Maggie West

Night Fever

My days of night-clubbing long since passed, I still often have the urge to dance -- even though I'm now in my fifties (My daughter's right. I'll never grow up).

Nevertheless, I was pretty good in my day. Come to think of it, in my mind -- my world -- night clubs were the meeting place in the late seventies and early eighties. Uncle Sam's Disco was my second home, and the place where I could show off my new "moves" every Friday and Saturday night.

While churning on the dance floor, I caught most eyes in the room. I had many offers to dance, and even numerous date proposals. I laughed most off, however, except for Brad's -- Brad Tatro.

In a bar full of drooling idiots, Brad stood out with his six-foot, manly physique, dark hair, unbuttoned shirt, and tight polyester pants. Every weekend, the women would eye him from the moment he walked in the door to the time he left. He'd sneer at most, however, and ridicule others. Basically, he had a snooty, standoffish manner.

But I liked that. What can I say? I was twenty, and still making up for my strict upbringing. To say that I got out of hand in certain situations is putting it mildly.

So one weekend, not unlike any of the others, my girlfriends and I bet on who could get Brad's attention first -- if at all. Hey, fifty bucks is fifty bucks... And after two attempts by two of the other girls, I took my turn.

Good looks did nothing for me. But it sure was fun to attract the attention of attractive men, I must admit. Other than one of my high school boyfriends, however, most of the men I dated -- or that caught my interest -- were rather simple looking. It was a man's intelligence and kindness that beat the drums in my heart (After all, looks only get ya so far).

Back to the bet, then...

My getting Brad's attention was simply money with which to drink in my mind -- nothing more. His behavior would test the patience of the most tolerant. And I hadn't the energy in those days to put up with such things -- or so I thought.

As I approached him, I could see the sneer on his face: Oh no, not another one, was surely his thought at that moment. But, I didn't frighten easily.

"What's so great about you?" I asked when we finally came face to face. "Why are so many girls asking you to dance?"

"'Cause I dance great," he said with a smirk on his face. He then turned to his friends and they all smacked each other's hands while chuckling in amusement.

"I doubt that your talents equal mine," I replied and I walked away.

Once I arrived back at my table, the other women seemed rather content with themselves. One said, "I guess you didn't get very far." And I laughed saying, "Give it time. He'll be over."

Within ten minutes or so, he was.

We spent the rest of the night dancing. He wasn't all that bad. Nobody's perfect, right?

My girlfriends pitched in, handed me my fifty-dollar prize, and soon after I went home.

Two days later, Brad called admitting that one of my friends gave him my phone number: A fact that, at first, left me with an uncomfortable feeling. I wasn't sure about the whole dating thing. I was living on my own and enjoying my own company for the first time in years. Plus, my daughter was only eight months old at the time.

Yes, I was a mother at the tender age of twenty.

But that never kept me from my dance-weekends. Hell, it didn't keep me from doing much of anything. My daughter can attest to that.

My craziness led me down the road to numerous mistakes -- poor judgments. Brad was neither the first nor the last.

And if there's any justice in the world, he's currently bald, fat, and lonely (never mind that my temper had quite a bit to do with our breakup). Somebody that egotistical should be knocked down a peg or two.

Our relationship lasted for two years. And ended with a screaming match on the street where he lived. As I drove away, I knew my anger was the main cause of our end. But there were many others things -- many other reasons...

I know I've paid for the rage and arrogance in my youth many times over. And, perhaps, that's a big part of why I altered my behavior.

But it didn't happen overnight. It took years. It took almost a lifetime.

Now, I live my life on the opposite end of the psycho-bitch scale. I think I'm as far to the right (the low end) as a woman could possibly be. Oh, that's not to say I don't do crazy things. I most certainly do. Ask my husband.

But, today, I'm grounded by a man who brings out the best in me; by a lifestyle that surpasses all others in my mind; and by the new family God bestowed upon me.

And even though my childish follies caused more harm than good for countless years, I am at peace -- at peace with most things. After all, nobody's perfect.

I still dance. But these days, I dance in the garden; in the car; and down the street. I often get strange looks -- odd stares. But that's okay.

I never said I was normal.

Lightning Never Strikes Twice...

In the eighties, I was physically picked up and thrown out of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City. Apologies to Mr. Van Halen -- I'm a sincere fan.

If you knew me then, you'd understand why. If you know me now, you're most likely scratching your head. But let me assure you, I deserved it.

After many hours of downing margaritas at the bar, Marilee (my boss at the time) and I began discussing life with the aid of pretzel nuggets and stir straws. We lined them up through the center of the table likening each piece to one of our life's chapters and verses until we covered the entire surface. Unbeknownst to me (due to too many margaritas, no doubt), our waitress would occasionally visit, attempting to take a drink order. And we ignored her completely. At some point, I complained about her inattentiveness and approached the bar to register said complaint. And complain is exactly what I did. It was a wee bit too loud; a little abrupt, perhaps; but, in my defense, I felt my ego had been bruised.

Our waitress happened to be standing two feet away and said, "I've been to your table five times! You ignored me." "No you haven't," I snapped back. She called me a bitch and the gloves were off. I grabbed her shirt, the bartender grabbed me, and out the door I went with Marilee not far behind. Naturally, because she was sitting with me, she was at fault as well.

As we sat dumbfounded outside the hotel, our shoes strewn across the few steps that lead to the entrance; Marilee glared at me. She grabbed her shoes, hung them on her boobs, and said: "There are thousands of other places to drink in this town, let's get the hell outta here." And off we went; shoes hanging from our boobs through the streets of New York.

I mention this only because my life was full of such experiences before 2007. There isn't a bar or dance club where the employees didn't know me by name within a three-city-limit radius.

And the me now wonders why. Why was my world so confusing? Why was my behavior so despicable at times? What was I trying to ultimately prove? Okay, so I added a what. There were, however, many whys, whats, hows, and whos in my life. Looking back, my life was nothing but questions -- there were hardly ever any answers. And, at some point, I stopped asking. I stopped looking for the seemingly elusive explanations for my actions and mind-set.

Then in 2005 my world exploded.

A relationship of almost fourteen years came to an end.

At an age when I thought all things should fall into place, pieces of me were blown through time. I scanned the past for reasons, peered at the dismal future, and remained frozen in the present until 2007.

Until the warm winds of Georgia called me home.

I say "home," not because I grew up here, but because a person of like mind, heart, and soul waited through time for me to arrive. His woes, like mine, are difficult to put into just a few words. But let me just say this: In the three years we've been together, a whole person was fashioned from all the little bits and pieces that remained. And today, we still spend most of our days together. It's as if lightning struck on March 17, 2007 -- St. Patrick's Day -- and fused us together.

Or, perhaps, the effects of the moonshine and green beer haven't worn off yet.

Whichever it is makes no difference to me, and quoting Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof: "May the good Lord smite me with [more of] it" all of my days "And may I never recover."

And what of my days bar hopping and swilling the finest drinks two bucks can buy? I now spend most evenings at home watching Jeff chug Colt .45s to his heart's content, and I at his side with my Boones Farm. We're happier than pigs in shit.

I haven't been thrown out of any unfavorable -- or favorable for that matter -- place in the last few years. That's pretty good, huh? I haven't been seen wearing my shoes on my boobs lately, either.

Farm livin' is the life for me.
Land spendin' out so far and wide.
Keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.

We're living a wonderfully simple life. And I love it that way.

And though, we're usually found gardening, building, reading, and/or writing; we now have "respectable" reporter jobs writing for The Beacon -- a North Fulton County newspaper.

Perhaps, this year we'll both find time to finish our books.

One can hope.

At any rate, as Wednesday approaches, I can't help but remember our first meeting: My very first St. Patrick's Day with an honest-to-goodness Scots-Irishman and all the "trimmings."

We're an odd combination to be sure. We call it Mick-xican (Mik-x-ee-can): Our very own culture. Where does that fall on the romantic scale of relationships? -- Pretty damn high as far as I'm concerned.

It may have taken us a whole lifetime to reach each other, but the years since 2007 have been well worth it. Each morning, when I rise, I remember that lightning never strikes twice in the same place. And I say my prayers while I anticipate the new day ahead.

I know now that all the years that led to these were a blessing in disguise; all the minutes and hours that make up the years to come will be just as cherished as that auspicious day we met.

Happy Anniversary, Jeff.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone.

A Truth

Each week, a wonderful group to which I belong posts a new writing topic. Their attempts to broaden the imagination and educate through Life's experiences are what hooked me months ago. This is last week's installment for "Blogging For Fun:"

It was the one thing she desired the most, and the only thing I couldn't give her.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I must first mention that she was born during a time of great turmoil. As darkness approached me at lightning speed, she bathed me in sunlight. And of all the knowledge I'd garnered in my years on this earth, this was the first of many times that I realized when everything seems its darkest, a light shines from somewhere—the least likely of places most times—to brighten the way.

I was young then—very young. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. Hell, I had no idea from where my next meal would come. And now, now, there was another person to provide for. Could it get any worse? (I must note that we should never ask ourselves this question. I learned the hard way that there's always somewhere—something—darker, deeper, more sinister, and more turbulent than most of what befalls us from time to time.)

But, one look into those deep, dark eyes and I knew that nothing else mattered but the tiny life I held in my arms. I couldn't stop touching her hands, her feet, her face, and her hair. I was mesmerized. She was perfect—in my eyes at any rate.

That was how it all started.

And now, at the end, I may just have the answer as to why she and I stumbled from one erratic episode to another through our lifetime together. And why, perhaps, she doesn't have that one thing. Funny how much clearer our lives become in the dark?

I Corinthians 13:12 for now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

I gaze into her reddened, swollen eyes now and feel the same undying affection I felt all those years ago. Within the depths of their pooling, yet somehow soothing, anguish my every memory reflects there. They trickle down her cheek like an unraveling reel of film. With each tear, I see another memory—another truth—as it exposes itself.

First, I often mentioned how this woman that sits on my bed—my daughter—was very unlike me. That she and I were as different as night and day. But nothing is farther from the truth.

She is very much like me.

We are strong-willed, determined, and unyielding. Additionally, I often think that she hasn't one creative bone in her body. And yet, she has many. As an Interior Designer, her creativity is evident. Her designs are stunning, efficient, and refreshingly new. She is at her best when her back is to the wall. When push comes to shove, she's rarely cornered for long. She volleys the alternatives to any situation in her mind, and armed with resourcefulness and originality, she breaks free. My daughter is the best person to approach with a problem—any problem. If she doesn't know the answer, she'll find it one way or another. This "never give up, never surrender" attitude resides within me as well. It's not always a good thing. But it's mighty handy to have around when Life's equations have numerous solutions.

My mind fills with many other examples. So much so, I now wonder why I ever thought us poles apart.

Next, anger plagues us both. Anger so intense, one must question its origin. Is it inherent? Contagious? Or does it merely seem that way? I know that my father had it and his father before him. So did my great grandfather, come to think of it. This rage reared its ugly head early in my life as it did in hers. But I suppose, the less said about this the better.

Therefore, let us move on to the subject at hand: The one thing.

My daughter was seven when her birth father finally expressed an interest to see her. Before she was born, he vanished. Why he left made no difference to me. It was blatantly clear that a family was the last thing he wanted. And I didn't force the issue. So I went on with my life, and he with his. I never gave it a second thought until his call seven years later.

After hearing his voice on the other end of the telephone, I wanted to drive a stake through his evil heart ridding me of his presence forever. But, my sensible side left the decision up to the person who mattered most—my daughter. And she decided she'd meet him.

For years they corresponded.

Then one day, not long after she graduated high school, they had a falling out. I was never told the specifics of their argument. In any event, this was the last time they spoke until…

My daughter was in her twenties and a man she knew for six years proposed to her.

I was remarried, at the time, to a man my daughter had known for fourteen years. But she needed—better said: desperately wanted—her real father to walk her down the aisle. How should she approach him? she asked. And I, in return, answered, "Just ask. What've ya got to lose? Whatever happened between you, this is a once in a lifetime thing. I'm sure he'll be happy to do it."

So she called him and raised the issue. What she heard, though, was the last thing she expected to hear. He said "no," but oh no, it wasn't a blunt, matter-of-fact "no." He was too "clever" for that.

His response went something like this: I'm too busy at work; I can't take the time off. Which to my daughter's mind meant: "I could care less."

She never spoke to him again.

As a result, she posed the same question to her then step-father and he gladly accepted.

Through the years, I married four times and dated a slew of other men in between. Perhaps subconsciously, I wanted what she wanted. Perhaps, I sought out these men with ulterior motives in mind. Regardless, none of my relationships ever reached the "until death do us part" stage. And I often saw it in her eyes; heard it intermingled with her retorts; felt it when she looked at me. I robbed her of having a dad.

The years passed, however. We grew very close to one another. She bore me three grandchildren. And I finally married a man that I love, cherish, and admire with all my heart.

And now, as I lay with death's shadow looming overhead, many truths come to light. Above all, I believe our lives are richer due to our many struggles; our many joys. I believe that through our trials and tribulations, two better people emerged. Though, at times, our life was difficult, nay, grueling, even down right unbearable, I'd do it all over again.

As I close my eyes for the last time, I whisper, "I know you always wanted a father. And I'm sorry you never got one. But, I love you. And God only knows who we would have become without the past he bestowed upon us? I'm grateful for our unanswered prayers."

She wept.

 

 

"Love longs for some object to be, loves to rest itself in the thing beloved. But in things there is no enduring place to lie. They don't last. They run away. And then what will our fleshly senses have to hold on to? Who can grasp such pleasures as they flit by? The fleshy senses are slow and dull, bound to taste and smell and touch fleshy things. They work well enough for what they were made to do. But they cannot lock on to an experience and keep it from running on to its appointed end."

~ The Confessions of St. Augustine

"In this life men, with much toil, seek rest and freedom from care, but through perverse longings they find it not. They wish to find rest in things which rest and abide not, and these, since they are withdrawn by time and pass away, harass them with fears and sorrows, and will not let them be at rest."

~ On the Cathechizing of Beginners

A New Year

A new year begins.

And like most, I suppose, my plan for 2010 consists of improving upon last year's failings. Whether my weaknesses stem from ingrained behavioral patterns, character flaws, or poor judgment makes no difference. Reading and research usually light the way. Furthermore, I know what's wrong with me. This means that even though I welcome others' opinions, their views are no surprise. My imperfections are as blatantly obvious to me as they are to them. There are enough to build a library on the subject, should I choose to do so.

Shall I mention a few?

Sure, why not?

Gina Marie, my best friend, often says I return phone calls at a snail's pace—if I return them at all. And she's right. But I'd like to add that I've been blessed with a partner who is as bad at this as I am. Therefore, from the person with which I spend most my time, I receive little in the reprimand department for this "teensy-weensy" defect in my makeup. If anything, I get a gold star for the little amount of time I use the phone, and I like it that way. So sue me.

My illustrious other half, though, rants quite a bit about my combative nature. I pick arguments over the smallest things. And I try to win with hardly any data or personal knowledge of the subject at hand. This, above all else, drives him battier than a monkey chasing its tail.

I'm certain that our readers think his hair is naturally untamed and Einsteinish in appearance, eh? Not true. He grabs the hair on both sides of his head frequently; mainly from exasperation with me (chuckle…). It's a good thing I like the "Wildman" look.

All kidding aside, I'm getting a little better at this, though. Living with a man who is a dictionary, a thesaurus, and an encyclopedia, all rolled into one, helps. Naturally, I still pick the typical female fight. But that's a given, right? Truth be told, I chalk quite a few of our little quarrels up to my X chromosome. And I sleep every night, content with the knowledge this will never change.

Next, my daughter has no qualms about informing the entire world (a slight exaggeration, perhaps) of my immaturity and hippie mindset. She often asks, "When are you gonna grow up?" To which I answer, "If it hasn't happened by yet, I'm pretty sure it never will." (I know I wrote this in an earlier post, but bear with me. I hear it a lot.) Add to this her periodic telephone calls, which usually go something like this: "Because you live your life differently than most everybody else (strong emphasis on "your" and "most"), I thought I'd run this idea by you…"

I'm never quite sure if her intent is to mock or a genuine need for a little ingenuity. But, I always presume the latter. I feel better that way.

So to reiterate, there are plenty of people in my life who voice their opinions as to what's wrong with me. But unlike most, I suspect, I don't care. It doesn't bother me in the least. I never take it personally. And I don't get angry (at this, anyway). At times, I laugh and reply, "Tell me something I don't know."

Hence, let me state that even though there are a number of things about myself I'd change, there are many others for which I'm eternally grateful. And this is milestone for me.

In the past, I strolled from one year to the next hoping that one would hold the promise of tomorrow; a serenity that only comes from a sense of security. But it never came. I had bad luck for so long; one would think the "coin toss" to be consistently rigged. Without fail, it landed on the same side year, after year, after year.

I wanted to change everything. I wanted to be someone totally different. Being grateful for anything never entered the equation.

Then, when all hope was lost, when I hit bottom of the barrel, I found my way. It was rather easy to see "up" from rock bottom. It was for me at any rate.

I realize now, that my bad luck was due to erroneous conceptual choices and the misperceptions upon which I acted. These include love interests, friendships, an obsessive self-confidence issue, and a self-destructive and overly trusting nature, just to name a few.

For all that was honest and true about me, there was a dishonest and artificial side that duped many people and me along with them. Looking back, I longed for my better half to surface. But I never hollowed out the hole from which it could do so. I suffocated it with wanting to fit in and wanting to please. I smothered it with good intentions and juvenile behavior.

The battle I fought with myself was greater than any struggle I had with the antagonists in my life. I harmed myself more than anyone else ever could. It seemed as if there was no end in sight to this madness.

Then, enter miracle number one…

By going back to the beginning—my beginning—I saw a clearer present and a better future. My parents laid the groundwork, and, up until recently—the last six years or so—I completely ignored it. The expression "forgive and forget" comes to mind. It's a silly phrase. We should forgive, but we must never forget.

Our pasts hold the keys to so many doors. And yet, we're more willing to forget them, than to remember where we laid these keys. Our rooms grow musty and dark from the years of neglect. And newer rooms are added in hopes that no one will ever enter the abandoned ones. But the imaginary houses we build eventually come crashing down around us. Without proper foundations, nothing lasts—everything rots.

It took me years to board up my rooms—my past. Therefore, I knew it would take just as many, if not more, to reopen them and dust them off. Each time I discovered the darkness lurking in these walls, I forgave myself for creating it.

Exposing our true selves may not be easy. But how can we advance or recover until we do? We can't. We must forgive ourselves for the mistakes of the past and move on. But we must never forget what brought us to today.

Anyway, I'm still working at it…

Perhaps, I always will.

But through this process, I found some of my answers. Not all, mind you, but some.

It took a handful of long-time friends to point me in the right direction. And from this experience, I learned never to underestimate the power of healthy friendships. The key word in that sentence is "healthy"—there are many that cause more harm than good.

Without my friends, it was difficult to see north from south, east from west, right from wrong, and good from bad. My skies were full of clouds in those days. And their guidance lit my way.

I thank the Lord every day, every year, for the strength he gave me to recognize the error of my ways; and for those who unselfishly shared their hearts and their wisdom. Through this combined effort, I finally made one good choice after another.

Soon, the better part of me sprouted. And others noticed its growth. My support group of friends grew. But more importantly, to my mind, it/I earned the attentions of a man unlike any other. So different is he than the men of my past that I grew by leaps and bounds as a person by his side.

And this brings me to my original thought.

As I embark upon this New Year, as I pick or choose which things to improve, I know that nothing better exists than where I live and with whom. In this ever-changing Lost and Found of Life, I have been lost and found many times over—but never as significantly or as completely as now. I do not pine for things I do not have. For all else is of little consequence.

What I have is immeasurably central to my well-being and soothing to my soul.

Whatever this New Year has in store for me, I embrace its unknown, as I have for the last two years, with renewed faith. This faith reaches far beyond my earthly home and stems from the partner I chose, the good people around me, and how I live each day.

So, attack my flaws if you must. Though mine may even exceed most, I must have done something right. For I have Jeff, Green Hell, and some damn fine friends to show for my efforts. And they're more than I could ever ask for; more than enough to live on for the rest of my days.

Thank you, everyone and thank you Jeff; Happy New Year.

First Christmas

Not long after we met, and after I expressed my wishes to learn more about writing, my husband said: "Writing well is hard work." And I have always remembered these words. Nevertheless, my passion for this art was strong. And though that was well over two years ago, I still read and write about many things. But he was right; it's very hard. I must also add, however, that writing is a form of expression unsurpassed by any other to those who have an unremitting thirst for knowledge and the heart of a romantic, plus are hard working, imaginative, and bright. As all these "stars" align, we can't help ourselves—I can't help myself. Becoming a better writer is inevitable. Right? Well, perhaps?

Anyway, I'm still learning; I'm still writing. I guess I always will be. And the topics I choose come from everywhere and anywhere; from everyone and anyone; and could include anything, which brings me to the next subject.

Recently, BFF 24 (Blogging for Fun) posted their topic of the week: First Christmas. And I couldn't resist. But I have many first Christmases. So then, which should I select? Let's visit each. Shall we?

Of course, the very first's brain-file has been completely erased. Come on, people, there's no way in hell to "click" on that file to open it—I was three months old at the time. There isn't enough memory in my "hard drive" to recall that moment in time.

I have, however, seen pictures. And to be honest, I don't look very happy. My face in each is scrunched as if to say "You woke me up for this?" or "Put me down dammit, I was sleeping."

I do, on the other hand, remember the December 25^th upon which I received a Susie Bake Oven. As far as I'm concerned, no other childhood gift brought such joy. The irony here is that presently, I don't cook. I rarely boil water.

As an adult, I traveled quite a bit, as a result of which preparing meals for my family took a back seat to establishing a career. Still, I remember the long hours propped in front of that miniature, aluminum stove as a child, creating dishes I made my parents eat. At the time, I believed they were rather tasty— and my parents told me so.

But now, looking back, I see the twisted faces of two people who wanted their child to think her food was appetizing. When in reality, it must have tasted pretty damn awful.

Ah, the joys of parenthood…

And while we're on that subject, the next two "firsts" were my children's. Each was unique, to my mind. There's nothing like a child's first Christmas day as seen through the eyes of a parent. My daughter was two months old on her first Christmas. She was my firstborn, and I remember holding her by the tree and showing her all the ornaments and lights. No light shone brighter that Christmas than the one I held in my arms, though. My son was four months old on his first Christmas, seven years later. And this time, my daughter was the one who carried him to the tree and showed him all the wonders hanging there. From that day forward, I knew my two Christmas stars would shine brightly for me on every holiday—no matter what else happened in my life.

I must also include one other first Christmas, which occurred in between the two I just mentioned. My daughter was five years old at the time. After one of the numerous downward spirals in my life—and there were many—we moved to Florida during the month of November. With no money, no job, and no place to stay, I looked up an old friend. Fortunately for us, he took us in. His finances, however, weren't the best either. So, the night I arrived, I searched high and low for a job, and found one.

Even though I worked long and hard hours, I still didn't have enough money for Christmas.

Telling a five-year-old child "Santa isn't coming this year" is distressing at best.

Oh sure, I tried to soften the blow by saying: "He doesn't know our new address" and "Maybe he'll come later in the year, just for you." But still, her eyes welled up with tears, and she cried at least once a day, every day until Christmas. I felt like a failure.

But we borrowed an artificial tree from my landlord, which made my daughter a little happier. And together, we made construction paper ornaments and garlands, which we decorated with crayons and glitter (She still puts them on her Christmas tree).

On Christmas Eve we sat by the tree, sang Christmas carols, and said our prayers.

Early the next morning, my daughter ran into my bedroom screaming: "Santa did come, mommy! He came! He really came!" I hadn't purchased any gifts, so her words put me on the alert: Someone must've broken into the house! He could still be here! I sprang out of bed. But my daughter took me by the hand and dragged me into the front room; all the while chanting, "Come on mommy, come on." And what did I see under our supposed-to-be-bare tree, but many presents wrapped in colorful paper and shiny bows. There was a Strawberry Shortcake bicycle and sleeping bag, a doll, a doll's stroller, and board games. All lay underneath our scantly decorated tree.

"See, mommy? Santa knew where we live!" was the last thing she said before ripping open all the presents. Her smile could've lit anyone's darkest hour—especially mine.

Later that day, I discovered that our landlord, with the help of a few neighbors, was our Santa Claus that year. And for the first time in my adult life I felt the true spirit of Christmas.

It is a very special memory that my daughter and I will always share.

The next "first" Christmas was the one I spent without my kids. Once our children become adults and move out on their own, our holidays are very different— bleaker, to my mind. Oh sure, we still have the joyful pastimes of Christmas dinners and exchanging gifts. But they're never quite the same as the running-down-the-stairs-screaming-it's-Christmas-5:00am-wake-up-call-and-tearing-open-the-gifts mornings of the past.

Last, but by no means least on my list, was my first Christmas in Roswell, Georgia, in 2007. After a dreadful divorce and two years of solitary confusion, I met Jeff. Later that year, I moved to Georgia in time to witness the fall colors. I was still in getting-accustomed-to-my-new-environment mode on December 25^th. But Ma Bean and Jeff did everything they could to make me feel welcome. For starters, we had a wonderful Christmas Eve dinner with hot cocoa (a childhood favorite of mine), a bottle of Riesling, and an assortment of extraordinary cheeses, meats, smoked and pickled fish, breads, crackers, caviar, cookies, crudités—a real smorgasbord. And the next morning, under the tree, there were gifts for everyone—including Connor; our psycho puppy, who had made the fateful journey to Georgia with me. I'll never forget how I felt that Christmas: Loved, appreciated, and wanted.

But most of all, I knew I was finally home.

Get The Oil!

I had my share of kinky moments in the past. No one can dispute this fact.

The memories of these times are still among the cobwebs in my brain. And I'm certain if the occasion arises, I can dust them off and put them to good use.

It's like riding a bike. Right?

And even though my husband and I live a rather conservative life, who says that what goes on behind close doors isn't liberal? Not I. He's Scots-Irish for Pete's sake.

Well, last night, Jeff woke shouting: "Get the oil! I need oil!"

I, of course, with an amused tone, asked: "What oil? For what?"

Jeff: "Never mind, just get it. I need it."
Me (laughing loudly now): "Honey, you're sleeping. Why would you need oil?"
Jeff (seething): "Get it woman! I need oil to lie in."
Me: (hysterically laughing): "You want to lie in oil?"
Jeff: "Yes, olive oil."
Me (with a sarcastic tone, but still laughing uncontrollably): "There isn't enough olive oil in this house for you to bathe in. What the hell are you talking about?"

This idea, however, had me worked up for a moment. I almost ran to the kitchen to fetch as much oil as I could carry.

There's vegetable and canola oil in the cupboard above the ovens. There's sesame and olive oil in the cupboard above the stove. I mustn't forget the shortening in the pantry either. I could heat that up. If I put all these together, I'm in for the slipperiest "slide" of my lifetime. This could be fun.

Along with these thoughts, numerous exotic positions come to mind as well. Damn! I'm ready.

Of course, I never know what's in that head of his. I calm down long enough to contemplate the obvious. He could be preparing a meal in his dream, creating a recipe, even making lamp oil for all I know. Why is the first thing that enters my head sex? Well, because I am woman—hear me roar.

Speaking of roaring, he's really pissed by now. I didn't get the oil as instructed. And I sit about two feet away laughing my ass off. He is not amused.

Suddenly, he blurts out what he really wanted: "I said get me a blanket—I'm cold dammit!"

Me (snickering): "Oh yeah, that's what you said honey," adding a smirk and a wink.

So, I get him a blanket, cover him up, and he's as dead as a doornail two minutes later.

I shoulda got the oil when I had the chance…

Needless to say, his words "deglaze" my heated thoughts until they're runny, cold, and dark—like poorly cooked porridge. The warm and fuzzy, "Debbie Does Dallas," visions dissipate. Now I see me reaching for his throat and choking the life out of him. Perhaps even a little shock therapy—using the nearby lamp—would be better (Indeed, a mad scientist grin and slits for eyes accompany my hands as they rub together and I imagine his demise).

Anyway, within a few minutes, it's all gone: the humor, the anger, my hopes for sex, my wishing him dead. All is back to normal. And eventually, I get some sleep.

No kinky sex on this night, people. Stay tuned, though; it may happen—sooner than later. I can't get the damn oil off my mind.

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?