over 2,000 cigarettes.

Anyway. Congrats to all the non-smokers who read this blog. We should pat ourselves on the back for doing what we once thought to be impossible!

Here’s to our health.

Never take another puff. Ever.