A tale of three dogs.....

                A little over a year ago I brought home Buddy.  Aside from a few minor struggles (he ate money, credit cards and a smart phone) we adapted quickly and fell in love.  He sailed through obedience classes and became a therapy dog. He has never met a stranger and absolutely loves children. As time went on we realized that his quirky and sweet demeanor would be well served with another dog. 

                “I don’t want a five year old dog,” said my husband Greg.  “I don’t want another dog that you picked,” he continued.  “I want my own puppy to raise and love.” Thus began heated debates between us. I felt that we adopted Buddy at a mere 6 months old and owed it to another dog, an older dog to take one home. I pointed out the ease of sleeping, house-breaking and training an older dog. I said this would not be a senior but a dog in the 3-5 year age range, but to no avail. He stood firm in his decision. He had his full of heartache with Carlie. Our shepherd/ collie mix who had been sick for two years before we made the decision to put her to sleep in 2014.

                Carlie had been my dog to begin with. As I have described her in previous blogs my heart, my friend, my child and my soul mate. But, I have a confession to make. I did not bond with Carlie right away.  She was 9 months old when I rescued her, but tested my patience, as if she was a newborn puppy. Timid and scared, she was almost impossible to socialize.  She refused to eat certain things. She would get frustrated and swing her head back, causing me many a swollen nose.  Not to mention the exercise she required. If she didn’t get it, she would escape from the house to run and run and run.

                Somewhere along the line I fell in love with her.  I remember it was she I curled up with when I realized what a mistake my first marriage was.  Carlie was also the only thing I wanted in my divorce.  She was my constant through years of upheaval and my comfort during the good times. As much as I loved her, I always vowed that if I adopted again it would be an even-tempered older puppy or a laid back adult.

                A co-worker posted Zoey (than named Lexi) onto my Facebook page one Saturday morning.  She looked like the sister of the puppy that Greg had attempted to adopt the day before, only to realize he had been third in line to see her and the first family adopted her.  I quickly contacted her foster mom and let her know we were interested. “Babe, babe,” I woke up Greg. “There is another dog for adoption only 7 weeks old. That Rottweiler/Shepherd mix type you love.” He rolled over and took a quick look, “nice,” he managed. “Should we consider her,” I asked and received Greg’s nod of consent.  I wasted no time in becoming the first applicant for the puppy.

                Some reference checks and a home visit later, where Greg picked Zoey up and said simply “I want her,” she is on her way to us this evening.  Am I excited? Absolutely, I would love any dog, especially one rescued from a kill shelter like this sweet girl. Am I scared? No, not really, I know it will all work out in the end. Am I worried? Yes, completely worried. I am worried we won’t bond right away.  I am worried Greg may regret the decision, even just for a day. I am worried that Buddy will be hurt or jealous and I am worried that the cat may retreat even more with two dogs in the house. I am worried that most of my friends think I am insane, as I am close friends with very few animal lovers. I am worried that precious little Zoey will not be happy with us.

I also know that these fears are naught. That after a few months we will all adjust and be a different type, but very happy family.  It is typical to be anxious with any changes, especially those that involve living beings.

So send us well wishes as a new chapter begins. I am sure I will have more to write about soon….

Nobody

A tale of two dogs

My dog Carlie was my soul mate.  Sounds dramatic, but in many ways it was true. She was my companion when the rest of the world turned their back. I could count on her love and loyalty through all the great and not so great moments in life.

We were both outgoing and affectionate at times and at other times cold and aloof. We were friendly with everyone, but friends with a select few.  Both of us had a unique look that came from mixed backgrounds and though we took pride in our appearance, were very low maintenance. We loved playing on the beach or being absolute couch potatoes. Plus we were much happier in the company of one another than anyone else.

We were, quite literally, best friends.

We traveled a long difficult and joyous path together that began when I was 27 and ended when I was 41.

It ended on a dog bed on the floor of our Veterinarian’s office on a warm and sunny June evening.  My body draped across hers. “I love you so much. I love you so much.” I just repeated through tears until she was gone. I swear I knew the moment her soul left. I did not need the Vet to confirm.  I knew because a piece of my soul was gone forever.

I was prepared for the heartache I would feel losing my girl Carlie forever.  I knew she had a tumor on her spleen and I knew it was just a matter of time before it shut her down.  It happened quickly.  Within two weeks she went from the dog still strong enough to pull me when I walked her to a feeble baby who eventually could not hold down food or walk without pain. I slept on the floor with her the night before, petting her and cringing every time she moaned. “I love you sweet girl,” I whispered.  “Taking you home was the best decision I ever made.”

What I was not prepared for was the emptiness.  Walking into a house without her and knowing she was never coming back.  I would wake up each night and walk from room to room remembering her face the silly dance she always did for me.  I would pet the cat and curl up with my husband, but nothing could take away the cloak of silence and sadness Carlie’s departure left in her wake. It was me and her, long before my husband and the cat. It was me and her for the last 14 years.  I could never replace her and what she meant in my life.

I also had no purpose in my days.  I was responsible for her for 14 years and then nothing.  Instead of reveling in the freedom and being able to sleep late, I felt lost. Like a chunk of who I am was gone. That is why 11 days later I am crying on the way to work. I am crying because I a racked with guilt.  I will be adopting a new dog that evening. 

I am crying because I don’t want to replace Carlie and I haven’t even finished mourning her.  I am crying because this dog, although wonderful, could never be her.  I am crying because in a year filled with health issues, job changes, and broken trusts - the loss of Carlie was unbearable. Then I see it. A faded bumper sticker on the Jeep in front of me Save a life. Adopt a shelter dog. I pull myself together and say yes Barney, who will be renamed Buddy, will be coming home with us.  What better honor could I pay to Carlie then to rescue another dog?

I decided it was time to take another dog in the night I received Carlie’s ashes.  I held them and cried for a long time. Then I stood up and decided that our home needed a dog.  I had been looking at the dogs people sent to me all along, but felt like it wasn’t time. It hadn’t been long enough. But, in reality, it would never be long enough.  I would always miss Carlie and what she meant to me. 

Aside being another Shepherd mix, Buddy is different from Carlie in every way. He is long and goofy where she was more compact and dignified.  Buddy gallops from situation to situation (knocking over whatever is in his path). Carlie walked into a room with a purpose, even at nine months old. Buddy loves everyone. Well Carlie, uhm not so much. Buddy plays with toys and Carlie could never be bothered, preferring to sit with me quietly chewing a bone. 

To be fair, Carlie was also abused as a puppy and dumped at a kill shelter. A loud, over-crowded and dirty kill shelter. Buddy was relinquished from a family to a high kill shelter in Georgia (with no signs of abuse), but soon transferred to the Animal Welfare Organization in New Jersey, a wonderful non-kill shelter with a loving and dedicated staff. Where he was bathed and walked and loved. Maybe if Carlie hadn’t experienced the beginning that she did. She too would have been a goofy dog instead of a selective old soul.

There are similarities as well. Their eyes are so much alike that I find myself calling Buddy Car Car, my nickname for Carlie. They both hate it when I work on a computer (see photos) and absolutely adore my dad. They both train easily, love car rides and outdoor adventures and both would do just about any trick for a treat.

 

The biggest thing they have in common is being by my side through heartache. For Buddy is there every day to help grieve Carlie, while still enjoying life.

And grieve Carlie I still do. I am making a shadow box for my office in her memory. I have her ashes on out mantle and a piece of her fur in my bedroom. I also still automatically wake up around 3 am every night to check on her. It also still feels so unreal that I will never pet her again. Like a piece of reality that my heart cannot comprehend. 

Last week I came home at lunch to walk Buddy. I walked in the door and before I even realized it yelled “Carlie, where are you?” I started to cry. I let Buddy out of his crate and snapped his leash on. While we walked outside, I felt something. I can’t explain or describe it, but I knew Carlie was there and she was happy. I watched Buddy jump around and play with all his puppy energy and realized that Carlie is in a good place, a better place. A place where she can jump and run again without pain. A place where her fur is long and shiny again and her eyes are not blurred with cataracts. I know that without a doubt she would want me to be happy and love another unwanted dog. A feeling of peace washes over me as I have been suddenly given permission to love Buddy as much as I do.  “Come on Buddy,” I say. “It’s time to go home.”

An open letter to my husband...

     It is so easy to love each other most of the time. We have a calm home, a similar sense of humor and a large group of friends and family to keep us smiling. It is also easy to grow restless. To question what we have. To realize our family of two is so small and oh so fragile and that there is nothing but our loyalty and love keeping us together. Yet we choose to keep on this path together. Sharing ups and downs, but more often than not sharing the happy, simple life we have built.
      Then the fates change quickly and I am laying in an E.R. hearing words like pulmonary embolism and obstructed airways being thrown. Feeling like a specimen or subject matter not a human being scared and struggling to breathe. But, there is you. Your hand clasped in mine. Your eyes silently telling me “it will all be okay”. You stay there ~never leaving for more than an hour or so. Making sure I eat and drink. You keep me calm, through every needle stuck in my skin and every procedure done too quickly and without much explanation. Not leaving any time open for doubt and fear to creep in and hinder me from getting well.
      Our friends and family rally to call and visit. Brush my hair and bring me flowers. But, they all leave. Go back to their homes and families. Not you. Never you. You sleep on a makeshift hospital bed. You wake up every time I stir. Make me laugh at silly jokes and reassure me though my lifestyle forever changed by this series of events, will go on.
      Then there is me. I watch you through a haze of tubes and medicine, and worry about you. Worry about your back and sleeping on that makeshift hospital bed. Worry about the exhaustion etched into your face. Urging you to take a day to yourself or at least go home and sleep. Although I am scared to be alone, I am more worried about you. I feel sad, because you feel sad. But you will not leave me. Rather, I go through testing and pain, not as a single entity, but as one half of a pair.
     I think of our happier times like our wedding and numerous vacations. I always thought that I could never love you like I did then. How wrong I was. That last night in the hospital when my one of my stressed veins collapsed and there was blood squirting everywhere. Most of the blood was on you. Because, without hesitating, each time the vein burst you clasped your hands around my arm and stopped the blood. How I couldn’t sleep that night for fear it would happen again and I would bleed out. Every single time my eyes snapped open. There you were. Watching over me. In those moments I experienced a love that I did not even know existed outside of parental love. An unconditional love that I will spend the rest of my days trying happily to return.
     When I am finally released and able to go home, you are still beside me. Never critical of the tears I can’t seem to stop whether they are of the happy or fearful variety. My best friend and parents shepherd me home as well, but they aren’t there late at night. Because it is at night, that I am too scared to sleep. Entrenched in a fear that my oxygen supply will dip again or another vein will collapse. It is you again. Rubbing my forehead and promising that nothing will happen to me under your watch. Looking at me like I am the most beautiful woman on earth, not like the bruised and greasy shadow of a person that I know I look like.
      I can never thank you enough for your love. I can never thank God enough for bring us together. What I can do is love you with my whole heart and continue to forage into this world together. Our relationship may be calm and easy, but life is not. And we are strong enough to get through it all together.

That darned kitten...

I have never understood why I like animals more than people. Note I did not say "love" but I defintely like animals more.

That being said, I am not a cat person. I can pick up a pet rat or iguana without flinching, but cats, well lets just say they have never been my favorite. In fact I can remember saying not too long ago "I don't hate cats, for instance I wouldn't run one over with my car."

I mean lets face it. I have danced with, ridden and kissed dolphins. I got to "speak" to a Manatee years and years ago. I have had a constant dog companion since my first dog Buster (who was around WAY before me). I have had a Parakeet named Tweety that not only sang but also talked. Tweety's favorite line was "Cindy is a bad girl, baaadd girl," shrieked to my poodle Cinderella at the time who would (upon hearing those words) growl snap and try to attack the bird through it's cage.

But, a cat? Those aloof creatures who stare at humans in a way that I stare at 20-year-old drunk girls? Not my thing. I can get guarded disdain from humans, I do not need to take an animal into my life, home and heart and get a purr for a thank you. Once again, not my thing.

That all changed one overcast September day. It was about two months before that my husband and I decided that my dog (trust me she is my dog) Carlie would never learn to love another canine friend. We had tried to introduce her to rescues and walk her through those grand dog supermarkets, but my loving mutt would just snarl and show her teeth. My "baby-fail" body had me distressed and we thought another dog would do the trick. Carlie had grown up with other dogs, but at 11 1/2 she was long passed loving canines. So, my husband and I decided to just be thankful for our little family as frail as it was.

But that day, that damned gray day, a kitten came into my life. We found her outside of work. Shivering and shaking in the rain. She was the size of my hand. I rolled my eyes at the "kitten rescue" but some where inside me I knew to grab our promotional golf towels and that the warmth would stop her from hissing and clawing. That being said. I never meant to bring her home.

But holding her in those first few moments, I knew I was sunk. Her heartbeat calmed in my arms. Her big alien eyes locked onto mine in the way only an animal lover can understand. Eyes that scream "I choose you" without making a sound.

I lied to my husband and said we would only have her until she found a home. But, he knew as I did ~ this alien kitten already had one. At only a few ounces, my favorite pictures of her are in my former football player/ Coastguard husband's arms. By week two we (including the dog) were all in love with her.

So Miss "Daisy; Daisy BeJulJay; Daisy Doodle; Doodle Bug; Crackhead Kitten; Skidabeep; or as we all know her "the Doodles" has adjusted well. She is "fixed" and weighs seven pounds. She has none of the cat diseases I feared. Miss Doodles also follows me from room to room. Meows when she wants my affection and refuses to walk down the steps (why walk when you have a mommy like me who wants to carry you). Oh, and those looks of disdain are saved for strangers, because she never shows them around our little fragile family ~ she fits right in.

As an afterthought, I begged God for a child the night before Daisy came home. Now I do believe God always answers our prayers, just not in the way we expect.

And P.S. I think I think actually love animals more than people :)

Life, Stress, a Destination Wedding and the Foo Fighters....

Have you ever wonder how you got where you are? Where the hell the time went? Oh, and most importantly is there enough time left to do what you really want to do?

I mean seriously Fuck has become my favorite word. I live a life much like Ground Hog's Day. Alarm goes off. I hit snooze. One hit on a workout day and many hits on a "Please dear universe let me hit the lottery" day. Once I pull myself from the sliver of a bed where I sleep (Have you ever tried sleeping with a 6'2" 220 lb plus man? I am lucky to have a sliver.)and my feet hit the ground the real world comes at me screaming like a brigade of bitches on the rag.

Before my eyes are even fully opened the dog is whining to get pet, walked or just because she needs "mommy time" at 11 1/2 years old she is more demanding then she was as a puppy. My husband (still sleeping) is muttering off a to do list and my hands are reaching for my Blackberry to see which client is going to die because their Internet didn't work at 3 AM. DAMN WORLD ~ I JUST NEED A SHOWER AND SOME COFFEE!

Once all demands are met and I am showered and somewhat presentable (most likely with no coffee yet- just a hit of left over Pepsi from a party months before) I begin my daily sludge to work. Brightened mostly by the Foo Fighters (or on other days The Beatles (White Album only), Live, Verve Pipe or some random rock band's greatest hits CD) I sit in traffic that anyone in New Jersey has come to know.. the only State in the union where a 20 minute drive takes 90 minutes... due mostly to the fact that no one in Jersey knows how to drive.

When I finally get to work (free coffee YAY) I begin a day of getting my self-esteem trampled. Clients call to say how my company sucks. Bosses (no matter how high my numbers and they have been HIGH this year) complain about my numbers and my co-workers and I complain about our jobs. Actually, I love my co-workers without them I would be a crazy cat (dog) lady by now. This goes on and on either at my desk or on the road until 5,6, and one time on a FRIDAY 10 pm. Then it is off to the gym or home on a good day or happy hour with the beloved co-workers or happy hour at home on a "Dear Universe please let me hit the lottery" day.

That is just the "life" part of my life. The stress comes from job (see above), aging parents, three mortgages, an aging dog, and fertility treatments that leave me feeling slightly abused EVERY SINGLE TIME. I could go on but my hands are tingling (must see heart doctor) and my chest just tightened.

Then as life seems to do, even in the most mundane hours, happy events creep in. A good friend falls in love and gets engaged. Another friend gets pregnant. A sweet co-worker falls for a terrific guy. My husband tells me I am beautiful after I cleaned the house with my glasses on (I either think you are blind or the greatest guy ever...results still pending). Then sometimes there are things that make life and stress roll away. I will always count my "girls night" as one of these but in November I have two AWESOME events.

Event number 1. Two very cool friends getting married in Jamaica!!!!!!! Not only do we get to go and see them and their coolness.. we get to hang with my BF and her husband and a select other totally cool people. Going to paradise with friends to see friends get married???????? I seriously may explode from the joy. Not to mention my handsome honey with at tan??? Well a deeper shade of pink anyway, HOT! I have a countdown going on. Seriously. I NEED THIS! Plus I have a soft spot for these two. I would say I love them, but that would give them a big head..so lets just say "I am so happy for you two super cool people"!

Then just two days after our return, just two days... I see the Foo Fighters live. For 17 years I have wanted to see Dave Grohl in his rock god state and it is happening!!!! YES, the band that has gotten me through almost every morning of my life (not to mention "Times Like These" which may have single handily got me through the end of my first marriage). I am in Foo Fighters obsession mode right now. Watching their documentary non-stop and prancing around in my Dave Grohl shirt. Do I sound like I am sixteen? Probably, but did you read a description of my life above???

OK, I am not all that shallow. A few days ago I woke up on the couch with my geriatric dog's paw around my neck. "Hey girl," I said. Her reply a small lick on the cheek and a growl of contentment. Sometimes it is the small moments combined with the large that make this stupid life worth living.

Who deserves to be a mommy?

Another baby gone. Thankfully I did not know I was pregnant this time.

So I have a question? Who deserves to be a mommy? I love my Godson without hesitation and without pretense. I love my beautiful niece beyond explanation and reason. Yet, I cannot hold onto a pregnancy to save my life.

I have had contractions with no baby to hold afterwards. I have seen my husband cry in pain, but still no child to call his own. My breasts are so damned big they are ridiculous- amazing how every part of my body shrinks back unless it is my face, boobs and belly.

Why not me? Why not my best, wonderful and loving friend.. who can't get pregnant. Why these people who don't even seem to like their kids?????

I am great at my job. I have a husband that is ridicously perfect. My friends and family.. while extended and disfunctional-- are amazing. Why can I not do the one thing women were put on this earth to do?

So I play mommy with my dog and all the wonderful people I am blessed to know. Yet, my body longs for a baby to love. A baby to cuddle and protect.

So once again... I am trying to figure it all out. But, I leave with one question. If I am strong enough to have a miscarriage through a meeting and still keep presenting... Aren't I strong enough to actually have a baby?????

Friends

I have different groups of friends. But, sometimes I have the friends who count. They do not judge. They do not cast blame. Much like my husband - they love me as is.

I know people look at me and think I have a ton of friends - I do not. I have a lot of people I like. In reality, I like everyone. I wish I was as tough as I act, but I am not. I see good in everyone. Lucky for me I am also very aware of the traits that create a good friend. I would like to say I figured this all out on my own, but I have not... my friends have taught me. So here are the guidelines (12 rules)of being a wonderful friend. Thank you girls (and guys) you know who you are...

1)Never judge... just be with each other when bad decisions show their ugly head.
2)Be happy when your friend is happy... it should come pretty easy.
3)Be sad when your friend is sad.
4)Laugh a lot. Cry a little and be ready to pull out a pistol in defense!
5) Never say ANYTHING behind a freind's back- that you would not say to their face.
6) Share each other... you make more friends that way ;)
7) Love your friends weaknesses as much as their strengths... if not they would not be them.
8) Love the men (women) in their life- no matter how hard it is to do so!
9) Realize they will not react to any given situation the way you do - it is what makes them - them and you - you.
10) Abolish the word SELFISH from your dictionary.
11) Don't be jealous - it is needy and ugly
12) Live, laugh and love...............

Because you don't have children..

I am in rant mode again. I am really sick of the women who think they should be canonized because they have children. This in NO WAY is a bad reflection on all the wonderful mommies that I know. Rather, a rant against the women who think by rite of a birth or five that they are somehow better than the single women, partnered women and married women who do not have, cannot have or simply choose not to have children.

There are many women like me out there. I am married for the second time, work mad,long hours and yet still find time to take care of my home, my husband and my wonder mutt. I cook from scratch. I enjoy long workouts. I volunteer and pay my taxes. Yet, somehow these "madonnas" feel that I live in some sort of extended adolescence because I do not, as of yet, have a child.

Well, I also have not been dependent on a man since my father. I have owned three (soon to be four) homes which came from little else than my hard work and savings. I have gone on vacations, done home repairs, paid for a second wedding (and honeymoon), and bought the clothes on my own back ALL ON MY OWN. But my life is somehow easier because "I don't have children."

I do not contend that children are easy and I do know from those loving mommies around me that it is indeed a job, but before the mommy mafia comes after me- it also a great privilege, but to hear some women speak, and in many cases the same women who's husbands pay for their mortgage and car, they are a step behind Mother Teresa because of how hard it is to have children.

It is funny to me because I have seen a single mother (God Bless you all) work her hands to the bone and raise a wonderful child with a silent determination that shows me I am not half the woman that she is. I saw a divorced mother slowly introduce her
children to the new man in her life and marveled at her integrity and deep concern she had for her children's well being. I have seen my cousin everyday work hours much like mine yet still have so much energy and love for her son, but have little to no time for herself. I saw a childhood friend balance work and family around her son's battle with cancer. Which, in my opinion, catapults her from a wonderful mother to hero status. Yet, none of these women or any of my beautiful mommy friends have ever demeaned me or looked down upon me as being anything less than them because of my childless status.

Yes, many of the women previously mentioned do realize that this is not my choice, but they are so busy being good mothers that I do not think that makes a difference. They do not view motherhood as an entrance into a secret sorority, rather they look at is as a blessing.

And what if it is a choice? What if some women do not see themselves as maternal or lead lives/ have careers that are not conducive to having children. Should they not be applauded for living independent lives? I mean lets face it we all know women (not to mention seen women on the news) who SHOULD NOT have ever had a child. Are they somehow better than the childless women in this world? I have been a strong single woman and continue to be a strong married woman who would rather live on crackers than ask my husband to loan me twenty dollars. Does this make me weak?

So the next time these "type" of mothers sit themselves down in their husband's chair
in their husband's home and feel the need to vent to another of their own pod
about how women like me have the life-- I ask instead that they have a moment of mercy and send their cleaning lady my way - my chapped, tired and very independent hands could use a break!

Just a dog...

From the moment her big sad eyes met mine - I could think of nothing else, but taking her home with me. She was a medium sized mutt. She had matted hair. I could feel her ribs when I pet her, but somehow I knew she belonged to me and I belonged to her.

But she is just a dog...

I suffered through her running away from home the first night (her emancipated frame fit right through my ornate fence); She destroyed three luxorious comforters; she managed to eat just one of each pair of my expensive shoes.

But she is just a dog....

She shrunk from my touch. She would not eat until I left the room. She growled and twitched and cried in her sleep.

But she is just a dog....

She let me pet her. She waited for me to come home. She dealt with foster dogs and permanent dogs. She kissed my face in the morning.

But she is just a dog.

She left my home with me. She forced me to function. She taught me to love outside myself.

But she is just a dog.

I switched jobs and homes. I fell in and out of love (like). I cried myself to sleep and she laid with me.

But she is just a dog.

I fell in love for keeps. She fell in love too (well accepted it). She comforted me through fears of rejection.

But she is just a dog.

Her walk became forced. Her skin began to flake. Her breathing became labored.

But she is just a dog.

I lost a loved one. I lost a baby. I cried with my husband with her head on my lap.

But she is just a dog.

I lay down and rest my busy head and she lays next to me. She grunts and she sighs. She feels my pain as I feel hers.

She isn't just a dog. She is my heart, my teacher, my child and my love.

But you say she is just a dog.

Not political- just pissed

I woke up this morning and realized that I no longer have faith in our president or our country’s leaders.
They have simply taken a shortcut one too many times.

When the automobile industry was in trouble- they gave people money for useless cars. When the real estate market was in trouble, they gave first time buyers a huge tax credit. When the banks were in trouble- they bailed them out and allowed them to send their executives on vacation. Sorry I couldn’t resist that last one.

None of our problems are solved. In fact we are looking at a double dip recession. Just take a look at the real estate market which seemed to have bounced back in 2010 is now seeing a 12% dip in the purchase of new homes. In fact, the real estate market never recovered. It simply showed an increase in the spring due to the first time buyer tax credit. These were not “real” numbers and those of us with homes to sell (ME!) are feeling the pain of a country pulverized by economic uncertainty.

I have always been a “rally around the president” type of girl. I love this country. I love it down to the freedom and pride that our flag represents. I love being able to sprout complaints about the good ole U.S. without the fear of being shot. Yet, this time I cannot seem to muster the patriotism needed to back Obama.

To me, Obama has acted like a kid in college who uses cliff notes and encouraged us to do the same. Yes it solves an immediate problem and we may even pass the test. But what have we learned? Even more important – how have we prepared ourselves for the future final?

I fear that this country’s economic reforms may have added to the dissolution of the middle class. The rich will remain rich and the middle class will see their paychecks lower and lower as we provide healthcare and other financial gains to those less fortunate. The heart of America- the blue collar worker, the suburban family, and the stay at home mom- are in danger of moving closer and closer to the poverty line. It is creating a bold line between the poor and the rich with no hopeful area in between. Think it cannot happen? Obama’s administration is leading with an attitude drenched in socialism. Look at the fall of the USSR and its effect on modern day Russia. How well did socialism work for them? EVEN if this leadership only goes as far as to create a two class society- think of England and how if you are born of a certain class you most likely will never escape it. America was founded on free enterprise and the right for each man (or woman) to create his (her) own destiny. I feel these opportunities slipping through my fingers as I become bogged down in an economy that beats down the hardest on the middle class.

My father used to go on tirades about the disappearing middle class and I would roll my eyes. See I never saw it happen as quickly as I have these past two years. Now I think my dad is a genius who saw something in the not too distant future that none of us could have predicted.

I understand economies are cyclical and no one can really control economic growth or recession. Yet, I cannot excuse the frat boy attitude of throwing money at a problem in hopes that it will go away. What did Cash for Clunkers, First Time Buyers Rebate and the Bank Bailout really do to help this country? They simply boasted temporary alliances with Wall Street and the American consumer. Do you know what I expect from my country’s leadership? Hold banks responsible for irresponsible lending and investing. Address healthcare corporations and their escalating costs. Encourage the automobile industry to build safer, cheaper cars so Americans will renew their loyalty to the American brand. Limit free trade to the point that it does not cripple the U.S. Service industries as we continue to outsource more and more jobs to foreign countries. THAT IS WHAT I EXPECT FROM MY COUNTRY!

Really, have we become so politically correct that we have forgotten how to feel outrage?

In closing, I voted for Obama. I saw his radical thinking and charisma as the answer for my generation’s prayer of a JFK (I have long given up on a new “Ronald Reagan” because political differences aside- I think we can all admit that Ronny rocked the Casbah.) His administration excited me. He in himself gave me a reason to think this man may really care and make a difference. The Sarah Palin came along as a possible vice president and that pretty much launched me to the Democratic Party. When you would rather see Tina Fey run for Vice President then the woman she is mimicking there is a problem. Do I have buyer’s remorse? Yes I do. But in all honesty would any administration make any difference?

I could go on and talk about the war in Iraq or the dedication of a Mosque on September 11th, but I fear I would die on the spot of a heart attack. I said to a close friend that if we do not evolve we will become extinct. I still believe that. So where is that leader who will take us there? Help ALL CLASSES evolve while rebuilding this country on the success stories that make the United States unique. To steal a line from the movie the American President, “People want leadership, Mr. President, and in the absence of genuine leadership, they'll listen to anyone who steps up to the microphone. They want leadership. They're so thirsty for it they'll crawl through the desert toward a mirage, and when they discover there's no water, they'll drink the sand.”

Mr. President please LEAD no matter how hard or tough the direction. If you would rather take the shortcut then please step aside.

The Baby

There are sometimes when a woman loses a pregnancy and there are others when they lose a baby.

I have lost two pregnancies in the past, but just recently I felt the pain of really losing a baby. I love my husband so hard that sometimes it hurts to look at him. I want to crawl inside him just to feel his touch more. He is the man I am destined to be with. He is the man I want to grow a family with.

More than my love for him, it hurts to look at children now. I see children at Target or children at the gym or even children laughing in a car passing by me. Even more so, than seeing strange children it hurts to see those babies I know. Those I have let in my heart. It makes me double over me over to see my family and my friends and their gorgeous children whom I love so.

I was ready for a baby. Greg was ready for a baby. But, God in His infinite wisdom was not ready to give us our baby. I don’t understand why and perhaps I will never understand. I just trust in my faith and in my love for this wonderful man who came into my life.

I have faith and hope and love. Yet, I still do not have the baby I ache for. The baby I bonded with in the minutes I knew I was pregnant. A baby that still makes me mourn – months later. A baby that makes me feels pain even in my fingernails. That is losing a baby. It is losing not just a life, but a dream of what is to come.

I will blog again soon, but right now I just need to cry... Thank you for hanging in there with me.

Nobody

My Summer Sister

It is weird to see your closest friend after 12 years of not speaking. I see her freckles that have seemed to multiply and that her beautiful red hair had darkened a bit, but her voice has that same sweet melodic sound I always remembered. See Michele and I aren’t ordinary friends. We are summer sisters. We have had our first kisses together (though apart). We fought over who would marry Tom Cruise after seeing Top Gun together. We experimented with fuchsia lipstick and big bangs. We made crank calls together and at the same time shared our life long dreams.

I could start at the beginning, but that would be a book and not a blog. So I will start at the scariest moment. It occurred about one week after my favorite memory. Michele and I had gone to the beach early. Labor Day was still a few days off and the beach was quiet and had that perfect combination of a warm sun mixed with a cool breeze. She wanted to draw (her talent) and I wanted to write (mine). As usual my A.D.D kicked in. So I took out my “Click” camera and snapped a picture of my summer sister. We never took a lot of pictures. I think we fell into a pattern. The next memorial day—we knew we would be together again. I still have that picture. Michele staring pensively at the ocean, sketch book and pencil in hand.

I was fourteen years old and a scared high school freshman when I was pulled out of the first day of classes. My mother sat in the principal’s office; her eyes were swollen from tears. “There has been an accident,” she said. My first thought was my father. He was a Philadelphia Fire Fighter and had not returned from work by the time I left for school. I froze. “It’s Michele and Sandy (Michele’s mom), “she went on. “Sandy is going to be okay, but Michele.. They don’t think…” my mom started to sob. “We have to get back down the shore right away.”

To this day I cannot remember my reaction to this news. I think I went numb from shock. The whole day had been out of sorts. I had walked to school with friends from my grammar school. I was so proud to finally be wearing a high school uniform, but so scared once we had all separated. I drifted along to the strange sounds of clanging lockers and shrilling bells. My biggest worry was if I would survive high school at all. Looking back there was no way I could have known that there would be much bigger things to worry about.

The next thing I remember is sitting in my family car. Somewhere along the way my cousin Maryann and Aunt Bernadette had joined us. Maryann was leaning against the window next to me. I could hear her crying. My aunt and my mom were making nervous chatter in the front seat. All I could do was pray. “Please Dear God, help Michele. Please Dear God, help Michele.”

We pulled into Shore Memorial Hospital and were greeted by Michele’s brother Wayne. Wayne is older and I had always looked up to him. He always seemed so more mature than us, yet was always so kind to his baby sister and her very awkward friend. His voice and hands were shaking. I sensed how bad this was. I tried to prepare myself to see my dearest friend.

Nothing could prepare me. There were tubes everywhere. I looked for some resemblance of Michele, but even her freckles were lost in the severe bruising that seemed to have taken over her face. And her hair, her beautiful red hair had been shaved. I would not find out until later that her hair had been shaved in order to re-attach her ear or that she had died at least two times and was brought back to life. I heard words like “we may have to airlift her to Philly. The guy who hit them was drunk. They were just going to pick dad up from work.” Then the scariest word I have heard in all my 14 years of life “coma”.

“Wake up Michele,” I pleaded inwardly. “Wake up and we can go to the beach or just sit around and talk, but please just wake up.”

The rest of the day and many days that passed were a blur. Michele did wake up, but there were a lot of problems to overcome. The accident had not only hurt her internal organs, but also damaged her back and she was looking at many long months of rehabilitation and therapy. All during the year that was supposed to be her first year of high school as well.

One day right before the hospital transferred her to Hahnemann Hospital in Philadelphia; she even played a little joke on me and my cousin Maryann. She held her breath so the breathing monitor would show she wasn’t breathing. When we stared to fret, she released her breath and managed a little chuckle. “Gotcha,” she said. It was the first glimpse I got of my summer sister. The first time that somehow I knew everything would be okay.

The years after the accident brought many changes. Michele and her family moved to California for a couple of years in order to provide a milder climate for her to recuperate in and when they moved back we didn’t miss a beat. I was honored at nineteen to be in her bridal party and even more honored to sit at her baby shower just a year later.

Then as time tends to do, we drifted apart. I thought about her all the time and even ran into her once at the shore and got a chance to see her second son. Then through the miracle of social networking we are back in touch again. I was there to help ease the pain of her divorce. She was there to celebrate my second marriage with me. Now we speak daily and I had the wonderful chance to hang out with her and my summer family just three days ago.

Oh and the weirdness of our first meeting in all those years? It lasted about five minutes and we were out talking until 1 am! A good friend recently pointed out to me that true friends will always fall back in step with each other no matter how much time has passed (thank you Linda).

See, Michele taught me a lot in our young life. Since I slept at her house so often, I could not walk away when things got tough. We had to work through issues and learn to apologize. She taught me mortality. Most teens of my age did not even think about dying. I knew how fragile life is -- even at 14. Most of all Michele taught me that nothing is impossible. If my petite little friend could fight, against the odds mind you, for her life and turn into a happy and healthy, not to mention beautiful person – well I really do not have an excuse to ever give up. This one is for you Michele. Thank you for being in my life.

The Move-In

When I first divorced I often said that being single in the suburbs was like being married without a husband. I still fretted over the state of the local school district, went shopping for groceries on the weekends and took long walks in the evening with my dog. It is not like a city life filled with hot new bars and restaurants. The most exciting thing that could happen was the opening of a new supermarket.

Then one day my boyfriend Greg and I decided to live together. It was during this time I realized just how un-married I had become. For four years before the “move-in” I came and went as I pleased. I kept my closet rigidly neat or threw my clothes on the floor. I could eat cereal and drink wine for dinner. I spent countless Sundays curled up in a ball re-reading my favorite books while reruns of Sex and The City blared in the background. I was responsible for myself, my dog and the bills. That was all about to change.

It was a humid August night when Greg schlepped his belongings from Bucks County PA to my home in South Jersey. Since he had sold all his furniture and did not need my help. I went to a friend’s house to give Greg space. I was driving home at 9pm and my cell phone rang “Hey are you coming home?” Greg said. “Almost there,” I cheerfully replied. As I hung up the phone I could not help feeling, well a knot in my stomach. See only my closest friends really know what a loner I am. Everyone else sees me as outgoing and funny. The one in the group that really loves the company of others.

That is not me. My favorite moments are waking up with nothing to do. I love sitting in solitude, petting the dog and reading the paper while coffee brews. As an only child and an adopted one at that, silence does not put me on edge. Rather silence soothes me and gives me time to deal with my own thoughts.

As I pulled up to my, I mean our, condo I noted his car in the assigned spot that until that moment had always belonged to me. As I stepped inside, I saw immediately that he had worked hard getting his things in order, but the small condo seemed to have shrunk within a few hours. I kissed him and welcomed him home. Yet my inner voice screamed “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Days turned into weeks in our little, wait make that tiny abode. I called to check in. I tried and failed at making room in my closet. I forgot what silence felt like. We cooked together, shopped together and laughed together. My only alone time seemed to be in the earliest hours on a Sunday before Greg awakened. I selfishly complained inwardly about my lack of time. I also lie awake in fear most nights. What if this doesn’t work? What if he leaves? Why did I ever leave myself open for another huge rejection?

I lamented the end of romance. Why would he need to woo me now? Every cohabitating couple I knew joked about the end of romance, but as a writer and a romantic at heart, I knew I would desperately miss the Greg who danced with me in the living room and brought me flowers for no reason.

Then one night I was out and about with my friends and the strangest thing happened. I told a joke and immediately thought how funny Greg would think it was. Then it happened, I missed him. It was a pang that hit me so hard that it nearly knocked me over. I was physically present for the rest of the night, but my heart – my heart was at home curled up in a ball with Greg.

I pulled up to our condo later that evening and noted that he had left the space open for me and the outdoor light on. I walked in to find him sleeping on the couch. I gently touched his face and whispered that I was back. I looked around to see that while I was out having fun. Greg had put together shelving that now contained our CDs and DVDs. He had managed to empty all his remaining “move-in” boxes and suddenly the condo felt less cluttered and looked so beautiful to my eyes that had finally opened.

It was then I saw it. Sitting on the dining room table. He had bought me flowers and carefully arranged them in a vase. He has bought me flowers for no reason except that he had missed me too.

“Hey, you are finally home,” I heard Greg’s sleepy voice call from the couch. Yes honey, I am most definitely home.

Snapshots of a reunion

My favorite response to give when someone asks what it is like to be adopted is "You cannot understand unless you have experienced it.”

On a May afternoon on my way to visit my birth mother for the first time, I wonder if I even understand it anymore. My cell phone rings and I hear her voice. Her voice has become familiar to me in the past month. I hear her anxiety and assure her that I haven’t changed my mind. That I am simply a victim of the irregular traffic patterns that lie between my home in Cherry Hill, New Jersey and her sister's home in West Chester, Pennsylvania.

I click off my cell phone and stare at the cars ahead of me. So much of my past flashing in my head that I begin to worry if any of this is real. I see snapshots of my life. I see my father smiling proudly at I hit my first home run. Then years later there is me, smiling through tears, as he retires a hero from the fire department. I see my mother hugging me in bed after my first boyfriend broke my heart. Then I see me embracing my mother, as a first generation college graduate, with my diploma in hand. I see myself as a little girl sitting in my Grand mom Annie's kitchen, smelling the sweet aroma of homemade pasta sauce and then suddenly sitting in shock at her funeral missing her smell of clean linen and powder. I watch me dance with my favorite cousin to the newest Madonna song and then see us dancing in a bookstore when she told me she was pregnant with her first child. Finally I envision my beautiful wedding which leads to more snapshots of arguments and hurtful words that remind me my marriage is failing.

I think of how the lifetime seizes of panic that something is lost have subsided significantly since I first spoke to my birth mother, only to be replaced with pangs of guilt wondering how I can tell my parents I have found her. They were supportive of my search. Comforted me through eight years of dead ends and obstacles and tried so hard to hide their relief when I announced that I stopped trying. Then one night my birth mother and I found each other. I had logged onto an old internet site when I realized that I could not let go of this search so easily.

I make my way through the beautiful farms and trees that line West Chester and pull up to a charming old home surrounded by a colorful array of foliage that deeply contrasts the brick row homes that lined my childhood home in South Philadelphia. I see this beautiful woman run from the house. My breath catches in my chest. I have seen pictures but nothing prepares me to look at a mirror image of myself 16 years from now. She hugs me and I involuntarily step back trying to take it all in. "Hi," I say. I choose this weak word so not to let loose the flurry of emotions inside of me. I hand her the wine I have picked up for our lunch and follow her into the house. I note the similarity in our shape and in our walk.

We sit on the couch and our conversation begins slowly. She touches my face a lot and slips and calls me Katie-- the name she wanted me to have. She looks through the pictures I have brought to share and I do the same. I tell her about my crazy Italian family as she jokes about her six Irish siblings. I let loose the tears I have held back as I see pictures of my sister and hear stories of her childhood. We share the struggles of searching with non identifying information, but keep the emotions that surround every adoption quietly locked away. We eat and we laugh. We discuss failed and failing marriages only to realize that we have the same problems with intimacy. We talk about our mutual passions including dogs that we have rescued. She cries when I tell her that my middle name is coincidentally the same as her first name and that my favorite city to visit is Chicago which is now her home town. "I never wanted to give you up," she says. Those simple words leave me feeling validated and secure.

I realize that it is getting late and stand to leave. "My mother calls every night at nine," I explain. "I am not ready to tell her yet". I am filled with so much happiness tinged with guilt. I feel guilt over saying the word mother to her and then more guilt knowing the daunting task of telling mom and dad lies ahead.

We walk to my car holding hands. We have the same hands. She embraces me and I feel a wave of love. It is the love she instilled in me by giving me life. It is the same love that my parents have cherished and encouraged to grow. I know I can tell them. I know they will be ok. My bond with my family is strong and love filled. Extending it to fit another will only strengthen that bond. We promise to stay in touch and I cry as I drive away. I have just realized what a gift love is. That at 31 years of age I have finally become a woman.