Senior Lady Dating Manifesto

I'm looking for someone to spend a pleasant day with, who has a zest for life. We don't have forever; each day needs to have a little sparkle. Do you spoil yourself?

My day begins with thanks for another chance and a stretch to bring my soul back into the body followed immediately by coffee. Two hours later coffee and I are on the internet before I head for the gym. My days are lovely, my roads wind through tropical forests with sheer facing rock walls before showing me the ocean.

A handsome man to look into my eyes, who enjoys my wit and finds me attractive spells a fine afternoon, but a man with humor and candor makes a day too short.

The laundrymen listing all they have and what their friends have from the moment we meet are in the top five of those to avoid; what do I care? I’m not a young chick in nesting mode.

An interesting attractive man may command my attention for a while, but drone on and on without wondering about the woman you’re with becomes too braggadocio for my taste; I’m not a chick just out of the nest.

When your stories match his, you feel like you’ve met a male kindred spirit. You could do a freaking happy dance because you’re sharing your stories with someone who has the same sense of adventure. Little by little you question, disbelief dampens the flames of desire. Ladies, you know how deflating a liar is, right.

A man with a passion for almost anything, I prefer to the guy who lists his assets, upon deciding that those assets should be enough to attract you slides rather rapidly into fault finding, a constant complainer. Yuck.

I’ve had real love and I’ve had forever, at least forty-five years of it. As I recall, we built that a day at a time.

A man who loves his job can tell me stories about something I don’t understand; I’ll ask questions while admiring the twinkle in his eyes as he speaks, but he must ask about me. I don’t spew or interrupt a man waxing eloquent on himself. A man who doesn’t ask about the woman he’s with doesn’t care who you are; screw that and bye-bye.

A lively conversation, friendly banter and a bit of innuendo don’t mean a thing, but time well spent; I could enjoy that, but too many woe-be-gone faces want to tell me their problems. They remind me of a very talented woman who applied for a job as my secretary. I was liking her for the job, told her I’d call her, and on the way out the door she said, “I suffer from melancholia.”

Companions, partners, or mates should bring us up; some days we struggle to enjoy our day. Before we’ll help each other; we must care. Time well spent together brings that, so don’t tell me about forever; let’s just make a beautiful day and see what happens.

By the way, I’m a spoiler; do you know what that is?

It’s a woman who when she’s happy, she spoils you silly.  

My Angel

Dearest Sister,

Very happy you’re better. Please, be healthy! I need you in my life. We cling to each other as girls in a raft.

To be with you again soaking up your loving care, I can’t wait. Last I saw you was during the worse time of my life. I never could look at life without my husband; you made me feel safe and not alone. It felt like the first growth of life after devastation.

How many times in a lifetime do you recognize a soul mate across a room crowded or otherwise? And, yet, there we were.

Can we doubt God has a plan? You were the angel whose caring reminded me that God cares. Your presence united us; being mad with God doesn’t feel nice.

I miss our conversations and am eager to get to know your country better. Who am I kidding? I can’t wait to hear the jazz, while I hear music I visit my happy place.

Two lifelong dog lovers attending an international FCI dog show; I shiver with delight; can’t wait. To stay with you until the book expo in January would be unfair, so we’ll limit my stay; you say how long. Between now and then I’ll be budgeting.

An unscrupulous company has been burrowing into my checking account, almost caused a huge problem when I was in New Orleans. I bought something on the internet, a cosmetic company began sending and charging for cosmetics that went to my post office box. The purchase as understood by me was a one time deal and I’ll let you know if I want more.

On my trip to New Orleans I encountered difficulty, of course, I budget for some but stood at the counter with not enough in my account to work already done. By the grace of God, I had just enough cash on me to cover. I don’t normally carry more than a twenty or two. My heart beat crazy counting.

I’m too old for this stress. I’m going to the bank to find out how to stop this. Nothing I saw on the cosmetics company website lead me to believe we had an ongoing relationship. I’ll bet this happens frequently. This seems like a sharp business practice, huh!

I could have been so screwed because big business didn’t play fair again. I’ve had a hard time since my return home; health comes with nourishment and exercise. As long as my government doesn’t default on me, I can handle my life.

When you’re up for it please send the correct name of the dog show and dates, town, etc. And the same for the jazz fest. Costs.

Let’s pray we’re not too old for fun; huh, Sister! 

Please Be Warned

People are basically good; we can be whipped into a frenzy and led to destruction but left to our own devices I find human beings to be decent and frequently kind. It’s in our nature.  

Have you ever had something nag on your mind? Your mind drifts back to an event you wish would stop, but there you go thinking about it again. You laugh out loud, which I understand to be a jail-able offense these days thanks to Mr. Sessions; but there you go with that laugh. Suddenly you feel embarrassed to have had the thought. It’s so out there, but the shimmering and displaced feelings; either you’re losing your mind or an alien energy has invaded. 

What began as a vague haunting what if takes the shape of what the  F--- and I just want to run, to hide and be safe. 

What is it they say about “All it takes is for good people to look the  other way?” 

I’m scared. This isn’t the normal energy of the planet. This is bad,  Folks. At least it’s bad for us. 

Holistic Healers on the planet know we’re in a bad energy vortex. Who wants to give this a name we can fight? Mother Earth didn’t birth this energy. 

Human beings will fight to the death over a whole bunch of things, but most of us also manage compassion. Don’t you find it odd that people we’ve  elected to serve us do everything possible to hurt us or the environment?  Surely, we’ve elected an asshole or two over the years, but a whole room full of them says something’s not right. 

What if when powerful leaders congregated, say like the inaugural in  January aliens opened a portal over the event releasing a neurotoxin that reduced empathy to one’s own species? 

Removing laws protecting the environment harms their children also. What evolved species? What did Christ teach? Buddha? Who shits in their beds?!

Picture poor people around the world living modest lives, hoping for a decent day. They travel on scooters searching for scrap discarded on the side of the road. They walk holding children’s hands. Their malls open when crafts get hung from a rope slung between two trees. 

I’ve traveled alone in a car across a modest Caribbean island getting well lost in the process. People were kind and they helped me. One man’s hand an inch above my purse as he leaned in to inspect my belongings, but he stopped traffic to get me in the right direction. He was an angel. The goodness of mankind’s nature touches me often. I’m not saying there aren’t assholes among us; we all know better. 

A percentage of humanity who have no empathy are generally the outsiders and not the community core. 

I saw the shimmering, what apparently happened I believe to be a dispensing of the toxin on inauguration day. 

I never thought I’d say this, but Republicans are right, global warming is a result of aliens dumping toxins on us through worm holes and not the stupid shit we do here. 

Diner Tale Continued

“I was ten years old when I met Sara,” the hero said as he stepped away from the table. 

Rock Star, “You know she recycled her cherry.”

A man at the counter looked up, “Yeah, she recycled her cherry.”

“Good morning, how are yah?” Venerable Bette to a man who just inside the door shook himself dry. 

“Short stack?” Bette queried with a familiar gaze.

He nodded while wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

Bandanna man asked lobster red head, “What are you doing for your  anniversary?”

“I’ll get her flowers and see what’s playing at the Saenger.”

“You should get a room in the Quarter.”

Lobster red shook his head in agreement.

“You gonna ask her to marry You?” Bandanna guy asked the young hero when he returned to the table.   

“I don’t think so.”

“You ought to tell her. I’d rather know if I had no hope; wouldn’t You”

“I suppose,” the hero sheepishly replied.

“My grandkids are coming over Sunday.”

“You see them often?”

“Yeah, the last time my two oldest boys brought girls who didn’t seem orientated to the family. I’m proud of them because they saw it and those girls won’t be back.”

“Al Hirt was a nice man; my momma worked with him,” a man at the counter offered.

Rock Star added, “He come from New Orleans, made New Orleans music. He could play.”

“Good morning,” the staff chimed as a mom with her three children closed her umbrella just inside the door.

The oldest, a teenager with shoulder length hair streaked in that new shade of gray followed her mom. The middle child with red and gold streaks in her hair threw her bottom in a chair and the baby, a girl of about eight with black rimmed glasses looked like she orchestrated the lot of them. 

An Ordinary Man

Stories are told about beautiful people with photographic memories who can sing. One of the first things we learn about our heroine is that she has flawless skin and great legs. Our hero excelled in the military before retiring to become rich.

Invariably they come from the lower ranks, so they came up the hard way. Ninety-eight percent of us love the tale of hard work and success. It gives us hope of being special.

Our identity, what’s more personal, what do we hold more sacred? I mean have you ever met a lawyer without finding out they were a lawyer in the first ten minutes?

Everybody wants to be special, to excel at something, or to be someone who matters. I met a man poolside at a resort in the Dominican Republic, who without even being introduced told me he was wearing a five hundred dollar tee shirt, named the artists and pieces hanging on his walls, and what type of car he drives. I left before he could brag about his other investments.

Image building beginning immediately alternately bores and frightens me. Image builders seldom want to hear anything about you; have you noticed that? I remember a man, a grand champion of image building say about people he had just met, “They were very impressed with me.” It’s easy to see where this could become a toxic pre-occupation.

What’s the matter with being ordinary? I know a man who upon mentioning someone of his acquaintance fastidiously lists all of the person’s special qualities. When I heard my credentials recited, I laughed; must we be so special?

Nobody wants to be thought of as a dumb ass, but this competition to be the special one annoys me, since I’m alone so often; who wants to spend precious time listening to someone brag? Or worse yet they brag until it drags your inner bragger and you catch yourself bragging back.  

My husband was an ordinary man, who identified himself as a teamster, the last of the American cowboys. He taught young visitors to our small farm how to track animals in the woods. He talked about nature. Men referred to him as a man’s man, a manly man; he was respected. I appreciated the uncommon qualities in an ordinary man; he was special to me.

 

When Good Things Happen

Have you noticed the weird ways we react to things? When something extraordinarily good would happen to my mom, like the time I gave her a new car, she got a headache. The headache seemed to come regularly with good news.
My brother appeared to blow it off as nothing or just another day that could go sour at any moment. I get so excited you’d think cotton candy was just rated as a low calorie health food.
Reacting strangely to good news surprises me more than how we react to bad news. Bad news or a negative encounter feels like a heavy hand on my head; I can’t wait to shake it off. Learning some techniques on how to shake it off more effectively would help. My ritual of mentally saying, WTF and rolling my eyes to heaven works until something really gets me, and then, I could use a better plan.
I hated to find myself in full blown pissed mode because I could say some hurtful things without a thought. I hate hurting people even when in y opinion they deserve it. I hate how mean that makes me feel.
Now I hate letting myself get pissed because it raises my blood pressure; it’s not good for me.
How long will this last? How can I escape this negativity? Can we make this okay?
Have you ever had a ton of fun friend, who said demeaning things to you? Or made you feel inadequate?
I had a friend who would call me a bitch for the slightest provocation; for example, if I didn’t want to see the movie she wanted, she’d call me bitch.  At first, I ignored it thinking she was taking her frustrations out on me and would get over it. I told her I didn’t like and asked her to stop, but she didn’t.
People’s temper triggers should be respected unless the provoker really wants war because that’s what happens or the provoked wimps out. I don’t like who I can become when angry, so my answer to fun, but abusive people is always, “Goodbye.”
Some people love bickering, saying snippy things and crying to high heaven when war words are returned. Maybe all the evil that gets tossed around in sport soaks into our souls so we act all goofy when truly good things happen; what do you think?

Men And

Much of what I’ve read lately involves sexism, objectifying women, referring to them as a pussy to be grabbed, and other rotten garbage. At the horrible end of the spectrum, I saw a video of two men whipping a woman with sticks and a story about a nine-year-old girl be married to an old man. Do you imagine she dreamt about him for years before being allowed to wed?
There is a hierarchy, a pecking order that begins because this is mine; it’s the best food or place to sleep for the alpha male. We find this in nature so the handiwork of creation absolves men due to intrinsic ignorance. At the core, God has to have the nature of both sexes, but reproduction, women must have been an afterthought; how else can you explain cramps and monthly menstruation? Surely childbirth could have been better engineered. 
In the beginning, nature favored men with bigger and stronger; with few exceptions, men lead and women follow. Male privilege, ingrained throughout evolution is part of all of our exchanges. We are only women and as evangelical preachers extol, “Women should do as their husbands say!”
Pride and power lead to greed where women contribute a fair share. We’re reaching a point on the planet where bigger and stronger is controlled by smarter; I pray that wiser comes along for the ride.
With the current pecking order, the old crones have less value than ever. The knowledge of a lifetime no longer includes remedies or midwifery; what value does society place on older women?
Bigger and stronger have better is the basis of the male pecking order, but we all know females have a different hierarchy, and only at the top do females have any power. Scientists write papers about this in other species.
A man respects a woman as much as his ego allows him to respect anyone. Some men are so comfortable in their skin that being in their presence enhances a woman’s self-esteem; my husband was one of those guys. I’ve been blessed.
Men hit women because they’re scared that bigger and stronger doesn’t always beat cut throat and women have learned to excel or they’re just assholes.
The recent presidential election demonstrated a powerful man behaving badly, as if he answered to no one, acting out before men yearning for the power to at least be disrespectful to those they believe to be less than themselves. The chant, “Lock her up,” chilled me to my core.    
 I rode on the shoulders of suffragettes who marched and died for women's’ right to vote in America. We marched for equality and parity of pay; later young women called us feminists as if that were a bad thing and said they wouldn’t join us. Young women may think that because their pussy is being grabbed they have power.
An average sixty-eight-year-old woman is likely to have a stream of men push in front of her at the airport; I’ve been knocked down by a man hardly aware I was there. Most men when you point out their trespass become gracious however reluctantly.
As an older woman I’m venerable and vulnerable, it took a long time to make me with the best part being I have time to focus on discoveries to bring joy to my life. My value is in having been created by God.
Why some men are miserable to women is a problem for wiser minds; I pray God to keep me safe from them. 
Women seem to be the ones noticing the anomalies; maybe we’re better observers or we’re not perceived as a threat. I haven’t been able to get a man to admit noticing anything. Are you surprised?
As long as my Google is being jammed, I need to be careful. Be watchful, look for a shimmering and enjoy your day.

Love of My Life

Morning mist clings to the lake. Chirping birds cheer my spirit. Sunlight filtered through the trees reminds me of pleasant mornings throughout my life. A new day, I can cherish or screw up any way I want; what’ll it be?

The pleasantness of morning, that’s something I seldom, had time to savor during my working years. Now, coffee and cooing doves can be leisurely enjoyed. Retirement, that’s something I didn’t really want.

After my husband, my business was the most important thing in the world to me. I enjoyed the challenge of the problems of the day and happy dogs in my care made me feel useful. Had Kirt died before I retired, I’d still be there working today, but that didn’t happen.

He could no longer tolerate cold weather; his hands turned into painful claws in fall. We couldn’t wait for winter. We had to go south. I didn’t want to leave my home of thirty years or my business that gave me a sense of self-satisfaction, but I loved my husband so much more.

Before a cold spell, we loaded the car, said goodbye, and headed to New Orleans. The Great Recession had made business difficult. Many of my clients were in financial crisis and I had to carry some of my bread and butter accounts; holding on was hard, but I managed to squeak along. Sooner or later we’d get past this, but Kirt suffered so much that fall. There was nothing else to do.

My heart beat for that man; nothing mattered except getting him where he could be more comfortable. New Orleans, a stop on the way to our house in Puerto Rico turned into the place he lost a toe. Dr. Davila of the New Orleans VA counseled me, as well as taking great care of Kirt. I’d always wanted to retire to New Orleans so when the time came to leave I went to City Park for a good pout.

Why is it you hear of so many guys retiring, moving to warm weather, and then a couple of years later you hear they died? Someone told me she heard that Smoki our cat died, that we put him to sleep. He purred on my lap well past my husband. Rumors are funny.

You never really know how some else feels, but you can get so close; it’s like you are two halves of the whole. He felt like he was in paradise the last two years of his life here where the spectacular sunrise and sunset was a pause for celebration.

His soul soared over this valley in his dreams, as his body withered.  The love of my life died.

Remembering New Orleans

MY annual trek to New Orleans begins to occupy my mind. City Park where I spent much time as a kid will be one the first places where I’ll return to sit under ancient live oaks remembering a grandmother, aunts, and uncles sharing family times in the beautiful park.

One family picnic under the live oaks still vivid I sat at the table across from my Uncle Lou and Aunt Margaret with potato salad and chicken on my plate.

“How do ya like yur chicken?” Uncle Lou asked in his deep Southern drawl. I loved my Uncle Lou as much as I did my daddy. Lean and fit with premature salt and pepper hair and twinkling blue eyes, he charmed everyone.

“Good chicken, Uncle Lou,” I replied with a big smile for my favorite uncle.

“Y’all like that chicken? It’s good, yeah?” He waited for my vigorous nod of approval.

“Ya remember the baby chicks y’all got for Easter?”

No reply; I didn’t remember.

“Ya don’t remember the colored chicks grandpaw gave you and your brother for Easter?”

Oh, yeah, I remembered how we and our cousins were given these colored chicks that the boys chased around the yard and after my little brother stepped on his, it ran with its head hanging down before it died and the adults gathered up the rest and put them away.

I shook my head; I remembered the Easter chicks, which felt kind of weird, but I didn’t know why. I wasn’t much more than eight.  

“Patty, how do you like your chick?”

I hadn’t seen the chick since Easter, so I looked as confused as I felt. I didn’t want to look stupid in front of my Uncle Lou. I didn’t understand a thing about the stress I felt and now the rest of the table had picked up on the conversation so all the adults were looking at me. City Park one the scenes of my early epic I don’t want to be in the spotlight moments, one of those moments when you just don’t get it.

“Patty, that’s yur Easter chick; how ya like it?”

Uncle Lou seemed to be so pleased to tell me. I looked at the tender thigh on my plate; my eyes felt like they popped out of my head, tears flew along with me from the table to the car where I sat bawling until my mother brought me back to the table to finish my plate.

Life’s teachable moments seldom went smoothly, but that’s how it goes. After lunch my dad and uncle to the kids off to explore the park, where I learned to never ever go near a gray goose nest again.

Never Give Up

Crafting the best out of a bad situation has been one of my talents. When tossed into a this sucks situation I made my little lists of how to get away from, change or completely turn it around. After the pros and cons of each, the winner waves. It sounds so easy. 

Sometimes staying focused on the solution took more strength than I knew I had. The day my husband crawled into the house on all fours began an odyssey of daily pain for him and oh, my God, what do I do stress for me that lasted twenty-five years.

How he endured the weight-bearing pain in his lumbar spine, I’ll never know. When my arthritis acts up I can go straight to crabby bitch. Pictures of him smiling and laughing show his joy. Condemned to a sedentary life in pain; that’s no easy sentence, but he would be the one to see the woodland flowers blooming under the snow or the first robin of spring.

When a man can no longer work and provide it can sap his spirit; my husband struggled for his. In the Workman’s Compensation case insurance company lawyers referred to him as lazy and looking for a free ride. The tone they took with him made me want to smash their faces. He was down; the system was created to support him, but they whipped him mercilessly for years before he got anything. God help young workers today.

Kirt had always wanted me to stay home; he was old school that way. I liked working and money was a real hit; but ten acres, horses, chickens, cows, and dogs persuaded me to stay home happily.

A few years later, I no longer had a career and he had an accident. I couldn’t leave him at home alone for more than brief periods.

My idyllic life of playing with horses and dogs came to a screeching halt along with Kirt’s paycheck. Holy shit, I didn’t see that one coming. We were so happy; we loved our place next to the woods. My life was so rattled, but I had to be strong; my problems paled in comparison to my husband’s pain.

We sold our treasures, tomatoes, and eggs; the people who trained dogs with me on Monday night offered to pay. My fledgling dog business began. I worked ten years straight without a single day off. My business that began under some harsh circumstances grew to one day employ as many as twenty people, so I can honestly say we made the best our of a bad situation.

As we stood in the gateway of our home for the last time Kirt asked, “Any wishes or regrets?”  I burst into tears,” To do it all over again except your accident!”   

Last Bitch of the Year

Imagine you are telling a story about something you saw and heard. You say, “The woman looked away when the man took her by the shoulders.” The person you’re telling the story to jumps in when you pause for a breath and proceeds to tell you how this happened, why it happened, and what it means without the benefit of hearing your story to the end.

This robs you of the satisfaction of telling your conclusion or point. It’s no longer your story they hijack your story before getting back to theirs. They seldom ask questions about what you’re saying, but readily explain what it means.

Their version may bear no resemblance to what you thought you heard and saw, but they dismiss any other possible outcome.  Is this a power trip? What’s with this behavior?

I enjoy listening to people’s stories and ask questions; I don’t understand people who hijack conversations. Isn’t this as rude and annoying as people, who begin conversations with,

“I don’t know,” and then go on and on about their opinion, which they pre-qualified as worthless. 

Culture Divergence

Culture or what my mind refers to as things other people do differently than what I do. Culturally differences can be as domestic as Catholic bingo versus Baptist picnics.

I’ve only understood culture on the broadest most superficial level. For me, it was one of those things I could see, but not truly identify, like an ethereal spirit.

Finally, I had an aha moment explaining why understanding came so slowly and uncomfortably; I thought of culture as what others do. What did I bring to the table? Some days people love me and other days I feel friction. What is it about me on those days?

In today’s climate, it’s all too easy to chalk it off to so and so just doesn’t like Americans or white people. And while I see a difference lately, I prefer to change what I can to minimize stress points.

In the Caribbean cultures I’ve met so far, one common thing is greeting ritual. “Good day, how are you?” Question and reply come before what you want. On a good day, I enjoy that, which is generally on my popular days.

On a bad day, I have no patience for all these good day rituals, I want to get in, get it over, and get out; that’s my American culture, which I won’t diminish by saying, or lack thereof. We may be brash, but we’ve always been good-hearted.

Putting on a good face helps, but many operate on the energetic level where they’re reacting to energy output. When you blast someone with hurry-hurry energy, push back occurs.

And sometimes I get so excited about a new experience, and then I see in some faces that their culture is more restrained. Write this down, no happy dancing after sixty-five.

Changing Growing Grateful

Learning to live alone and be happy in your senior years can be a slog. So many things that seemed important no longer matter. My I give a shit about list is embarrassingly large. For someone, who always wanted to be liked and respected, it surprises me how indifferent I am to other’s opinions.

Opinions filtered through eyes that don’t see me, but similar folk who came before me. People all too often rank each other as better or worse. If you’re seen as better, there’s jealousy. If you’re seen as worse you don’t matter. I don’t wish to be seen as better; to be given a set of attributes that doesn’t fit chaffs. My self-respect, my ego won’t allow myself to be treated poorly as if I didn’t matter.  

What matters is a day spent embracing beauty, the salty air blowing off the ocean, the roar of the surf commingling with local music, or better yet, jazz.

As the star of our own personal production, we can choose to share the stage with others or grab the light and refuse to relinquish. Some feel they’re the most interesting in the room or simply hope to have something to contribute to the conversation; I confess upon occasion I’ve worn each.

Center stage is not something that came easily, as a child, being center stage was generally followed by a beating. Sitting on the sidelines, watching; that’s safest. But we’re all the star of our own life; sometimes you just have to deliver your lines. And when it works, it really feels good.

In a room full of people there’s always someone who’s jealous of the person taking center stage. That’s what this better or lesser comparison system creates; perhaps it comes from our eat or be eaten stage.

From the safety of my planet, I see the beauty and diversity of God’s creation. I surround myself with what reminds me who I am, a child of God. We all are, as the cells on my body are part of me. To wish the biggest asshole ill hurts me! My spirit, my soul doesn’t thrive when I get involved in jealousy or pride.

Healthy self-respect is the neighbor of arrogance, who always pisses people off. One’s confidence will be attacked by other’s insecurity, and sometimes you’re the asshole doing the undermining.

Focusing on me, at this stage in my life seems altogether appropriate, so like it or not, get on with it.

Tonight there will be jazz in the street; guess where I’ll be.

Enjoy your day.

  

Hang Up

A friend you call in the middle of the afternoon just to shoot the breeze  between chores, that’s a bud missed. I miss the friend with fine comedic timing who still laughed at my one liner’s. We laughed until tears leaked. All that shot in the ass.

Just joking, trying to be funny; don’t be so serious. Can’t you take a joke? None of these lines will placate, ameliorate, or otherwise improve my attitude regarding words thrown at me with precision.

Nothing guaranteed, nothing taken for granted. Mourn to move on, so forgiving possible. I’ve learned to love and to let go. Always hurts, some times more.

One of the best compliments I’ve ever gotten, a lady named Teddy told me, “To have a friend you must be a friend. You know how to have a friend.”

I pray for grace to be a friend, who forgives at least to the extent of not hurting in revenge.

To let go is one of my life lessons. I hang on for dear life. J

Life Lessons

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. About three years ago, shortly after my husband died, we were introduced.

Widows know each others’ pain; it’s something we just have to live through or not. People who haven’t had this loss hide behind a wall of words telling you how you should feel or even better how your husband would want you to feel. Well intended people can make you crazy in your grief.

“You feel how you feel. You can’t push it. You can’t change it. You just have to accept it. It hurts.” She identified with the experience. 

An obviously wounded woman spoke the truth. We bonded in our grief. We gave each other moral support to make the best of the days we shared. Lost in Puerto Rico with two senior ladies could be the title of our early adventures. In the depths of my mourning, I learned to laugh again.

Have you ever met someone fun? I enjoyed her quixotic changes of topic. It taught me to be flexible. I can be rigid. And, oh, my, she bathed in the center of attention! I was the Martin to her Lewis; we laughed through many experiences.

First, I love myself; teacher set the example. No matter what the topic her sentence always began with I. After a while I found that annoying, but realized she struggles also, so accept a friend as she came. Later it crossed my mind that I should find what my husband found lovable in me. 

For three years this soul has been my closest friend, whom I love dearly. There is so much I admire about her. We had some great fun together. This time in my life was better for you being in it; gracias. I wish you all the best. It hurts to say, “Goodbye!”

The only thing that would grieve me more is to again be subjected to the hateful speech hurled at me on Thursday. That was the meanest I’ve ever seen you do. You wanted to hurt me; why?

Doesn’t matter because you did it; you hurt me so badly that we’re done. Is that what you wanted?

Give me Thanksgiving Dinner for one.

When a Friend Is Not a Friend

Stay positive; don’t bitch. That’s what my angel says. Tell it like  it like it is; the hell with whoever gets pissed. I don’t know who whispers that in my ear, but I hear it in my head.

We all have that public persona of how we’d like to be seen or perhaps more importantly how we’d like to be. I want to be a nice person who’s fun to be with, but if you hurt me or piss me off, who knows?  

We all spend some time in the asshole zone. God forbid, but maybe, I’m about to go there. That’s not a place I care to visit, but one thing I know is that when someone starts “messing” with you, it won’t end until you leave or have it out.

Just for the record people mess with you when they say hurtful things or embarrass you in public. You know the one, when you give them the how could you look, they look back with that innocent, huh, but you can see the corners of the eyes narrow ever so slightly, giving away intent.

Would it surprise you to hear that the person who messes with you will innocently rip you off? This person owes you a hundred dollars, and when you’re handed the folded money; will you look at it or will you stuff it into your pocket? You count and it’s twenty short. The twenty appears from the rear pocket where it was missed. This personality never apologizes, preferring to offer humorous quips. 

People who hurt the ones who care about them are perhaps repeating the treatment they received in childhood. As much empathy as I have for them, I need to escape that. I won’t choose to be with anyone who makes me feel bad about myself.

All my life long besties are dead. In finding compatible friends we go through so many misfits. Some times I just want someone to share a good day, but don’t mess my day up with meanness.

Who tells a friend to “order your Thanksgiving dinner for one? You should have a turkey dinner for Thanksgiving. You need this. This is a good idea for you; do you see this? Dinner for one, this is perfect for you. You should get this.” 

Who hammers this at you, while at the same time bragging how many homes welcome them? Is this person insensitive beyond imagination? Why would a friend be so hurtful?

This conversation took place over a coffee. “What are you trying to say to me?” I felt stunned.

“I’m just sayin, in case. You know,” attempting to sound conciliatory.

I rose and began collecting my napkin and cup.

“I don’t have to clean this up; let them clean it up,” my friend said in a voice so haughty that it shocked me.

Unfortunately, shock doesn’t slow my mouth; I fled the scene saying something about arrogance and ignorance, clean up your mess, and who knows what else.

What do you do, when someone tries to stick a fork in you every once in a while?  I grew up in a neighborhood where people messed  with each other as a big competition. I moved to the country to escape.

My sweet country boy didn’t like that thing city people do, so I stopped. He was right; life is more pleasant without it, so anyone introducing that negativity into my life needs to go.

This is so sad.

The Woman of My Dreams

Do you feel it; the negative energy on our planet rises with the temperature. Every individual interaction creates energy. The more hate we throw around; the more is coming our way. It’s a snowball of karma aimed at us.

We want to be positive, loving people, but somebody has an asshole moment in your direction, so now, we’re pissed. This was your friend; how could they?

Discussing it only brings on more bull in the form of lies and excuses, so why bother?

At an age where you’ve seen it all before, the games become instantly recognized; you see how people advance themselves with others. You try to be careful of new people, but when you have nobody, you really must give it a try.

Here’s the thing; in the last few years, I’ve been burned so much that I’m beginning to relish my alone time. My favorite time is alone in public places where people delight me. I am the friendly older woman smiling or perhaps observing what a fine family you have. Our exchange creates a spark of positive energy.

This may be a shame, but I don’t care to get to know people well enough for them to have an opinion on how I live, call me a bitch, or tell me what I should do.

I respect your choices; be who you are, but show me the same respect. Don’t be duplicitous with me; my forgiveness is not a forgone conclusion. Once you lose my respect, we’re over no matter what else you have to offer.

The inevitable choice to be an asshole back or to walk away discharging as little negative energy as possible; flip a freaking coin, I can go either way; I am not the woman of my dreams.

  

The Woman of My Dreams

Do you feel it; the negative energy on our planet rises with the temperature. Every individual interaction creates energy. The more hate we throw around; the more is coming our way. It’s a snowball of karma aimed at us.

We want to be positive, loving people, but somebody has an asshole moment in your direction, so now, we’re pissed. This was your friend; how could they?

Discussing it only brings on more bull in the form of lies and excuses, so why bother?

At an age where you’ve seen it all before, the games become instantly recognized; you see how people advance themselves with others. You try to be careful of new people, but when you have nobody, you really must give it a try.

Here’s the thing; in the last few years, I’ve been burned so much that I’m beginning to relish my alone time. My favorite time is alone in public places where people delight me. I am the friendly older woman smiling or perhaps observing what a fine family you have. Our exchange creates a spark of positive energy.

This may be a shame, but I don’t care to get to know people well enough for them to have an opinion on how I live, call me a bitch, or tell me what I should do.

I respect your choices; be who you are, but show me the same respect. Don’t be duplicitous with me; my forgiveness is not a forgone conclusion. Once you lose my respect, we’re over no matter what else you have to offer.

The inevitable choice to be an asshole back or to walk away discharging as little negative energy as possible; flip a freaking coin, I can go either way; I am not the woman of my dreams.

  

Just a Little Romance

A little flirtation will tingle the taste buds of any breathing adult human being; I am no exception, but where do you find an interesting man? Witty and charming at Sam’s Club is out of the question; don’t get me wrong in the long lines I will shoot the shit with anyone willing to speak. 

Less than twenty per cent of my time is spent with people and half of that is in the gym working out. The idea of a conversation with a man who might also find me interesting tantalizes.

To look into a man’s eyes again, to see the glimmer that says, I’m so happy you are here; that would make me absolutely giddy.  I have zero aspirations for a happily ever after event.

Listening to a man drone on about himself for hours was tedious when I was young and hadn’t heard anything yet. Forget that, when a guy is cool he should be with a woman he finds interesting. If he doesn’t ask you questions, he’s not really interested in you. I knew that, when I was young, but didn’t have much to say, so I listened. Now, I’m a mature woman with my own great stories.

A man, who cuts off my story, when it’s my turn to talk, is dead to me. No, it’s worse than that; I can be down right shitty.

On an island where there are seventeen women for every man, women are very competitive.  Once you get the hang of alone, it’s pretty cool; that’s me.

The sound of a man’s voice in the night makes so much feel all right. Hearing a man tell me about flowers in a tree he sat under at lunch or the way the light landed on a church’s stain glass windows makes my woman feelings flutter. That’s the romance I could possibly handle. Remember that zero aspirations for happily ever after; the talking on the phone stuff must come first.

Being a huge fan of the internet, I signed up on a senior dating service for mature people. A lover man was the first to respond; he NEEDED a good woman, honest and true. Poor fellow, it's an ad in to replace his late wife.

The next response sported the man’s picture, not of his face, but his ass with jockey shorts pulled between saggy cheeks, proving once again that older doesn’t really mean mature.  Don’t you just wonder what kind of woman would respond to a man showing her his ass as an introduction?

Bio’s for the men tell me many want a new wife, like the last one, or maybe not quite. When men are looking for forever, they’re not looking at the woman; they’re looking for an archetype. That’s way too impersonal for me.

Who wants forever? I don’t know if we’re going to be friends by the end coffee, let alone dinner. The guy, who wants the forever woman, does not want me; remember the movie, Stepford Wives? Ha-hhah!

Romance, the flirting, a man with real stories could curl my toes. That sounds like good fun.

The man who tells his whole history in the first letter or two makes me feel I’ve stepped into forced intimacy and in three more letters we’ll be married; how soon can you come?

Do you answer questions? A guy who tells you his story without regard to your questions uses form letters; I’d bet on it.

Romance for me, I doubt it; it was fun to think about, but no. There is so much beauty to be explored, so much to see and do; I’ll have no trouble sublimating. 

Shades of Messed Up

Just start out screwed up and you’re fucked for life; there’s no denying it. In his last week of life my husband sat in his wheelchair by the bed where I laid reading; he raised his hand to stroke a hair out of my face. I ducked. With sadness etched in his face my darling said, “Your dad had you eighteen years; I’ve had you a lifetime and you still duck.” He rolled out of the room while inside I cried, come back, touch me again, I won’t duck.

When your shrink tells you that you’re normal, which mine did after years of therapy, what that means is you’re normally messed up for a person with your issues. I always thought everyone else had it together more than I did; now, I know we’re all shades of messed up.

Everybody has their poor baby story. If you tell yours, you’ll hear theirs’ in a tone that says, if you think your story was bad, listen to this. Empathy, no, its declaration is to get you to drop your pity party. In my life I’ve only met one person who has said, “Wow, I’m sorry about that; I had a great childhood.” I enjoyed hearing that.

A messed up childhood doesn’t mean you can’t have a great life. Lord knows when I get to the pearly gates, I’ll be saying thank you for all the cool things I got to do as an adult. The thing is that it’s kind of like healthy skin growing over an abscess. That’s the rub; it’s always there.

I find that at this juncture dealing with the loss of the love of my life requires me to realize that my parents were messed up people, who acted like messed up people. For me forgiving them has been a long process. I yearn to forgive and forget; why won’t that just come?

Myopia, that’s short sightedness; I could be the poster child. It was only yesterday that I had the monumental duh moment of realizing that my particular screwed up was because I suffer from PTSD from all the beatings. I’m familiar with PTSD as it relates to others. It never occurred to me; that’s funny.

My crescendo years I wish to be filled with love, beauty, and abundance of life. I will not be fucked for life.