Sigh of Relief

My father died June 25.

But my real father died several years before that.  I can't place an exact date, but I lost him for good sometime in the Fall of 2003.

Alzheimer's disease stole pieces of him as early as 1999.  And then kidnapped and killed him by 2003.

The shell of the man left behind wore his face, but it was not him.  The shell of the man had his voice, but it was not him.  The shell of the man lived, but it was not him.

The last 3 years of the Shell-man was in a vigil state coma, a wakeful semi-conscience place, not dead but alive.  Constricted muscles, treac in his neck, Shell-man could open his eyes and move his arm.

That was it.

My father read the New York Times, every morning.  He loved photography, and was into computers before it was in every household.  Even though he had lived stateside for over 50 years, he spoke with the most beautiful Puerto Rican accent.  Like having Ricardo Montalban in you house. "Janie!  Breekfas'!  Come don to eeet!"

He had ticklish feet.  A trait you don't share with a little girl that loves to make her father tuck up his feet under the blankets.  And he loved to watch boxing.  The old timers; the Greatest, Ali.  I would sit in the living room and try to understand the shorthand he spoke to my grandpa.  "Upper cut! Upper cut!  Jab, jab! Knockout!!"  My uncle could make him laugh so hard tears would slip from the corners of his eyes. We would watch the Muppets and Jeopardy!  We could discuss Andy Rooney being such a cranky old man.

My favorite memory is from September 3, 2001.  Having the day off for Labor Day, I ran some errands, then met Pop in midtown to see "Amelie".  He bought the tickets, I got the popcorn.  For two hours my Pop and I watched the sweet French woman in hues of green and red.  Paris was a feast of color, and we ate it up selfishly.  After the movie, we talked about all the different neighborhoods we'd recognized, how as a family we needed to go back, (we were always finding reasons to vacation in Paris as a family), how beautiful the day.

During his three year coma, I came across so many women who didn't have such an incredible relationship with their fathers.  Women who now had hateful relationships with their husbands, or ex-husbands.  Women who spread their legs for any man that looked in their direction.  Women who barely spoke to the fathers because .... just because.

I always kissed Shell-man, told him how much I loved him.  Told him, he could GO, if the time was right.  If his eyes were open, I would look for my father.  Sometimes I could see him.  Most times, there was emptiness, a void.  He may not have been in pain, but we suffered as a family.  Yet we soldiered through.  Mom Jane would visit every day.  The nursing staff knew her, and she knew them all, by name or nickname.  My brother, the rockstar, progressed from being too scared to be in the building to sitting by his side.  And I would bring Mini Me Jane, always.  The cycle of Life includes weakness and sickness, not just picnics by the beach.

The mourning process isn't just for death; I believe it's for any loss, any life challenge/crisis.  Divorce, sudden job loss, fire, flood.  Denial, bargaining, anger, sadness and finally, release.  Letting go.  There is no guide for when the steps should happen, no timeline for how long they should last.  And the purpose for the process is to give the individual life balance.  The process becomes a solid foundation.

We mourned him while he was in the coma.  All the steps, but one.  When Pop Shell-man finally died, we were relieved.  He was at peace; we could let go. Sigh.  Exhale.  The final step.

I've Got This Friend.....

I've got this friend I did a play with.  Cupid Jane is 17, but one of the most poised, intelligent, gentle, beautiful people I've ever met.  When we opened the play, she wrote me a sweet note, saying that she lost her mother to cancer 4 years earlier, and I reminded her of her mother, "just a little bit, in the general vibe in which you are ensconced."  We stayed friends, and recently she invited me over for vegan dinner.  While there she said, "I was at the refrigerator, and I thought, 'my dad should date Jane.'"  I hemmed and haw'ed.  Gave her my "I'm happy in this place, just me and Mini Me" speech.  Finally I said, "if he wants to take me out to dinner, give him my number".  A week later, he called, we agreed to go out Saturday night.

He drove to my place, picked me up, and we went out for dinner.  (A note about where I live: normally people don't like to cross rivers.  Families have separated because someone will move two miles away on the other side of a river.  So the simple act of him coming to pick me up, is very impressive.)  Our date was so relaxed, easy. We talked about his wife (she battled cancer for six years until she passed in 2007), places we'd traveled to and visited, our college education, life in general.  Afterwards we went to a local wine bar.  He drove me home, asked for a kiss.  End of night.

The next morning he sent me this long, beautiful email.  Complimenting me, nailing my person to a T.  He read me like a book.  It was incredible.  The connection was very real.  We texted back and forth, and he agreed to join me for a movie that afternoon.  It felt so good to be with him.  So natural; I could really be myself.  Like minimal make-up, snort while I heartily laugh, cotton underwear myself.  That evening I sent him a copy of the song "I've got this Friend " (by the Civil Wars, just sweet and perfect).  He loved the song.  He got it.

The next day he asked if we could have lunch.  He bought a few things (a big bag of popcorn for me, orzo with tomatoes, broccoli with sesame seeds, cherries).  We found a park, he laid out a blanket, and for 40 minutes we talked, ate and kissed in the park.  It wasn't Monday-it was a modern day, romantic lunch.  It was a real life scene from a movie starring Emma Stone.  As we got into his car, we tried to switch back into "work mode", file this beautiful scene back in the personal folder.  He turned the car on-THE song was just beginning.  It was not his phone, cued up.  Just a random radio station that played the song at 1:30pm.  The Universe was aligned and agreeing with our connection.  I smiled the whole way back, perfect time to my office building.  I was hooked in that moment.  

We have been silly and "together" ever since.  I was at his house recently one night after a very long day.  He carried in my bag, ran a shower for me, gave me dinner, and then, AND THEN, asked me to dance.  In his living room. To Our Song.

We all have that moment in a relationship that we pray for, that we daydream about.  Those innocent romantic "radio outside my window" situations we hope really do happen.  Mine has always been to slow dance to a romantic song in the arms of my soulmate.

My fifteen year old cried happy Juliet tears.  A whirlwind of sweet romance and vulnerable emotions, and saying yes to the Universe.  I'm nuts about him.  My every thought is, I wonder if he's heard this, read this, seen this?  He wants to travel with me.  We talk on the phone like love struck teenagers; we can't keep our hands off each others.  I love kissing his face, holding his hand. 

And the sex......

Its been a really, really long FUCKING time since I've been with a man who knows foreplay.  John my Sweet does foreplay like he has a Master's degree in it.  P-H fucking D.  So refreshing to be with a man who believes is taking his time.  Who knows that sensuality begins with a gentle touch on the skin, not with the assaulting thrust of a hard penis into your neck.  So refreshing to be with a MAN.

He shared with me his List, you know, the wish list of qualities we want to have in the ideal mate.  I matched 7 of 8. Seven.  To say its just a coincidence is to deny Divine energy.  He says things to me, does things, that I've always wanted in a partner.  I've fallen hard, and he's right by my side, tumbling with me.  We don't know how long we'll be heady like this.  I'm on this ride and I'm so glad he is with me.  He wants to meet my MOTHER (for me that is very valuable).  

If you are looking for that love, let me suggest this to you; put aside the external qualities.  Go with what makes you feel loved and appreciated.  Then look around and see love everywhere.  The elderly couple walking side by side.  The teenagers stuck in a passionate kiss.  The husband and wife playing with the toddler in the park.  The man walking his dog, smiling.  The woman on her cell phone laughing.  The two people dancing to a silent song.

Origami Swan

(VERY EXPLICIT BLOG.  SKIP THIS IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY PROFANITY)

Despite popular belief, I'm not perfect.  I've made poor judgement calls, shopped impulsively, and in my dating years, flirted with bad boys.  I can forgive myself because its all a part of the learning experience.  And the great thing about life is its continuous, so you always have a chance to learn.

Or just fuck up.

Back in February of this year, I was feeling unloved, unwanted and just lonely.  No job, my family far away, I found comfort in Facebook.  I chatted with friends back in NYC on PM.  And then John the former lover began to message me.

John is married.  With THREE children.

Our private message was very explicit, not so different from the current political scandal.  I'm my lowest saddest weakest moment, I agreed to see him in June for a 3 day fuckfest.  His wife and children would be in their home on the East Coast; he travels for a living.

I spoke with my spiritual advisor, Jane.  She admonished me.  She let me have it.  I debated with her. "If he's screwing behind his wife's back, I may as well get in line!"  "It's wrong Jane, don't respond to him, don't do it."  I went into meditation.  After an hour, I felt calm and clear.  I deleted him from my Facebook friends, my address book, everywhere.

Aside from the spiritual hurt I would cause the wife and children, I would hurt myself.  The lonely feelings were my own; I had been so far removed from myself, I had forgotten how to love myself.  I nurtured myself again, gently lovingly.

Life went on, in its fantastic magical way.  I got stronger.  I found my Venus within and I loved her.  I began acting in a play, pouring all my energy into the role.  I got a full time job.  I began to actively listen to myself; what am I hungry for, what makes me laugh out loud?  I turned off the news and began to read again.  I played with my daughter, Mini Me Jane.  I laughed, a lot.  And I got wiser.

As soon as the calendar page turned to June, John the Married sent me an email on Facebook (I forgot to block him). "I hope to see you, I'm in town and I miss you."

A married man will fold himself into an Origami Swan for a 51% chance of not-his-wife Pussy.  He will forget your birthday, he will leave the toilet seat up, but if there is a slight possibility that he will have different pussy at some time during the next 24 hours, that motherfucker is now center stage spotlight at Cirque du Fucking Soliel, sticking his God Damn ass into his nose on a fucking trapeze.

I deleted the message.  24 hours later, he wrote another one.  I deleted that as well.

He was under the impression that I was frozen in anticipation of our tryst, that I would drive out of state for a naughty sex hook-up.  Four months ago, I would have.  Had it not been for Jane my spiritual advisor and me, being true to myself and my needs, I would have done it.  I forgive myself for that past thinking.  In this truth where I stand today, I recall what I heard in meditation - I am WORTHY of better.  I am worthy of a great love, and it begins in the mirror.  I am not a stepping stone, nor just a piece of ass.

I am a whole, loving beautiful person.  I am, I AM.  My actions are not singular; they travel forward and touch everyone.  When I love myself fully, wholly, I am passing that love to everyone I come in contact with, and like rays of light, it spreads.

I'm not perfect. I don't want to be.  I make mistakes.  And I'm okay with that, because they are my own mistakes, and in the large scope of life, they are minor.  I do have a very clear idea of right and wrong, good and bad.  That matters to me.  I can look myself in the eyes and see a woman with integrity and confidence.  I hold myself accountable for all my actions, and I know I've taken the high road.  That is my truth.

So FUCK those Origami Swans; may they tear and break their fucking necks.

The Unspoken Dating Dialogue (#1)

Him: You ARE attractive.
Her: I'm glad you noticed.
Him: Let's go out.
Her: Ok.

(After the date)

Her: I had a good time.
Him: (Silence)
Her: I'd like to see you again.
Him: Back off!  You're going way too fast!  Don't tie me down! Poor desperate woman!  I'M GOING TO RUN AWAY!! LEAVE ME ALONE STALKER!!!!

end

The Perils of Interviewing

"Sucks to be me tomorrow morning; 8AM presentation! ARG!!"
"So bored at work, and its just Thursday."
"I'd rather be in bed than at work LOL!"

Various posts on my Facebook news feed.  No different from a typical day.

If you have ever been unemployed, such comments can frustrate you.  I had been without a real full time job for years.  The role of wife and mother had replaced my professional life as working woman.  When I separated last year, my part time job ended at the same time.  I took a very part time job (read 8 hours a week) that allowed me to earn pocket money and little else.  I felt bored.  I would send resumes on Craigslist.  Bad choice.  98% of all job listings on Craigslist are recruiters for personnel agencies, phishing for resumes to meet quota, or hackers hoping to get your bank account number and wipe you clean.

In January, I decided to really start looking for a job.  The part time job was not expanding my hours, and the boss kept saying "We'll have investors next month, then you can run this place!"  I had grown tired of those lies.  The best thing happened to me on Monday January 31st.  The boss let me go-by text message.  "Hey Jane, just got out of a meeting and we don't have the funds for you this month.  I'll bring you back in a couple of weeks. Thanks".  I'm not kidding.

I was relieved.  I redid my resume, took out all reference to sales and found all the employment agencies in my city.  I created accounts on Monster and Hotjobs.  I literally pounded the pavement.  One agency asked me if I would temp while they helped me get a permanent job.  Of course, I said.

Temping is like being a French mistress.  Everyone knows you have no commitment, you leave for other interviews,  and can have a flexible schedule.  What an excellent concept!  The company where I temped seemed like a great bunch of people, but they weren't hiring full time staff.

My first interview was held in a coffee shop.  The lady was opening up a music school, need teachers and administrative staff.  Her energy was scattered and desperate.  She already ran a program from her studio, and boy she needed help!  She showed me the space-a converted coffee shop.  My gut said NO.  When I tried to discuss money she said "Of course, the teachers should get paid what their worth!  I've poured my life savings into this-", which is another way of saying, will you work for free until we get students?  I politely bowed out.

The temp agency referred me to another office.  The far away office had ungodly hours, 7:30AM to 6PM. They wanted to hire a recruiter to oversee old accounts, create new accounts.  Recruiting is like sales.  Usually, its low starting pay but then you make the bucks with commission. The body language from the two women screamed insecurity.  I know scored the interview, and quickly called back to ask about starting salary.  "She's in a meeting".  I left a message.  The next day I wrote an email asking for starting salary.  Five days passed before I got a reply.  They were going with someone else.  Whatever.

The next interview was easily an hour from my home.  I met the owner.  All business.  He didn't believe in dress down Fridays, or wearing the local team's jersey on game night.  You leave your personal life outside, and devote your 8 to 10 hours to the business.  When he asked how fast I typed, my response made him frown.  "I'l gonna stop you right there.  We need someone who can type at least triple that."  I was relieved.  I couldn't allow myself to work for a such strict boss, and I knew the commute alone would grind my teeth to powder.

I was prepped for the interview at the finance company.  My recruiter said "The bosses are brothers who don't get alone.  They curse, a lot.  You need to have thick skin."  I passed the first interview so well, I got a second one.  Sitting in that high-rise office, in my suit, I thought about the long hours this job would impose; all I could envision was my daughter's face.  Back in the recruiter's office, she asked me if I would take an offer that was lower than my asking price.  No, I wouldn't.  I didn't get that one.

The next place was laid back, but big.  I saw 4 people, men, all of whom were more impressed that I showed up in a suit than my skills.  They wanted me to temp, and eventually go permanent.  Their starting price was lower than what I was currently making at the first temp job.  I didn't even return their call when the recruiter counter offered for 50 cents more.

On April 14, I was summoned into the office of the Director of Operations at the temp job.  I was given an offer to go permanent.  I accepted.  I had found an environment that fulfilled my spirit.  Its never the company that matters, its the people.  You will spend 1/3 of your day with these people, you must enjoy them.

All those interviews taught me very valuable lessons:

-If salary is a struggle to discuss, don't take it.
-If the hours sacrifice your personal life, don't take it.
-If you are asked to not talk about your personal life, "leave your drama at home", don't take it.
-If you are asked to forgive outrageous abusive behavior before the interview, don't take it.
-If the company is tight with their office space and tighter with their money, don't take it.
-If you feel appreciated and valued, if you can feel relaxed and welcomed, if the work is achievable, and you believe in the company; TAKE IT.

I love my job.  Its administrative.  I thrive at the copier, answering phones, doing expense reports.  I have pictures of my daughter on my desk.  I can wear my jeans on Fridays.  The days of boredom are over.  I can thrive again.

Talkin' Bout a Revolution, not a Whisper

When I woke up this morning, I stood before my alter and said a prayer.   I prayed for the mothers in Egypt.  I prayed that change would be good for them, for their children.  I was hopeful.

When I saw the cover of the New York Times I saw the change.  It was dark and violent.  It was angry.  It was dangerous.  I was scared.  For the mothers.  For the children.

I don't know the politics.  I'm not going to pretend.  I'm not going to spout American Left wing Right wing hyperbole.

I am a mother.

I live in a country where my child gets free education.  I can speak my mind freely in public.  I can get a job.  I have no idea what it would be like to NOT have those things.

I know what it feels like to want my child to have opportunities.  Safety, security, education.

Then I watched NBC Nightly News.  Brian Williams spoke to an American woman trapped in her apartment.  She was fending off a gang of thugs trying to break into her apartment.  Mary Thornberry was 77 years old. She refused to leave because, "its her home."

I became a worried daughter.  I thought about what I would do if my mother was half-way across the globe, alone, scared.  Fighting angry men off with a paring knife.  Watching change on prime real estate.  Hearing revolution outside her window.

In the city where I live, flags of black and gold wave on breezes.  Twenty minutes of the local news are devoted to the football team and their quest for "Seven".  Superbowl.  Snow covers the ground.  In stillness I can hear birds.  I can talk to my mother on the phone.  My daughter sleeps with her arms wrapped around a Barbie doll, dreaming of school in the morning.  This is my democracy, this is my freedom, this is my right.  This is my normal.

Somewhere in North Africa, there is a mother that wishes for my life.

I am grateful for what I have, and I'm thankful.  I will pray for her, and all the mothers that want something better for their children, their country.

My Sexy Muse Awakens

Inspiration is a quality that can't be forced or manufactured.  You can't schedule it to your iCal, nor predict it with Doppler machinery.  Anyone with a creative side is constantly searching for that spark of inspiration, that blast of wind that drives the pen, births the song, creates the dance.  Sometimes, that spark is a modern muse; a person that has just the right amount of chemistry to permit inspiration a formal place by your side.

Many, many years ago I met a man who lived in my neighborhood.  John Down the Street was attractive and we hit it off.  We became lovers long before the term "friends with benefits" was coined, pocketed and mass-marketed.  I had never experienced such passion and lust; our evenings together should have been filmed and sold as "How to Please" videos.  I would never sleep over despite his insistence.  I wanted to be alone, by myself, and not for dramatic effect.

I wanted to write.

Sex with John flooded my mind with Greek-like inspiration.  The Sexy Muse in me wrote poems, plays, stories.  I was so moved by this new waterfall of creativity, My Sexy Muse, that I wrote a few pieces in his honor, which were later produced into a performance piece.  John and I shared knowing winks at curtain call.

I continued to write after our sexual tryst ended.  John, just a memory, weaved out of my woven life.  A bright thread beautifully patterned in my blanket life.  My creative waterfall flowed, strong and violent sometimes, gentle and soothing another.  I could always write.  My Sexy Muse was by my side.

And then I got married.

It all stopped.  My waterfall dried up.  Dry stone and dirt ran to the lip of a long drop that poured into mud.  A dead place.  I would put pen to paper and I would see nothing, no words no ideas.  Space.  Dark black suffocating space.  I would try and meditate, will some inspiration into me.  Cold.  I visualized a creative fire, blazing and warming me.  Here was my muse!  I would close my eyes and see burnt wood, dried up and turned to ash.  I was broken.  I was alone.

I took a respite to see my friend Jane the Fierce Lion during my creative hospitalization.  Every morning she and her husband John the Calm would serve me coffee and breakfast.  There was no schedule to follow, no plans to make.  I healed Me with love and forgiveness.  One evening as I washed the dished, Jane came behind me, hugged me and said,

"When you feel appreciated, you are inspired."

And suddenly, I felt a shift.  My waterfall hadn't dried up; it had been blocked, dammed up.  Log and stone had been methodically placed to prevent my creativity from flowing.  All effective change is gradual.  Jane's small moving loving gesture pushed a log out of the way.  With every loving act I gave myself, be it dancing, or laughing, or talking openly with a good friend, another log rolled out of place.  The creative water began to flow over the edge.  A steady stream of creativity poured into the forgiving pool of ideas.  I performed in two plays, I wrote a few pieces.  I returned to the Me I always was; confident, strong, feisty, opinionated.  I found her, my Sexy Muse, peaceful.  She had been asleep.

Recently I met someone.  This New John Down the Street is confident and strong, very attractive.  We have a tangible chemistry that is nothing short of two people who really like each other.  After one evening of serious hot kissing and heavy petting, I felt that long ago familiar flood in my mind.  I rushed home to find my Sexy Muse wide awake and restless.

My waterfall has roared back to life.  Wet, loud and ferocious.