Maggie West

Ask Maggie

On this website, I (we) take relationship queries to heart. I state the "we" since the advice and opinions given within these pages are a combination of many others and my own. This team effort keeps the content enlightening and hopefully noteworthy for our visitors.

I may, periodically, pass on the various questions to a database of regular readers, to passers-by on any street, and/or survey a particular demographic. Answers are everywhere and come from anywhere. At times, they even come from where we least expect it.

The past experiences of those who have had similar situations, as well as my own, fill these pages. Discussions with couples who have been successfully married for 30+ years or boyfriend/girlfriend partnerships, which have stood the test of time and learned the art of communication, are included. And the list goes on…

…Whatever it takes.

If you have a question, ask Maggie: maggietwest@aim.com 

She's (we're) here to help.

NOTE: Real names are only used when permission is given. Otherwise, the names and places have been changed.

Black and White Equals Gray

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

How many of us heard this expression and thought "What a crock of shit?" I know I did, many times, many years ago.

But I was young, foolish, and looked like the ass end of a horse in those days. My main concern was being attractive. So, I put certain behaviors on a shelf along with all my parents' teachings a long time ago. To my mind, men/boys didn't care about actions, only what I looked like in a skirt. That was enough to alter me for years to come.

That was the beginning of an ending I wrote into my life: "Hindsight is 20/20" they say. Had I remained the person my mother and father nurtured, the pages of my life may have been written differently. But I didn't.

Even as an adult—even in my thirties—my behavior was questionable. To be sure, part of me was a good person; a good friend. But the other half was ambitious, conniving, deceptive, and wild. But I was visibly attractive—somewhat at any rate.

This other half guided me into a relationship I thought would last forever. It lasted a mere fourteen years. And in those fourteen years, I did things that I truly regret (that I'm truly ashamed of). Things that I thought would keep my relationship intact. Things I thought my ex-husband wanted—needed—me to do. In those days, I became someone I thought he needed me to be. But as I said, I wrote our ending years before when I exchanged the better person of my youth for the lemon into which I developed. This souring only attracted people of the same nature. So my pugnacity grew. The moral and proper behaviors instilled in me as a child vanished. We squeezed each other dry until only bitter memories remained.

It took me two years to realize what I had done. I blamed my ex in the beginning. But he was what he was.

I couldn't change that. I could, however, change myself.

Of course, change—any change—is not a quick process. With the help of good friends, my mother, and my children, however, the old me resurfaced. Just a little at first, and then I meet Jeff through author Barry Eisler on March 6, 2007. The rest is now history.

Before continuing, I must state that Jeff was a godsend: We grew close rather quickly. And to this day, the reason for this escapes me. I only know that on that fateful day I found the answer to my prayers.

Of this man, I say this: His years on this earth, regardless of what transpired, molded the exemplary person who now stands at my side. He's honest, kind, and forthright and as different from the men of my past as night and day. His integrity took me by the hand two and a half years ago and has not let go since. I am a better person, in part, because of him.

At first, I was afraid to mention my past—to mention my recklessness—to this mountain of a man. But I finally did. To which he inquired, "What did you feel like when you did those things?"

Never, and I mean never, had anyone ever asked this question. Simply the asking lit the proverbial light bulb in my head. I hadn't liked it—I hadn't liked me. Perhaps this assisted my "change?" The person I could be proud of was there all along.

Therefore, when I read my e-mails from men or women who mention their negative behaviors, I cringe. Through e-mails I cannot identify these people as having good natures. Hell, I didn't see my own for many years.

Hence, if we do things we regret, we should ask ourselves Jeff's question. If we hate ourselves for what we do, then nurture those feelings: not the amoral ones. If, however, we feel no remorse, then we are a horse of a different color and my advice may not be that which my readers seek.

The idiom, "A tiger doesn't change his stripes" comes to mind. I'm not one to judge though. How could I? My past is as checkered as the next guy's. I simply learn from my mistakes and hopefully redirect others to a better path.

I do, however, know that inner beauty lights our way.

If we cannot discern black from white; right from wrong, then the grays become even harder. As Jeff says, "Never forget that gray is a mixture of black and white." And since life is chock-full of all three it may behoove us to figure out which is which. Or one can take my mother's advice: "Treat others as you wish to be treated." But if all else fails, my father's counsel was pretty damned good as well: "If someone jumped off a cliff would you?"

For the sake of illustration: It's easy to nag simply for the sake of nagging, right? But what if the amount of nagging, or measuring one person's nagging against another's is the issue? My mom does it; my friends do it; no big deal then. These are grays—are they not?

No, not really. To nag is to pester or annoy; to torment with anxiety; to scold, complain, or find fault constantly. Therefore, any amount of it is harmful in any relationship.

What's important is how we live our lives; how we treat others.

We should all stop and take a long hard look, every now and then, at whom we've become; or at the very least, the fallout we create by our actions. We must know that external beauty is limited. At some point, we all face the aging process. But our ethics and morals remain intact until the day of our death. So, which benefits us most?

My guess: the inside. The outside takes care of itself.

At the age of fifty-two, my looks aren't anything to write home about. But in my mind I'm the catch of the century for retaining the principles I learned at an early age. I'd like to think that Jeff saw these things in me on the day we met, or soon thereafter.

No one's life is a bed of roses. But creating a stench that permeates our futures isn't conducive to happiness either. My father used to say, "Bullshit works for a while, but eventually people know you for who you really are, and you're left with an ugly stain that no amount of soap will wash off." He was right.

Hence, when next we hear "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," remember our physical appearance deteriorates with time, but our inner beauty does not and it is what attracts people most in the long run—for the long haul. It may stay hidden for a while, as mine did, but eventually it'll crawl from the dunghill under which we buried it, brush itself off, and surprise us.

No shit.

From Our Kitchen

I'm not one to brag...

Except when it comes to a couple of things: The food I eat and the person who prepares them.

Without question, to my mind, Jeff's meals exceed the flavor and quality found in any restaurant. Each day he surprises me with yet another delectable dish from different regions to tempt my palate. And each day, I'm thankful that I found him. Oh, okay, there's more to him than just cooking...

Let me think on the others while you take a peek at the latest dishes:

Tempura Heaven

and

If You Can't go to China

Ya Gotta Love Him

As my husband and I read yesterday's local news, what jumps out and smacks us both in the face but Ashley Payne's plight in Barrow County.

And my honey's answer to the article is here.

Ya gotta love a man like that!

Enjoy.

Halloweens of Yore

I was trick or treating in the sixties (Well into the seventies as a teenager too—what can I say? It's my favorite holiday). I remember my youth's Halloweens as if they happened only yesterday. And, yet, as I write this down I realize how long it's been—forty years.

In forty years we, as a people, allowed our surroundings to degenerate to such a poor state that our children are no longer safe on one of the most enjoyable holidays of the year—Halloween. Of course, this isn't a revelation to most. October 31^st has been synonymous with evil-doings for quite some time. But the evils were in the telling of stories written to scare, not in the house next door ready to pounce upon us—ready to harm us.

My mother would read aloud the tribulations of Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, and The Three Pigs until my siblings and I shook from fear. Her just-off-the-boat accent made the telling even creepier (Did she say "sheet?"). And by the time we grabbed our pillow cases for our tremulous journey into the neighborhood, we weren't sure if the garnering of candy was worth it.

On our walk, each house sprang out of the darkness swallowing the lights that secured our way. Every shadow shifted their shape into menacing tendrils for fingers and elongated featureless faces that watched us from see-through sockets. It was terrifying.

Humorously adding insult to injury, my mother knew how we'd react. She purposely scared us. And she deliberately schemed to frighten us further with our neighbors' assistance. Porches were covered with goo, fake steps broke our porch climbs, and stuffed clothing leapt from chairs as we advanced to claim our treats.

It is a theory of mine that yesterday's parents were readying their children for the real world with such goings-on. Hell, to my mind, fairy tales were written with similar intent. As children, my friends and I knew how to approach the miles of dark alleys that stretched through every neighborhood. We knew how to avoid raggedy, surly, white-eyed strangers that blocked our paths on Woodward Avenue. After all, our parents couldn't be with us 24/7. And even if they could, who'd want them to be?

Oooo, I hear all the objections circling around in the heads of my readers:

"How cruel!"

"I would never do that to my children."

"What kind of parents were these anyway?"

Rest assured that each of my Halloweens is remembered with a great deal of fondness. I wouldn't trade these memories for any amount of money or wealth.

I grew up in a time when children—very young children for that matter—played for hours after school on street corners, in parking lots, or in the nearest woods. We built forts, played Cowboy and Indians or roller hockey. Bumps and bruises, jumping and climbing, fighting and block-sized wars were daily occurrences. And I loved it.

Oh, there were plenty of eyes watching over us—that's certain.

Everyone knew everyone else for at least five or six city blocks in every direction. Every parent was your parent—or so it seemed.

It's hard to believe families moved in the opposite direction as time moved forward. We hardly know our next door neighbors let alone the families on the next block. We don't trust our children in the hands of teachers, most friends, or even babysitters. And we rarely entrust our children with their own independence.

Halloween is now celebrated in church parking lots, during school hours, or at community centers. Nary a porch light lit after dark.

What saddens me most is that my children's children and their children's children will never know the Halloweens I knew. They'll never know the joy of being scared out of their wits and laughing hysterically seconds later. They'll never know the thrill of coming home with pillow cases full of candy and stomach aches that endure for weeks afterwards—for months if one traveled far enough from home adding more goodies to his/her stash. And they'll surely never hear the Fairy Tale Horrors to which I was so accustomed on each October 31^st.

Why even say "trick or treat" anymore?

There are no tricks and very little treats.

We might as well teach our children to say, "Give me…give me…give me." (Oops, they already do. "Something for nothing" is today's motto. Is it not?)

Today, Halloween is more like Panhandling Day for babies—of all shapes and sizes.

Tin cup anyone?

I Can’t Win!

Women are curious creatures.

Not curious in that we eagerly seek out knowledge or information—though we can be and are under most non-relationship circumstances—but in the Alice in Wonderland sense of the word: "Curiouser and curiouser..." When we argue or carry-on certain conversations with our significant others, however, we lose all reason and common sense.

Myself included (though not as much today as in my youth).

Why does this happen? Is it a genetic defect? Did our mothers somehow nurture it into our makeup?

I consider myself a person who solves most situations with a measure of intelligence and a mound of common sense. (More of the latter of course, but I've been blessed with ample amounts of both.) And I've made the acquaintance of many women who do the same. But in our intimate relationships, we drop "bombs," often losing all rational thought as we explode with emotion. Plainly put, we throw the baby out with the bath water. And, perhaps, most women regret these blasts later as I do.

Nevertheless, when "TC" began with "I can't win," I intuitively knew the source of his frustration—a woman.

I'd heard the same words spoken by numerous men in the past. And after the telling of each, the men referred to the women in their lives. With contorted features and clenched teeth, they explained their annoyances and/or previous grievances. It was not uncommon to hear these men sob, rave, or maniacally laugh; or see them tug their hair, stomp the floor, or slam their fists into the nearest target.

But that's not all…

At some point in each conversation, they generally turned to everything women did—since grade school—that drove them ape-shit. And being a woman, I scanned the check list of my own actions in my head as they spoke: Yep, I've done that. Uh-oh! That one, too. Hmmm…there's another. Damn! I do the same shit.

Afterwards, I'm shot the bulging-eyed "why?" expressions as these men rattle off a thousand questions. Okay, maybe not a thousand—but close to it.

"Why does she irritate me so?"
"Why can't she just stop?"
"Why does she always bring ____ into it?"

Why this…why that…why…why…why

And TC was no different.

After explaining that he frequently leaves the house in order to end arguments with his wife, he asked me "Why does my wife become just as angry when I agree with her as when I disagree?"

"I can't win Maggie."

First, most men resort to "fight or flight" when confronted. Their hemispheric orientation, dominant representational systems, and endocrine systems are very different from ours.

Second, when men walk away it means they're disengaging. Their left-brains have temporarily overridden their "lizard brains." It means they're physically and emotionally ready to "lay it all on the line"—but they've seen "the big picture." They decide to disengage rather than cave in to biology and employ that ever-present mega-dose of adrenaline and testosterone.

I should note that women must refrain from following their men as they uncouple: Especially if our intent is continuing the argument. This harms more than it heals.

On the other hand, women want men to pursue them once they leave the room during disputes. This action—to their minds—shows affection, caring, and compassion. They feel wanted and needed—important.

It boggles the mind. Doesn't it?

Naturally, hearing these things relieved TC (Something with which to confront the wife at a later time—no doubt).

Then, in his wife's defense, I began relaying reasons this could occur: If women become accustomed to a routine of clashing with their mates and suddenly hear "yes, dear," it sounds sarcastic. And if men employ the phrase after each sentence, then it surely is mockery. These two little words, however, used properly, do wonders for settling the many disputes of couples married for forty-plus years.

So, when's the appropriate time to use the "yes dear" response?

I don't know. I'm a woman.

And women move in seemingly unpredictable patterns. One minute everything is right with the world, and the next, it's gone mad. Is there such a thing as reasoning during moments such as these? Not in my mind—but again, I'm a woman.

Perhaps with many years under their belts, certain couples recognize these quarrels as minor. Perhaps the men and women in successful relationships realize which issues are important and which are not. As I've said one or two times before; knowing when to let go and when to stand and fight is vital for long-term "bliss."

So, who gives in first?

Does it matter? Ultimately, will giving in mar or damage us in any way? If both parties aren't in it for the "long haul," it might. Otherwise, it doesn't.

When, then, should we stop trying; when do we give up?

We shouldn't, in my book…

Most women react in the same manner under similar circumstances. Why begin this crazed cycle anew? Why put ourselves through other relationships with the misguided notion that "things will be different the next time?" The odds are; they won't.

I spent many years in the school of I'm-right-you're-wrong. And graduating from this rut seemed impossible until I realized that the problem was me.

Today, my humor and past experiences keep me sane (if you want to call it that) in this insane world. I am content with my life—with my love.

I know I'm crazy. I admit it. Adjectives applied to my behavior range from "peculiar" to "psychotic." And that's not news to me. I'm never shocked to hear this validated. I simply agree.

I'm certain I irritate Bean more often than not. He most assuredly thinks that I traveled here from some distant planet (and in all fairness, others have said the same of him…) And I'm just as certain that he blows off most of the steam created by my way of thinking when I'm not around. Otherwise, I'd see more meltdowns.

What a great partner, huh?

When he says "yes dear," it's a big accomplishment for him; whether or not he says it sarcastically (I add this only because tact isn't his strong suit). Regardless of his intent, I accept it as an affectionate term. Of course, my imagination is in overdrive most of the time—it helps.

When he walks away from an argument, I know he'll be back to take up his sword and duel with me again. I look forward to it, actually—another demented response, I'm sure.

But I know Bean loves me. And I make sure he knows I love him—no matter what circumstances befall us.

That's enough for me.

That's enough for him.

Is it enough for you?

Perhaps if more women recognized their imbalanced, subjective attached nature—and men their imbalanced, objective, detached nature—relationships would last longer. If nothing else, the number of arguments would surely decrease. Right?

Hell, I don't think women understand men any more than men understand women.

But, yet again, I'm a woman.

So ladies, repeat after me: "I'm crazy, and I admit it."

A Great Catch (or Two)

Some women have all the luck...

We spend our lives looking for that one pearl in a sea of murky water and mucky sand. And these days, the right conditions in which to shape this proverbial treasure do not exist (in my opinion), which makes it practically impossible. But there are women with such riches. I consider myself one of them.

The treasure of which I speak is a good man.

The most cherished possession for nearly all women is a good man by their side. But how do we know if we have such men? What reveals their inherent natures to us?

My answer: Time.

Most men start out as rowdy little boys who later turn into rebellious teens. As they grow into men, the nurtured aspects of their character mingled with a number of external forces shape who they become.

A few hints: Do they face most sticky situations head-on with good judgment and moral principles? Are they respected by others? Who are their friends? Do they still associate with childhood friends (There's a wealth of information to be had from this one)? What are their parents like?

Of course, the answers to these questions aren't fool-proof; but they help. They are but a few signposts that guide us to the man our men are, and only Time shows us the rest.

Regrettably, today most relationships end before men mature into the well-rounded, ripened, colorful apples of our eyes. Metaphorically speaking, we take one or two bites and throw them away.

What a shame.

Moreover, numerous years of marital "bliss" also shape certain aspects of their character. If women (and men too) put more time and effort into their relationships, the men of which dreams are made may ultimately grow.

But don't lose hope ladies. They're not extinct yet. Magnificent men are out there.

I saw one today: Mark.

I've known Mark for a little over two years—since I moved to Georgia. I'd like to think that in that time we've become somewhat friends. Granted, I only see him when my truck breaks down. But lately, that's been quite often.

This morning, I dropped off my little red wagon for service again. My darling husband (and I) overslept and he couldn't drive me to the garage as planned. So, I went solo. And it was raining. Upon arriving, I told Mark "I'll just walk home." We discussed the enjoyment of walking in the rain for a spell, and afterward he said, "I'll take you home."

Ah, the mark of a true gentleman.

As he drove me home in the rain, he mentions the significance of today's date.

"Today is the anniversary of losing my virginity."

Wow!

Now, I realize that most of us probably recall the specific details of such a thing. But how many can purport knowing the exact date? Not many, I suspect.

During our conversation, I also found out that he married this first love of his and brought two children into the world. Alas, though, a few years later, he was divorced.

"To this day, she doesn't believe she was my first," Mark said.

I've never heard anyone mention the date of such a thing (Other than my husband, of course. He remembers most things.), and I've discussed it with innumerable men. In my book, this makes Mark an exceptional person. The fact that he remembers the precise day in which this happened merits an A+.

I believe him.

And if the man he's become doesn't prove some of the aforementioned points I made, I guess nothing does. He is kind, good natured, and honest among other things.

There is no doubt in my mind that as a young man Mark was incorrigible—most men are in their twenties. But today, he is a good man—a great catch.

Too bad this isn't a dating site.

Hmmm…perhaps, if one lives in the Roswell, Georgia area; she could…

Aw, never mind.

At any rate, I'm amazed at the things that trigger certain emotional responses and memories—especially mine. For after seeing Mark this morning, I, once again, made note of how truly blessed I am for finding my Jeff: A pearl that may be a little bumpy still (smiling), but a true treasure nonetheless.

Thanks Mark.

Damn! I'm lucky.

"Empty Nest?"

"It must be nice having an empty nest."

If I had a nickel for every time I heard these words, I'd have plenty of money for retirement. I often wonder why these words represent such a devastating time in a parent's life. Nest suggests birds to my mind; birds suggest baby birds and their plights.

Baby birds spend very little time in their nests and very little time learning about the outside world before they take the final plunge. They're nurtured for how long? One month? Two? Okay, perhaps longer for some varieties. But still, how does it compare to the many years we spend nurturing our children?

How does it compare to the cherished years in which I took care of my children?

It doesn't.

Therefore, the phrase irritates me.

When our children become adults and leave home, we are grief-stricken. We go from seeing them everyday to occasional visits. We go from clothing them, feeding them, caring for their every need to nothing—nobody.

Each morning booms with silence: Their clamoring was our peace and quiet. And now we pass by their bedrooms and imagine them lying there. We sit on their made beds, lovingly glide our hands across their pillows, and sob. In a dreamlike state, we stumble to the kitchen and start the day with a prayer that goes something like this: "Please God help me make it through the day."

My daughter was my first to go.

After high school, she wanted some time off from schoolwork and decided not to attend college right away. It didn't take long for us to realize that two adult women living in the same house was trying at best. I say "us" in the previous sentence, but in retrospect I pulled the "plug" long before my daughter did.

She was staying out all hours of the night. Drunken men were hanging around outside our home. And she and I argued incessantly. We were both strong, stubborn women with separate notions of the discipline to which over-eighteeners should adhere.

And ultimately, this led to a jarring separation.

I helped her find a rental house near her work; even assisted in the move. But as I stepped out of her life and she out of mine that inauspicious day, my life changed forever.

Years later, during a conversation, she starkly mentioned how I kicked her out of the house, but allowed my son to remain "as long as he wanted." Her reference pierced my chest and hacked at my heart.

How could she get it so wrong, I thought.

But some truths aren't as apparent as we suppose.

Actually, her leaving discharged a round straight through my heart. I was certain that had I been shot by a real gun, the wound wouldn't hurt as much. I longed to see her every morning. I missed our talks every night. I yearned for the way she often smirked at me in disagreement. Even our callous arguments became fond memories.

With her gone, my son became even more precious to me. I only had the two of them, and he was the last one left. I wanted every minute with him to count.

My behavior towards my son shifted when my daughter moved out. Why couldn't she see that? How could she not know?

I walked away from her the day of her somber remark without saying a word.

Today, I realize that only parents know that ache. Only parents know the anguish of letting go. And to comprehend this suffering, one must experience it first hand.

I still remember when I left my parents' home. It was three months before my eighteenth birthday. With tears streaming down my mother's face and an expression of sheer agony, she said good-bye. Before walking away that night, I heard her say, "Remember, this is always your home."

Even now, I frequently remember her beginning each of life's lessons with, "You are only in my care for a little while:" I thought that she began this way to lessen the blow I'd receive upon leaving home someday. I now understand that she was readying herself—not me—for the inevitable separation that was looming in our future.

Perhaps, she supposed that if she repeated "You are only in my care for a little while" often enough she'd be ready.

I said my mother's words to my children as well.

Yet, I still cried when I walked my daughter to kindergarten for the first time. I cried when her heart was broken for the first time. I cried when she left home and rented her house. I cried when she walked down the aisle on her wedding day. And I cried when she told me I was going to be a grandmother.

As for my son…

There are no words to explain my life when he left.

Alas, my children are a mere seven years apart.

And the time I had left with my son was a newly found treasure after losing my daughter. Nevertheless, I felt the rushing hands of time sweep past my heart most days. Soon it was his turn. It was as if I simply blinked and seven years had passed.

It was much harder than the first time; not because I cared for or loved him more than my daughter, but because my days of waking up to the sound of children in the house were over.

Both of my children are now adults and on their own. It has been many years since they took their first steps to independence.

And yet, the old memories still haunt me.

Every now and then when I see young mothers cuddling their sons and daughters, my heart yearns for mine—for my time back.

When I gaze at my children's baby pictures, I weep.

I think of my children when I watch the movie Four Feathers. In it is a line that states, "God put you in my way. I have no choice." Each time I hear these words, I cry.

Is there a way to prepare parents for their children leaving home?

Maybe…

I've yet to find anyone who knows the answer though.

We always want more time.

We never want to see them leave.

We always have them in our hearts and minds—no matter where they are.

An empty nest?

I think not.

The Grimmest “Fairy Tale” of Them All

"Dizziness?"

Yep.

"Which worsens when you move?"

Yep.

"Insomnia?"

Yep.

As Bean read the symptoms aloud, I answered one by one.

"Palpitations?"

Nope.

"Are you hot?" (Not as in looking—I wish I were—but as in perspiring or clammy.)

Yep.

Our exchange lasted a few minutes, and then he began reading foods that cured the symptoms, most of which he keeps on hand. Frankly, he keeps an ample supply of exotic ingredients around the house for such occasions.

And so, my treatment commenced.

After an acupressure session with Bean and ingesting a couple of the foods on his list, I slept like a baby. I barely moved for eight hours: No tossing; no turning. It was great. That's the longest night's sleep I've had in weeks.

While I still had a bit of dizziness in the morning (a considerable improvement from the day before), I felt refreshed. For the first time in a long time, I was ready for the hours of sunlight ahead.

Then I remembered the potion Bean prescribed…

Part of my therapy is downing a jigger—twice a day—of this brownish goo my husband prepared around a year ago and set in our bathroom cabinet to age. And age is definitely what it did—it tastes like hundred-year-old Powerade. It's called "Angelica elixir," but in my opinion, there's nothing angelic about it—especially not the flavor.

The first ounce of the alcohol-based fluid took me by surprise this morning.

It hit me within seconds.

Bean was sleeping. And that was a good thing. Otherwise he would've heard my gurgle of distress: "I have those damn palpitations now honey!"

Were I not sure of my beloved husband's affection, I might've thought he was trying to kill me. I imagined his fiendish grin as he dug a hole in the back yard while I lay motionless on the grass. And I cringed as I supposed him chuckling from the sight of death in my eyes and russet streams of saliva oozing from the corners of my mouth.

"Snap out of it, Maggie. Damn! You're overdoing it a tad—aren't ya?" I mumbled to myself.

Of course, I know better. Bean is the kindest, gentlest person I've ever met. But this shit tasted like sewer water (Come to think of it, it looked like it, too) into which an inebriated, cardboard-box-dwelling vagabond spilt a bottle of vodka. If I drink enough of this crap, I thought, I'll be begging on the local street corner and sleeping on park benches as well.

So who'd blame me for my mental-ward mentality?

And speaking of mental wards, my readers will surely call the white coats to our door when they read the rest of this piece. At the very least, I'll be labeled a crackpot. But since the rest of the world has taken bizarre to new heights, I feel pretty safe.

Nevertheless, here goes…

I put my faith in the healing properties of folk medicine (alternative is the politically correct word I believe) above and beyond that of prescribed medications. So much so, in fact, I've not had a doctor prescribe me anything in years. I think the last time was when my son was born, and that was in 1984. Even over-the-counter drugs scare me. "Why?" one might ask…

Fine, I'll tell you.

These drugs purport the approval of the FDA. The FDA, as far as I'm concerned, is as crooked as Jack the Ripper's hurried incisions. Like "Springheel Jack," the FDA neither concerns itself with our lives, nor the manner in which they end; as long as they get what they're after: wealth. The FDA's stamp of approval costs millions—and this is from firsthand information. As long as they get their money, the pharmaceutical companies get the right to market and sell their "WMDs."

The side effects of all drugs these days are worse than the ailments they allegedly relieve. And over-the-counter drugs are recalled at an alarming rate. Hell, one time is all it would take for me to be wary. Yet, millions, nay billions, of dollars are spent on these "killers" every year. I guess it's an accepted form of government-sanctioned suicide. Stranger things have happened.

But I enjoy living. I'd like to see my grandson grow up; spend my gray-haired years rocking in a chair next to Bean on our porch. For these reasons, I've chosen the medicinal remedies Mother Nature offers.

I am completely convinced that my mother believed this, as well. As children, my siblings and I rarely consumed anything sold at the local pharmacy. Instead, mom gave us home-made tonics. The one I remember most was a mixture of honey, lemon, and whiskey taken for coughs and congestion. And before one considers this ludicrous, let me add that we were the healthiest children in our school and neighborhood.

As an adult I've searched for a man who thought as I do with regard to this anti-drug theory, and never found him. People laughed at me; particularly past boyfriends and lovers.

"What? You don't take aspirin, you freak?!" was written all over their faces.

Yet, as an adult, I'm still the healthiest person I know—including the "twenty-somethings" with whom I socialize. I'm over fifty, but I work in our garden with ease: A garden large enough to feed us for a whole year and then some. Granted, I huff and puff occasionally—but never strongly enough to "blow [our] house down." In addition, Bean and I build most of our necessities rather than take the easy way out at Walmart or the like. This takes a substantial amount of energy. Plus, whenever someone finds out how old I am, his/her eyes pop out and jaw drops.

I guess I'm doing rather well for an old lady.

And, best of all, I found the like-minded "someone" to whom I referred a few paragraphs ago: Bean.

Better still, he comes from a long line of healers. His four-times-great-grandfather wrote a book entitled Wright's Family Medicine. In it are remedies that date back to the nineteenth century, and some derived from Wright's Muskogee/Creek progenitors. And like his great-great-great-great grandfather, Bean's curiosity has sharpened his skills.

If I said I've always believed in his skills, I'd be lying. When Bean and I first met, I was skeptical, to say the least. But it didn't take long for me to realize the extent of his talents. First, Bean gave me the remedy for a headache; next, a backache; and then stomach aches, psoriasis, cramps—the list goes on and on.

To my surprise, it worked—all of it!

At present, whenever I have an ache or a pain, I tell Bean. And in case my readers are wondering about my sanity at this point, let me just say that during my physicals, doctors say: I feel like I'm taking money from you for nothing. You always pass with flying colors. Keep up the good work.

The day will come when I begin to deteriorate: The aging process at work. I know this. But I'm not going to hasten it by filling my bloodstream with neatly packaged toxic chemicals. And I wonder what the general population is thinking when they buy into the latest media/government-induced disease and pop pills like candy. Most assuredly, they believe sugar heals. Another Hansel and Gretel tale if I ever heard one. Once the wicked witch opens the door, they're dead—we're dead—baked to a crisp.

Get it? We've entered the gingerbread house from hell.

As an example, let us take a look at fibromyalgia. Its cause is currently unknown. Therefore, there's no cure. But there are numerous prescriptions available for the symptoms. These symptoms stem mostly from emotional stress: A neurosis. Most sufferers of this fictitious disease, however, take these medications to relieve their physical pain. Perhaps these drugs dull the senses; numb the mind—I don't know; nor will I ever take them. Simply due to the fact that as I stood in a room full of doctors and surgeons, I heard them laugh at our idleness, our obesity, and our need to label every ache and pain; which in turn led to FMS. Since it was invented, our government and pharmaceutical companies made/make a fortune on these medications, and our doctors no longer shrug their shoulders and say, "I don't know" or "get up off your dead ass."

Basically put, fibromyalgia means muscle pain—nothing more.

Go ahead, call me crazy.

Another case in point to my mind is cancer. It is a twentieth century epidemic. It was an oddity before then. Could it be that the foods we eat, the liquids we drink, the medicines we consume contribute to these deadly tumors?

They do in my book.

And one of the chapters should be entitled: "The Planned Population Control Method."

The mid-twentieth century is when the baby boomers were born—a huge portion of today's population. Thirty years later, right around the seventies, cancer reached high fatality percentages. Today, it is a household word for Christ's sake. And we accept it.

Doesn't one ever think that as our government and their subsidized buddies make billions—trillions—of dollars from the sick and healthy alike that they're also wiping out the surplus population? I do.

As a matter of fact, when I watched the movie "V"—an entertaining gem; though filled with historical inaccuracies—the one thing that stood out for me was the St. Mary's Virus. In my eyes, the writer emulated Operation Northwoods from the mid-sixties: Our government's plan to execute unsuspecting Americans and blame it on Cuba. And adding insult to injury, they incessantly pled their innocence publicly; then confessed decades later.

Perchance, we tell ourselves "It's an isolated incident" or "Nothing happened" to excuse it away. How do we know that innocent civilians weren't slaughtered? Oh yeah, they report otherwise? And we believe them.

Give me a break.

Then what of the Reichstag Fire or the Gulf of Tonkin Incident; are they not similar in their design? Mark my words: If something is conceived; it can be done. If something has been done; it can be done again, and again, and again. The question is not "will they do it?" The question is "where and when?"

I have always thought that real life is stranger than fiction; our world today proves it to me.

So, one may think I'm eccentric—an oddball—I don't care. I'll ingest nature's wonders and leave the skull and crossbones "miracles" for the general population. For no matter how harmful man-made medicines are, they'll sell like hotcakes.

I'll never understand it.

Oops, it's time for my jigger of goo.

And Now For Something Completely Different…

Green Hell is known for many things, but I bet his readers didn't see this one coming: His Chinese Medicine Medley (My name for it because his posts rarely touch on just one topic). Or, perhaps, they're used to surprises; for one never knows what will show up on Bean's site. Check out his latest: Don't Try This at Home, Kids: We're Trained Idiots.

And if one takes his "sharp, pointy objects very seriously" (Bean's turn of phrase), then this is the site for him: Swordfighting. For there is no man who knows more on this subject than this swordsman to my mind.

Enjoy everyone.

Friends or Lovers

I can count on my one hand the number of great friendships I have. Conversely, the bad friendships I've had in the past are innumerable.

There are many big, bad wolves with ulterior motives in this big, bad world, and they rarely have one's best interests at heart. While searching for the needle in the haystack—real friendships—we are wounded by the many pricks (No pun intended) hidden in the heap. The likelihood that everyone we meet will become a lifelong friend is slim to none.

For this reason, when I receive e-mails that pertain to the camaraderie—the closeness—between two people who are not sexually involved, I'm cautious when answering. I prefer discussing these matters in person, and that is rarely possible. Especially when the internet and e-mail are our communication tools—shit! It's frustrating. There are many inquiries to make; many of the social interactions, between the two people in question, or the lack thereof, to discuss. Nevertheless, from time to time, I proceed without them.

As I do today…

"Paula" and "Paul" have been friends for almost three years. In her e-mail, Paula wrote: We were together every day; either before work or after; even during work hours, we texted each other regularly.

Neither Paula nor Paul was enamored of anyone at the time—let alone each other. Perhaps this is why they became close—very close. Unfortunately, such closeness alters many friendships. And Paula's situation is a perfect example.

Her feelings began to shift gears roughly one year ago. And her attempts to steer her heart away from these new emotions were useless. She also feared that declaring her love for Paul would surely end their friendship. And so, she remained silent.

Until six months ago…

During movie-night at Paul's apartment, after consuming too much alcohol, they made love. And afterward, she confessed her feelings for him and her torment in concealing them for twelve months.

Since then, their friendship has changed. But it's not the change for which Paula yearned. He now rarely calls. She rarely sees him. And she's filled with regret.

Therefore, she asks for a way in which to regain the friendship she once had. "I want to take back what I said" is one of the lines in her e-mail that leapt from the page.

And of this I must say: My dear Paula; what was said was said. You cannot go back—no one can. You can only go forward. Perhaps, this is not exactly what you wanted to hear. And telling you that you are not alone may not relieve the pain in your heart either. But it's true.

We all make mistakes. Unfortunately, there are times when we don't see them as blunders until we take the proverbial move in one direction or the other. And then, it's too late.

Friendship volleying (A term I use to describe such situations), however, can land on either side of the net. Many great loves began as friendships. But know that these attempts to win the game result in heartache as well.

Once we make a poor choice, we must move forward. Other alternatives present themselves and how to proceed is an individual decision. Suspending or minimizing any interaction for a spell in the hopes of remedying the situation, ending the friendship, or piecing it back together are all options.

Paula chose the latter.

And it will take time, much effort, and a good deal of patience. Even then, there's no guarantee the outcome will be a positive one. Therefore, before proceeding, Paula must accept the possibility of rejection.

Even if she isn't rejected, the friendship will not return to its original condition. But, a new friendship may develop that parallels the first and in some cases the second exceeds the previous one's strength: A stronger, more solid, friendship is established.

Don't lose hope…

But there is work to do.

First, admit your mistake. Do not excuse your behavior away by saying, "I was drunk." You were aware of your feelings; you put yourself and him in an awkward position—so come clean.

Do this regardless of who is initiating contact. Your e-mail states that you rarely see him; he hardly ever calls. Whether you approached him or he approached you; whether you called him first or he called you, makes no difference. Begin by making a clean break of things: Take responsibility.

Once you do, explain the value of his friendship and your willingness to make amends. Tell Paul that losing his friendship cut you deeply. Then, ask him how to proceed.

His suggestions will be ones with which he feels comfortable. And of all the successful attempts of which I've heard this is the best pattern to follow. Remember, it will take time.

As I said in the beginning of this piece, however, great friendships—lifelong friends—are hard to find. But, they are well worth the effort.