Stormy Weather

Puerto Rico is under a tropical storm; the rain beats a steady rhythm. At three o’clock on a Sunday my darling died. My throat feels ragged from screams three years old. It rained that day as well.

The scent of wet humus wafts in the window on the cool, moist air. A chill feels good to me as thunder rolls through the hills. Nothing like a lazy, rainy day, I just finished reading See How They Run by James Patterson; no wonder why I’m feeling moody.

Times of feeling alone, separated from loved ones are the most difficult to deal with; don’t you agree?

We confronted our problems admirably; dare I say with dignity. We were strong.

Alone, I’m becoming a strong woman again, but there’s little heart in it. The biggest freaking irony is that I’ve lived in my head more than my heart. My life’s process has been to learn to live more in my heart. I wanted to feel things more acutely. I had to want that! The tight rein I held over my feelings didn’t suit me.  Goodie.

At every point in my life I believed what I was doing was preparing me for my life’s purpose, which I thought to be as a dog trainer. But I’m still here, so I have further purpose, but the thought of fulfilling my destiny no longer sparks my imagination.

We had goals and dreams that we worked hard to achieve. We were always going somewhere or doing something. Things at first seldom worked out, but how sweet it is when they do. We made a nice life, but then things happened and now I’m alone.

My life partner, my best friend from grammar school, and my closest family member all died within two years. That’s more alone than I’ve ever felt.

Depression parked it’s behind on my shoulders and rides like a cowboy, but bit by bit a new woman emerges, who likes to go and do. She’s finding her strength, and hope for a meaningful life apparently springs eternal.

The rain has passed; the air is still, only a single coqui sings. I’d better go do something.

My best to you!

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.

  

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.