New Normal

Somebody once told me that whatever your reality for the last six months, that is your new normal. WTF!

In the last three years I’ve ranged from completely f’ed up to pretty much half assed presently.

Losing eighty per cent of the good things in life hits hard; just think about it, 80%: a job, a business that was a passion, our beautiful home in the shade of a forest reserve, a husband with whom life was happy, family, and friends. All were lost within a few years.

Giving myself credit for twenty per cent to the good may be generous, but if you can’t tell by now, I’m generous. To the good I’m: healthy, only a tad or so forgetful, my house on a tropical island is easy to clean, the gym I inhabit four days a week costs less than thirty dollars a month.

When you’re mourning the best of your life, who gives a shit? For a long time very little mattered. It’s hard to be nice when you hurt; that’s my new normal.

Some people say, “Life’s a bitch, and then, you die.”

I couldn’t disagree more; life is certainly hard, but gratitude for the person who could have done you wrong and didn’t is a good place to start. For all those, who have been kind or loving to me, thank you.

 My honey and I found beauty on our rocky path; we gave back and felt good for it. Have you ever just loved being with someone? Couldn’t wait to be with that person again? We could fight, oh, my, we could argue. I could stay pissed, too. We were never perfect, but what a lovely fit!  Our time together was a gift.  

With his death I lost my rock; I am alone and adrift, since my BFF from childhood and Aunt Margaret died. A woman I know lost her mom eight months after her husband died. They were the major receptacles of her love. She’s drinking herself to death.  

So, three years later trying to give a shit about the present and still lost is my new normal. Fortunately trying is still part of it. It gives me hope for a better normal.

Morning Rituals

The morning sun screams brightly on my little white house, heating the air, which begins to stir. Each day has its demands; get up, get up.

No, no, I don’t want to; it feels good to be here in my bed. A quick inventory tells me no headache, hips aren’t sore, no backache. Moderately aging bones complain often and loudly, so what could motivate me to alter this perfect peace?

That lovely morning sun shining on my bed and the need to go to the bano demanded I do something; where’s a Depends when you need one?

Once up, coffee must be made, so I shuffle down the hall thinking how lovely I am in the morning; someone should be here to see this.

Crap!! I didn’t fill the water reservoir in the coffee maker last night. Doing that in the morning messes with the flow of the day. I just want to head back to bed while the coffee brews. Oh, God, why am I up? Needless to say I didn’t put the beans in the coffee grind either. I refuse to judge the day this early. Yeah, it’s going to be a winner.

On the way back to bed I catch my profile in the bathroom mirror. Hell, I promised myself I’d do something about that, so I grab the broom handle leaned against the wall for just this occasion. Eighty bendovers with the broom across my shoulders and sixty twists later I smell coffee. The aroma pulls me to the pot, I shuffle fast.

Rich is the morning air with expresso blend. Thank you, God, for this day. A sip before toddling back to bed; oh, that’s so good. On  the way, I wonder: why waste time, and head back to the kitchen to make toast. With coffee refilled by the time the cream cheese and avocado is on the toast, I’m ready to wake; let the morning begin!

Senior Ladies' Night Out

A night at the casino with dinner and entertainment; doesn’t that sound grand? Some nights just don’t go according to plan.

The line to step in front of the clerk to collect the coveted dinner tickets snaked past the slot machines; standing three or four across, loyal gamblers waited, while we hurried to the end.  

A reward night for the big spenders sounded intriguing; I hava never been. A hundred foot line waiting for their reward dinner stalled where the air conditioned air didn’t go. Mayhem and I took turns standing in the line that only went twenty feet in an hour and ten minutes, no shit!

In a casino one must people watch. Gamblers are a unique tribe with their own language, which Mayhem claimed fluency in, so I headed across the floor to explore. Gambling is not my thing.

This senior lady alone at the bar didn’t attract one bit of attention; the bartender stood at the end of the bar chatting with a couple of servers, while I sat on a stool near the center. When the girls enjoyed a hearty laugh, the bartender glanced over her shoulder; I caught her eye, smiled, and nodded. She turned back to her conversation with no indication that I would ever see her again; didn’t I just feel special?

Senior ladies don’t pout; I got off my well rounded behind and waddled right up to the three with their heads bent together in some secret tale. 
“Hola,” I waved, “Con permiso, dame un grande vaso de hielo, por favor.”

The seasoned bar keep barely contained the curl of her lip. “You want a glass of water!” Disdain dripped from her mouth. Maybe it’s that white privilege thing people are all talking about these days on Facebook, but I am not accustomed to being treated this badly by service people, who live on tips, and I’m a generous tipper.

“No, por favor, yo quiero un vaso de hielo con limon,” said with the head tilt to enforce attention. “Tambien una botella de San Pellegrino,” I added with a smile.

I hadn’t returned the bitchiness; all three girls exhaled. Smiles bloomed all around; one of the girls patted the chair next to her saying, “Join us.”

Was this deja vu in another language? How far had the line moved? Where was Mayhem? Low blood sugar makes me crabby; I needed to eat something.

A young woman behind the desk, that the line faced, said something into a loud speaker. I don’t know, but it didn’t sound like ya’ll come into the dining room now, so I thought I’d find Mayhem to see que pasa.

People rushed the desk; two buff young men in the uniform suit of the casino looked menacingly, as they barked at people, who were yelling back with eyes bulging.  I haven’t been in a riot since the seventies, so watching blood vessels pulse over tight white collars felt surreal. Enough of this, I wanted out, as did Mayhem; we kissed our freebie dinner good-bye.

Down the road at a little restaurant called, Cravings, I had breakfast, and then, to our mutual satisfaction, we went to Wal-Mart.

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. 

  

Introspection is a Bitch

Throughout my life I’ve been a hard worker, taking charge of my life’s direction. It’s never been easy, but the satisfaction of getting things going the way I wanted was enormous.

It appears that I’ve lost all of that along with everything else. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me; hell, I don’t want to feel sorry for me. I’m doing my very best to make it better, but right now my best sucks. I’m still so f’ing depressed and want to cry when I’m not being entertained or actively occupied.

If I had huge responsibilities or had to work, there would be no time to boo-hoo, but that’s a backward step, better to deal with my feelings, so I can be present in my life when I’m not entertained. My, I feel better already.

Yeah, what happened to my joy when gardening; that’s completely gone. Flowers slowly die; plants cry. Nothing receives adequate attention. What did my father call it? Giving it a lick and a promise; that was it. That’s so not me.

Being the weird child I was, I decided that self discipline would stop or slow the beatings, so my life became an exercise. My grades went up, I could stand, staring at the picture of Jesus captioned will you pray with me for the required hour. With puberty that went to hell in a hand basket, but I digress. 

Growth spurts take place in times of stress; we all know that, but don’t like it. Grrr.

People say they’ll never have another dog after losing a beloved pet member of the family because it hurt so much; I say I’ll never have another husband for the same reason. Who believes that?

Time to go to the gym to release endorphin, but the DMV hasn’t sent my renewal application for city sticker and its due, so I have stand in line to get the application, so I can have the car tested, and then stand in live to pay for the sticker. How fun!

Live Music Calling

Smooth silk pajamas, high thread spring green sheets, a one hundred per cent cotton throw in aqua for when the night chills, a nice cup of tea with toast, and a DVD, or the internet spells a sweet night. In recent years it’s all too easy to be seduced by the comfort of the bed and interesting internet.

Let’s face it; who in their sixties wants to go out like you did in your twenties? You’re young and healthy with energy after work to party; who didn’t enjoy that, ah, the twenties. My fondness for live music grew during that decade.

It birthed as Elvis rocked and gyrated on the rooftop stage at Ponchatrain Beach Amusement Park in New Orleans; who had ever seen a young man so wonderful?

A weird thing I remember about live music; I felt like a drop of energy in a solid world. Everything was out there; I felt separate, in here. I guess it felt egocentric; it had to be the booze or whatever. That feeling happens when I’ve been sick or after surgery.

That alone in a crowd feeling happened to me frequently in my twenties. My relationship with alone changed, so did my perception; what hasn’t changed is my love of live music.

Senior years may require a kick in the fanny to not allow yourself to become a victim of comfort, as I heard a singer in New Orleans croon.

Brenda Hopkins Jazz Band

The young jazz artists’ compositions today are hard driving and multi layered here in Puerto Rico. Young and old jiving to the beat in the Caribbean is Latin jazz on adrenaline. Yep, that’s what it takes to get me out of bed at night.