The Brave and Beautiful Rowdy Carnes
April 1, 1996 - April 10, 2012

Scott and I had Rowdy euthanized yesterday in our home as he lay in my lap at the end of the couch -- his favorite spot. Rowdy had been in decline for months, wasting away from a robust 14 lb. last year to a skin-and-bones 8 lb. when I took him to the vet on Monday to check his weight and the ping pong ball-sized tumor was finally detected. It had blocked his entire GI tract. He had just turned 16 years old.

It goes without saying that I'm utterly devastated. I knew this day would come, and Scott and I were about as prepared for it as we would ever be. After his visit to the vet on Monday, he was in the worst pain I have seen to date. What makes his death (and life) so moving is how close he and Scott were.

Rowdy liked people in general, but he loved men. I don't know what it was, but he always warmed up to males quicker than females. And there is no one he warmed up quicker to than Scott. It truly was love at first site, and from then on, he was "Daddy's Little Buddy."

I acquired Rowdy from a co-worker in 1999 when he was three years old. Getting a pet was the last thing I wanted at the time; I was new to Charlotte and wasn't sure I was even going to stay. I wanted to keep my life portable. But she was as determined as a used car salesman. She was pregnant with twins and allergic to her two cats, so on doctor's orders, she had to find them new homes. I took him in on the condition that if it didn't work out, I could return him.

She knew he found a new home.

I never considered myself a "cat person," but there was something about Rowdy that changed that forever. A big part of it was that he saw me through some very lonely, rough days. But a bigger part of it was his personality. I always told people that, "There isn't an aloof bone in Rowdy's body," and it was true. While most cats are notorious for never coming when called, Rowdy would ALWAYS cross a room for a head scratch. The minute Scott and I crawled into bed at night, Rowdy would jump on the bed and put himself square between us. I can't count the number of times Scott or I would say from another room, "Will you come look at this cat?" and he'd be laying luxuriously on a couch or bed launching "cute missiles." When Scott and I came home from being out, Scott would walk in the other room and I'd hear a big sigh, and there Row was, contently lying there practically ordering us to pet him. And we always, always did.

Needless to say, Rowdy is what made our house a home, and what made our threesome a family. We don't have kids. We're getting married in a month, and with each us being in our 40s, we don't know if our family unit will ever include children. Maybe our lives are meant to be a little quieter, our family a little smaller, but it will always include a furry companion who will be an equal presence in our little house.

We are staying home from work today to grieve and remember. The litter box is gone; the pet carrier, bed, brushes and toys are packed away; and we're donating the untouched bag of litter and food to Second Harvest for families who struggle feeding and caring for their kitties. I made two bowls for Rowdy's food and water in a pottery class, and we're going to put them in our yard and use them as pots for plants. We're also going to buy a perennial plant or flower and plant it in our yard in his memory.

Yesterday, after the vet left and took Rowdy's body to be cremated, we started packing his things away to lessen the pain of visual reminders. I was fine until I got to the refrigerator for a glass of tea and saw his just-opened can of food. I was flooded with reminders of how I was his Mama, who fed him expensive food to control his stomatitis, how I had his teeth removed and (hopefully) extended his life by a few years, and how whenever I came home, I picked him up and he gave me a "cat hug."

When we are ready to look for another feline companion, we will pick the one who gives great cat hugs. They are the best, most wonderful things in the world.

Goodbye, my brave, beautiful, strong boy.

Time to Catch Up

I've kicked around the idea of getting back on here and catching up on what's been going on in my life. But when I log in and look at the date of my last post -- more than TWO YEARS AGO -- well, my motivation goes south.

The recent death of Mr. G. in June 2010 inspired me to write an entry that I quickly took down. While my ruminations on why he chose to end his life were honest and, I feel, accurate, I felt it was bad form to be critical of one of the only people who checked this blog on a semi-regular basis and could not defend himself. A couple of you found it anyway, and for that, I apologize.

My last entry found me on my second day of employment as a public information officer for a large local government. I was excited. I was elated. I thought I had found the perfect job, but it quickly turned into something of a nightmare.

Shortly after I started working there, I was under siege by investigative reporters responding to tips of wrongdoing from employees of the agency to which I was assigned. These employees were quite unhappy with the new director, hired to "clean up" the agency and who quickly dissolved divisions, created new ones, promoted people with questionable credentials and hired people who were in her "circle of trust." Soon came a tidal wave of wrongdoings and scandals I had to deal with, in addition to developing a robust internal communication program, increase public awareness about programs and services, etc. The job was intense. And I walked into it with no media relations experience. I made plenty of mistakes. But I also did a lot of good there. I worked 50-hour weeks. I cranked out an enormous amount of work, doing a job that, historically, was done by two people.

The economy tanked, sales tax revenues plummeted, and because local politicians don't know how to balance a budget, I got "riffed." In government speak, it's "Reduction in Force." So here I am, unemployed again. I was told that there's a team of 10 people carrying out what equaled maybe half of what I did there. And they can't keep up with it.

It's been a little over four months since I left. I've had seven in-person interviews and five phone interviews. Nothing has bore fruit thus far, so it's hard to say how long I'll be out.

Meanwhile, as I was working my a** off only to eventually get canned, my boyfriend and I decided to do something completely crazy: purchase a house. The crazy part wasn't buying the house, really. After all, prices were low and we would qualify for the tax credit because we weren't married (my bf was a first-time home buyer). What was crazy is that I saw this layoff coming at least a year before it did. And I still owned a condo. So, in essence, I was choosing to make a 30-year financial commitment while a) I was uncertain about the future of my job and b) I already had a mortgage to pay.

Fate intervened, and after spending a couple thousand bucks to get my place ready to sell, we put it on the market. Our realtor was a miracle worker. Exactly one week after I was told that our department's budget was being cut in half and 13 of us were going to be laid off, we got an offer. So I had "real estate euphoria" to distract me from the inevitable fact that I was probably one of the 13 being let go. And sure enough, come May 18, the axe fell and I got my RIF letter. My last day was to be June 29, 2010.

Little did I know at the time that if I worked through that date, I would lose an opportunity to qualify for the COBRA subsidy, which pays 65 percent of the premium. So, fortunately, I was given the option to leave before May 31, making me eligible to pay 35 percent of my COBRA premium. Whew!

So here I am. Life could be worse. Life could be better. We have a great house in a fantastic neighborhood. Granted, prices continue to drop, but there's no doubt we made the right choice with location. Provided we stay put, we'll definitely see a return on our investment in a few years.

I'm getting a lot more interest in my resume than I did last time I was unemployed, so I suppose my two years wasn't wasted. The house keeps me busy.

But I feel a bit rudderless. The wind has gone out of my sails with regard to searching for jobs, applying for jobs, networking, etc. I hate constantly selling, selling, selling myself -- particularly since my last two jobs has rendered my self-esteem a smoky pile of ashes.

For my reader(s), I can't promise a blogging revival, but I'll make more of an effort to check in more often.

OB

Gas Piggies

So for some reason no one quite understands, there's a massive short of gas where I live. Supplies are 30 percent lower than normal. It's nuts. I filled up two weeks ago when Ike hit the gulf coast, and I've been sitting well below "e" since Monday. On my way home, I passed at least three cars that were stranded on the road.

People have been waiting more than four hours, only to find the pumps are empty by the time they finally get there.

I was lucky. After three days of searching for gas, the Citgo near my house was selling gas, and it only took me about 20 minutes. I put $30 in my tank (the limit the station asked for, but didn't mandate).

The lady next to me, however, filled her gas-hogging SUV and had the NERVE to pull out a GAS CAN! Un-freaking-believable. I took this pic with my camera phone.



I had a perfect opportunity to catch her standing there, listlessly waiting as she filled her monstrous tank, wearing her bright pink Providence Day School sweatshirt with a gas can on the ground next to her. I would have sent that to all the news organizations.

But the local paper scooped me. Check out this asshole, shot by the newspaper's photographer.

People can be so freaking selfish. :-(

Why I Love Charlotte

I don't think it's Charlotte, per se, that I'm attached to. What I am attached to, however, is the fact that over the 10 years I've lived here, I have met so many people -- some of whom have become close friends, but most of whom are merely friendly acquaintances.

After much trial and error, I have finally found the best place to buy a last-minute gift (Paper Skyscraper), the best place to get a manicure (Aloha Nails), the best place to get a quality inexpensive haircut (Aveda Institute), and best hamburger (Sir Edmund Halley's).

I have also forged relationships with folks whose services have come in handy at a fraction of the cost and hassle of other folks. Photographers, graphic designers, writers, travel professionals, caterers, pastors...if you need something done, chances are I know just the person to do it. And I'm not shy about referring them to complete strangers.

Case in point is yesterday. I hopped in my car to run an errand when--"yugh yugh yugh....clacker clacker clacker" -- my car wouldn't start. I checked to see if I left my lights on, but they were off. I was only slightly puzzled. Fortunately, there was a young 20-something woman sitting in an SUV in the parking lot waiting for someone. So I asked her if she'd give me a jump (since I always ALWAYS carry jumper cables in my car). It worked like a charm. Started right up. I thanked her and went on my merry way, but not before driving around a little bit and then parking near my house and cutting the car off to make sure it was OK.

It was fine.

Fast-forward to an hour-long trip to Costco, where I stock up on cheese, beef, chicken, fish and paper towels. When I tried to leave, "yugh yugh yugh....clacker clacker clacker" -- my car wouldn't start again. Saddled with trunk full of chicken, ground beef, and tilapia on a 94-degree day, priority one was getting my groceries home. So I called Scott to come over and give me a jump. About 10 minutes later, I tried and the car hesitantly started up. So I called off Scott and immediately rang my trusty, wonderful mechanic Steve.

I love Steve.

Steve's garage is in a seedy, dangerous part of town and his lot is littered with old Datsuns and Toyotas. I don't quite understand how he's able to make a living if what he charges me is any indication. He'll talk me out of any repair that's going to cost more than, say, $200, because, unless the repair means the difference between the car driving or turning into scrap, it just isn't worth investing that much into a car that's 10 years old and has 170K miles on it.

I love Steve.

So I called him on my way home to drop off the groceries. He told me, "Well, if you're looking to save some money, I'll sell the battery that's in my Camry for $20 and I'll put it in for you." I said, "SOLD. I'll be right over."

It took Steve all of three minutes to put in my battery. Whilst he was working, he informed me that I could probably get at least $1,000 more for my car today than a year ago because cars with great gas mileage -- even old ones -- are in huge demand. If you're stuck with an SUV, you're totally f**ked.

I replied, "Well, that makes sense. Times are tight for everybody, I suppose. I'm not working right now so I'm feeling pretty squeezed."

After installing my battery and making sure everything was working properly, I grabbed my checkbook to pay him. He said, "Tell ya what. When you get a job, pay me that $20 next time you're here."

See what I mean?! There is absolutely no way in hell I could move to, say, Houston, and receive that kind of grace coming out of the gates. That takes years of building a rapport, and, more importantly, sending referrals.

I say all this to express my hesitancy to relocate. I have been unemployed for almost three months and the job market here in Charlotte isn't looking so good. I might be better off, professionally, moving to Raleigh or Atlanta.

But I can't get a free car battery there....

Mr. G.: 29 June 1968 to 26 June 2010

On Saturday night, June 26, my dear friend "Mr. G." shot himself in the head in the midst of an argument with his on-again, off-again girlfriend of about three years. I found out on Friday while on vacation.

I had received a missed call and recognized the number, but it wasn't programmed in my phone. When I Googled it, his parents' land line came up. I assumed it was Mr. G calling to catch up, so I planned to call him when I got home since chatting with my ex whilst sharing a vacation house with my boyfriend's family probably wouldn't be exercising the best judgment.

Later that day, however, I received a friend request on Facebook from a nurse who worked with Mr. G. in Bethel, Alaska back when he and I dated. I accepted her request and checked out her profile to see the following update: "Found out today that my friend XXX passed away. My prayers go out to his family. Lesson of the day. If you think something is wrong say something."

I was stunned. So I called his parents and his father answered the phone. Honestly, I don't remember much of the conversation, but his dad said that he was struggling with the recent heat wave we've had after having lived most of the past year or so in Alaska. He was also having a difficult time finding another travel nursing assignment, which surprised me given that nursing is generally considered recession-proof. But his dad said, "Well, he really didn't like to get his hands dirty."

Sadly, he's right.

Which leads to my pontification of why all this happened and my feeble attempt to make sense of it.

In The Road Less Traveled, one my favorite books of all time, M. Scott Peck starts off with his book with a simple sentence: "Life is difficult." Life kicks us around. It's often unfair. And it is full of heartbreaks, losses and crushing disappointments. Most of us fill it with things that make us happy: family, kids, friends, hobbies that fulfill us and make life more bearable and give us a sense of purpose.

Mr. G., for reasons no one will ever really understand, filled it with stuff.

In the two years I dated him, he purchased dozens of phones, laptops, digital cameras, tons of clothes and shoes. When we met, he was driving an Xterra, which he traded in for something else. Then something else. All told, he purchased seven or eight vehicles, each one dragging him deeper in debt, even after he had filed for bankruptcy several years earlier. He also purchased thousands of dollars worth of high-quality gear for hobbies he'd try once (if that) and abandon: camping, kayaking, rock-climbing.

Once he graduated from nursing school (by the skin of his teeth), he took a similar approach to his career, hopping from job to job every couple of months. Our relationship, as chronicled in this blog, was as unstable as the rest of his life. I think we broke up three times, the last time being when he met the woman who would be the last person to see him alive.

So while I was shocked to hear that he took his own life, I can't say that it surprises me now. What shocks me is what led him to pick up that gun and pull the trigger. He hit his girlfriend: something that goes against every single cell in his body.

He had a strict, bone-deep rule against raising a hand to a woman, and in the two years we dated, he never once uttered a cruel word against me. His girlfriend was bipolar and prone to violent mood swings. She was probably fed up with his traipsing across the country and stringing her along, to be honest. Maybe she hit him first. Maybe she threatened to kill herself and he hit her to distract her from harming herself. All I know for sure is that there is no way it was unprovoked. And the sequence of events probably took place in a matter of seconds.

I am saddened by all of this. He and I were always -- above everything else -- friends. We probably should have never dated because I knew he wasn't relationship material and probably never would be. But he was kind. He was funny. He was one of most intelligent people I have ever met in my life. He accepted me fully, understood me when others didn't, and always had a kind word for me.

I will miss him terribly.

My hope is that wherever he is, he has found the satisfaction he never could find here on earth.

Rest in peace, my dear friend.

OB

Before & After

I have been out of work since April 2. It probably isn't a stretch to imagine how relieved I was to be "kicked off the island" of that dreadful, awful place. For the first two months, I was practically euphoric. With my newfound free time, I decided it was the perfect time to give my life a makeover. I took advantage of six free nutritionist visits through my soon-to-be-stupefyingly-expensive-but-for-now-still-paid-for health insurance carrier. By complete dumb luck, I was able to hire a life coach-in-training for only $10 per session. I had every intention of spending my days sweating at the gym, creating succulent yet healthy recipes, catching up on my reading and transforming myself into an athletic, healthy domestic diva -- complete with spotless baseboards, mildew-free tiles in the shower, organized closets, and a spiffy new coat of paint in my kitchen, bathrooms and living room.

Well, that didn't exactly happen. Sure, I cleaned out my closets. I even scrubbed my shower stalls free of mildew (Magic Eraser...you're the bomb!). And I certainly expanded my cooking chops beyond grilled chicken and salads.

But I haven't worked out for two hours every day. At best, I make it to the gym three times a week.

I haven't judiciously recorded every item I ingest in a neat journal and tallied up my calories every day. I don't eat my recommended three servings of fruit and five servings of veggies each day. And in no WAY have I been able to shake my habit for drinking really good beer....really high-calorie beer.

So, in essence, I have lost maybe 1.5 pounds in the four-plus months since I became unemployed.

But I have slept outside more times than I can count.
I have developed more endurance for hiking than I thought I ever could (granted, it still isn't great, but far better than before).
I have triceps.
I have a pretty good tan.

And, ladies and gentlemen, I have awesome kitchen cabinets!

BEFORE

AFTER

Just wanted to share. I really needed to have SOMETHING to show for all this freakin' free time!

OB

She said "YES!"

I had a roommate. Only briefly....three week tops. She'd gone through a lot in 2007. Her bf, with whom she shared a home, informed her that he had rekindled a previous romance with a woman who was bi-curious and had offered to move in with them, be the "cook and the maid" and provide the level of kinky sex her bf, apparently, required. Of course, he was all for it and was stupid enough to think my friend would be as well.

She moved in with her friend the same night.

About three months later, she was laid off. She got another job, but it was horrible. In the meantime, she met a guy on eHarmony. Their first meeting was in a hotel room off the interstate. I insisted she give me the name of the hotel, her room number, and a phone call to make sure she was safe. Needless to say, their first meeting was a weekend-long love-fest of cosmic proportions.

Soon after, she quit her job. Her friend kicked her out of her house to make room for her son, who was starting school nearby and needed his bedroom back.

So she moved in with me while she sorted out all of her earthly possessions. She gave a lot away to her children. She sold some stuff. She donated some stuff. She gave me a shitload of plants. The rest she put in a storage unit and gave to her kids, trusting them to claim it once the contract expired. Then she purchased a one-way ticket to Missouri to meet her eHarmony guy.

They are somewhere in New Mexico hunting for Native American relics, living out of his conversion van. She is having the adventure of a lifetime.

Shortly before she purchased her ticket, I urged her to reconsider. She didn't know this guy. There were some things about him that made me uncomfortable, namely his adamant refusal to hear anything pertaining to her past with other men. It worried me. So I wrote her a long e-mail, telling her my misgivings with the disclaimer that she's a grown woman and could make her own choices, but that if something happened to her and I didn't share this, I would never forgive myself for not trying.

This man offered her the opportunity of a lifetime. She is 57 years old and has three kids, all full-grown.

And she said "YES!"

Last time I talked to her, she was happier than I think I have ever heard her.

So the wish for myself is to say yes with wild abandon when the opportunity of a lifetime presents itself. Will I be so brazen? So bold? So reckless?

I still worry about her. But I also admire her.

The Consequence Kickback

I just got home from working 13 hours. I took yesterday off. I can bet my firstborn -- if I had one -- that I'll have to take 8 hours PTO for the day I took off.

And such is the philosophy of where I work: I give them 10 more hours of my life than I am paid for. They give me ... well, nothing. Except, I suppose, the security of not being canned.

I thought this was an exception, because this is the first place I've worked where I've been expected to kill myself just to keep my head above water. I hardly cook meals anymore. I haven't been to the gym in a month. I have wet clothes in the washer I forgot about that smell like feet now. My cat hardly recognizes me.

It was this "you give and we take" philosophy, among other things, that drove me to look for greener pastures elsewhere. I took yesterday off to interview for a job as a blogger for a group purchasing organization in the healthcare field. The pay seems to pretty good... about $20K or so more than what I'm making now. I interviewed three people, one of whom will be my manager, and another one who reports to her.

The manager told me that she comes in at 6am every morning, and that the night before my interview, she was there past 10pm fielding questions and handling a major PR crisis. She told me that, on average, those on the low end of the totem pole put in 45 hours a week, and the time investment increases based on hierarchy. She puts in around 60-70 hours a week. And she has a daughter to raise.

The other woman I interviewed, who reports to this manager, was shockingly honest when I asked her about the time issue: "If you put in more than 40 hours in a week, is there flexibility in getting that time back?" In other words, I don't mind pulling crazy hours when there's a major project on the line. But I'm sorry. I don't want to pull OT every week for the rest of my working life.

Her response was diplomatic but candid: "Well, there's some flexibility. I put in more than 30 hours a week, so I don't always log when I have a doctor's appointment [editor's note: you have to take PTO to see the doctor...and you work in healthcare?! WTF?!]. But the expectation is that you put in more than 40 hours. She (the boss lady) doesn't expect you put in the hours she does, but she does expect more than 40 hours." Ugh. From the frying pan into the fire?

This comes on the heels of an article I just read in the March issue of Oprah Magazine titled, "Can You Work This Weekend? Is it possible to say no without hurting your career?" And the resounding answer was, "No, you can't, unless you're OK with the 'consequence kickback.'" Granted, the women interviewed for the article were at the top of their careers. CEOs, anesthesiologists, etc. Those who started saying no found that the tippy-top was elusive unless they were willing to give up just about everything in their lives: spouses, children, health.

What gets me is that the "consequence kickback" isn't just for top-level, upward-climbing CEO wannabes anymore. I'm starting to think it's pretty much everywhere, at every level. My current supervisor is right, as much as I cringe to admit it: It's all about perception. And if you're a "yes" woman -- saying yes to every extra assignment, to 12-hour workdays, to giving up your personal life for your job whenever it's asked of you -- you'll be perceived as productive and dedicated, but I'm living proof that it won't guarantee you'll curry that much favor with the boss. It just keeps your head off the chopping block... maybe.

So this is the reality I am facing in the middle of my career. I'm no longer entry-level, but I'm not at the top of the food chain. I am just your average, 30-something, single with no kids, college-educated professional who wants to pay my mortgage on time, put food on the table, sock away some cash for retirement and have enough left over to have quality of life. Compared to most Americans, my overhead is low. But the value I place on my time is high.

So here I am... in a job I hate where I work through my lunches, often work 10-hour days, and stress out constantly about all the things I need to get done. Fifty hours a week isn't enough time to accomplish all the things I'm expected to do.

And my boss--and the top boss--knows I'm looking for something else.

It's quite possible that I'll be offered the job for which I interviewed yesterday. On the plus side, it's more money and it's doing something I have a much higher aptitude for than what I'm doing now. So I expect I'll enjoy the work. But so much of that depends on the people I'm working with, who I don't know, and, more importantly, the woman I'll be working for. A woman who, despite having a husband and daughter, pulls 12-hour days regularly and expects others to exhibit the same level of commitment she has.

Perhaps what I'm about to say is sexist, but I really wish I were working for a man. In my experience, men have it easier. They can say no and not lose opportunities. They can say yes and not suffer the consequences women do. Their wives pick up the slack if he's working late at the office. The dishes get done. The laundry gets folded. The kids get fed. The bills get paid.

Not a single man I worked for expected me to work more than 40 hours a week without giving me something back in return. But it's been a long time since I've worked for a man.

OB

I'm Saying Yes!

Dear God,
At the risk of sounding effusive, I just want to thank you so very, very much for everything you have brought into my life: the good, the bad, even the ugly. I really do feel as if everything that's happened to me -- my upbringing, which trained me to take care of myself; the loneliness that broke my heart far too many times to count; the anxiety and bitterness over feeling so different from other women my age; my relationships and heartbreaks -- has brought me where I am today. I am happy. I am hopeful. And I am in love in a way I never, ever thought was even possible.

Without all of them, there's no way I'd be ready for the beautiful, wonderful man you brought to me. I have a certainty about this I have never, ever felt before. There is no insecurity. No uncertainty. No fear he'll run away. And most importantly, no fear that I'm settling for less than I want, even though I wasn't able to articulate what I wanted.

I think that's where you have blessed me the most. You know me so well that you know what I want and need more than I ever could. And you brought it to me. He is the one, God. He's the one who will love me, protect me, defend me, inspire me, and take care of me for the rest of our lives. I just know it.

There's no way I would if you hadn't put me through what you have. You used all those people to show me both what I needed and what I must turn away from.

So I am saying yes. Yes to the future I see every time I look at this man. Yes to his warmth, love, goodness, and true, sincere love for me. It sometimes gets so overwhelming I can hardly breathe.

I have always wanted to say yes. And if or when he asks me to be his forever, I will shout it. And I will run down the aisle... like I have always dreamed I would.

The New Car Conundrum

Back in July, I had a little windfall. Not much of one, really, considering that, combined with my salary, I cleared just a tad over what I'd made at my previous job.

One of the things I seriously considered (on the urging of my then-bf who has purchased more new vehicles than I can count) is purchasing a new car. After all, my car -- which I bought for less than $10K and was already a year old with 36K miles -- is 10 years old, has been paid off for five years, and is closing in on 160K miles. My car is the epitome of no-frills. No cruise control, no tilt-wheel, no sun roof...it doesn't even have a rear-window defroster, an intermittent wiper setting, floor mats, or hub caps. The fanciest accoutrements (sp?) it has are an automatic transmission and dual airbags. It wheezes up mountains, has the pep of a tortoise, and the engine noise is so loud you almost need earplugs.

"You know, I worked really hard for that windfall. Really hard," I told myself. "How many chances will I have to purchase a car, brand-new, outright. No interest. No car payments." In my ex's eyes, it was a no-brainer. And for many others, it would be as well.

But I wasn't ready. So I socked the cash into my savings, where it earned .0000000001% interest. I felt better having it there while I pondered the possibilities of what I was going to do with my cash.

Blow it on an exotic adventure for my 40th birthday, like a trip to Beijing for the 2008 Olympics? Prague? Amsterdam? Maybe. My close friend is traveling to Marrakesh during my birthday to stay with her friend whose son set her up with a free place to stay for a month. I'm hard at work figuring out how to gracefully invite myself to join them (I'd get my own lodging) without looking like a vacation-poacher...keep your fingers crossed! After all, I have become extremely resistant to traveling alone anymore, because of the state of the world these days, not to mention the fact that traveling solo doesn't hold the "I'm so cool and independent that I don't mind traveling alone" romance it once did.

Invest in home improvement? You know, this is a great idea. Statistics show that the best investment you can make in your home is to spiff up your kitchen and bathrooms. And mine desperately need it: new cabinets, new appliances, new sinks. But I don't want to spend a fortune on improvements that may not pay off once I sell. Besides, I have no intention of selling any time soon. I love where I live. But, it seems to me that this is the perfect reason to upgrade. Why spend my hard-earned money upgrading just so someone else can enjoy it? Shouldn't I be the one enjoying it? So, I'm going to look into inexpensive ways to upgrade that will increase the value of my home without eating up my money. Hmmm....

Sock away money in my IRA? I went back and forth on this one for a loooong time, but I finally decided it was in my best interest to put the max into my IRA. I still have plenty left over, thank goodness. I just wouldn't feel right if I didn't do it. So I did.

Give some money to charity? I did that, to. Gave a pretty fat check to my church, which just celebrated its 2-year anniversary and had to be self-sufficient at the 2-year mark. I felt good about that.

For the time being, rather than buying the Yaris I want, I have decided to keep my car after reading this article on MSN Money. I have used every weapon in my arsenal to feel good about the decision. I bought a set of Michelins for less than $300 at Costco (the old girl's earned herself a nice pair of shoes), steam-cleaned the upholstry and carpet, and keep up on oil changes. I'll be getting her a new timing belt soon and maybe a new paint job. I figure I'll save gobs on money in insurance (I only carry liability and pay maybe $500/year) and property taxes (I pay less than $70/year). It's a no-brainer. She works great. My mechanic says I can get her up to 500K miles if I continue babying her the way I have. And well, that's pretty cool to tell folks I'm in a car with a half-million miles on it, right?

My dad's mentioned buying the car from me for more than I'd get on trade-in. It's tempting. Between that and what's left over from my windfall, I could very well be able to afford to buy a car outright. But we'll see.

In the meantime, I'm still in the Tabbymobile everyone knows me by. But who knows. Come New Year's, I might be in a new Yaris!

Farewell, Sparky. :-(

Sparky Carnes
1990 - October 3, 2007 @ 10:45 a.m.

My mother called today to inform me that my 17-year-old cocker spaniel, Sparky (aka "SparkCaaaaaarnes!") has an appointment with the vet tomorrow at 10:45 a.m. to be humanely euthanized.

This dog...what can I say? He was a "consolation gift" from an ex-boyfriend who thought I needed company while I struggled to keep myself together in the face of crushing heartbreak and venturing away from my hometown of Lexington, KY for the first time.

We lived in Charleston, SC together and were absolutely inseparable. He went everywhere with me: to Folly Beach to feed boiled peanuts to the seagulls, on excursions to Georgetown to see the shrimp boats dock, to Edisto Island to hunt for shells, to downtown Charleston to stroll the historic streets and people-watch. Every Sunday morning, I took him with me to Vickery's on Beaufain Street. We sat on the patio and I got numerous "oohs and aaahs" over how beautiful he was.

He is an exceptionally beautiful dog.


There is no question in my mind that I could not have survived the "rite of passage" I experienced in Charleston if Sparky hadn't been at my side every step of the way.

After leaving Charleston, I took him to my parents' house in KY while I was in grad school. I had every intention of reclaiming him after graduation, but he'd become so attached to my family (and vice versa), I didn't have the heart to take him away from a place that made him so happy.

My mom know how much I missed him, so she had a great idea. Whilst on a field trip with my nephew to visit a frontier woman who makes her living weaving yarn from the hair of the llamas she raises, she decided to ask her if she could weave yarn out of Sparky's hair. She said she could.

So, for the next nine months, every time Mom took Sparky next door to get groomed (my neighbor's a professional dog groomer), she took Sparky's clippings home in paper grocery bags.

Eventually, it became this:


I won a DVD of "Lilo & Stich" for calling this story in to the Bob & Sheri Chatroom several years ago. :-)

So, by this time tomorrow, Sparky will have crossed the Rainbow Bridge, a place all pets go to live out their lives playing, running, and basking in forever-sunshine and doting animal-lovers.

I have no doubt Sparky will have unlimited access to things we, his earthly family, found annoying: used napkins, stinky garbage, kitty litter and dirty diapers. Yes, he was a "gross little dog," which I reminded him constantly by saying, "What the heck is wrong with you, Spark Carnes? That ain't no way for a cocker spaniel to act!"

Sparky, you lived a happy, full life surrounded by people who loved you. You were my faithful, happy, beautiful companion during the absolute darkest, loneliest time of my life. But you always greeted me with a smile, a wag, and a nudge to my hand when you saw the pain I was in. May you have a never-ending supply of squeaky toys, and may a human always be there for you run and show them to.

I love you! And I will most certainly miss you.

It's kind of cheesy, but here's the poem titled "Rainbow Bridge"

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....

-- Author Unknown

The most idiotic myspace bulletin I have ever received

Its title is "My Child is Unique," and, apparently, if your child's name is used by anyone else, you're a big, fat loser. Give me a BREAK!!!

1. AUSTIN RYAN
2. HALLEE MIRNADA What, Miranda isn't good enough? Is that a typo? Does your mother not know how to spell how your own name?!
3. Paityn Autumn
4. CHYLiE MAE
5. Alexis Mariah
6.Kaiden Clifton-Robert
7. Jaidyn David
8. Aiden Tom
9. Kayli Grace
10. Chloe Elizabeth
11. Landon Michael
12.Emilia Taylor
13. Jenova Cordaline..gaurenteed no one has her name! Yeah, and guaranteed no one can pronounce it either. Your kid's name sounds like a fuel additive. "Now super-charged with Jenova Cordaline."
14. BreeAnna Lynn
15. Laci Marie
16. Landin Alan
17. Molly Skye
18. Brooke Nova OK, was she conceived in a Nova?
19. Jayden James
20. Ethen Joseph
21. Kassadie Paige Oh, you have to be kidding. See #22. THAT's how Cassidy is spelled. Sheesh.
22. Cassidy Rose
23. Seth Patrick
24. Jenessa faith Make up your mind. Is it Jennifer or Vanessa? Don't tell me. The lower-case on her middle name is intentional too.
25. Layla Isabelle
26. Jaden Michael So you wanted to cover your bases whether it was a boy or a girl?!?!?
27. Asher Lee
28. Micah Benjamin
29. Malin Thomas
30. Mariska Faith Since when is making Faith a first name soooooo uncool?
31. Kaleb William
32. Donald Matthew
33. Trenton Allen
34. Tristan Andrew
35. Jordyn Austin Vomit
36. Taylor Kaye
37.Aaliyah AnnaShay (no has her name but me and no one better have the name AnnaShay or ill be pissed cause its my sisters name that passed away)....And how old were you when you had this kid? 10?
38. ELANA
39. TWINS- Anthony Javier and Andrew Eduarod!!! Eduarod? WTF kind of name is that?
40. Skyler Lee
41. Klayton Alan â,,¥
42. Gianna Marie How much you wanna bet her name's pronounced EXACTLY the same as #43?
43- Jenna Marie
44. â,,¥ ELIZABETH ANN â,,¥
45. Ryder Joseph
46. bryson cole
47. Adrianna Patrice-Licavoli~ he he, doubt anyone else has THAT for a middle name:) ha ha ha
48. TWINS- Samantha Nicole and Kalia Jade
49. Trinity Nicole &
50. Tristan Joshua.....due to be born in Feb. 2008
51. Jeremiah James
52.Alexa Michelle
53. Landen Marshall..... Its good to see there are other Landens around!! Were you a "Little House on the Prairie" fan? Is your daughter named "Half-Pint?"
54. TY LANE
55. Cayden Jacob
56. Eaden (delightful) Love That name is (fucking) stupid
57. KIRSTEN GRACE
56. Ellasyn Jade "Ella" and Avaree Brooke "Ava"
59. â,,¥Shaylieâ,,¥ Michelle<~~Made the first name up myself and then last year they put it in the baby book ;( Boo-hoo....I can't wait to name my next potted plant Shayliea.
60. William â,,¥Graysonâ,,¥
61. Nolan Pierce
62. â,,¥ Lilly Alexandria â,,¥
63. lillian irene
64.Morgan Hope
65.Logan Isaiah John Quit being so greedy! A first and middle are enough. Unless little Logan is the friggin' Earl of Glouchester, give the mile-long title a rest.
66. bryce matthew nathaniel Oh my god. Not again.
67 aiden michael
68. kylie ann
69. Brett Matthew
70.Logan Ray
71. Sherri Murran (pronounced Shara not sherri) Then frickin' name her Shara, for goodness sake. Preposterous.
72. Landen Dean
73. Aden James~whew only two Aden's and they are spelled different~
74. Markus Xavier-- i think i have a right to put two names
75. Lucas Donovan-- they are twins!-- Jenna
76. Keegan Michael & lil brother Blake Aaron
77. Bryce Dakota
78. Briella Gracie- pronounced like Gabriella without the Gab part
79. myrina nicolyn, julian joseph ( " j.j." for short), and serenitee amora-ann Oh god. Where do I begin.
80. James Michael and Alexis Danielle
81.Matthew Alan Thomas,Kaitlyn RaeAnn Nicole,Emily Heaven Louise,Dakota Michael David and MaeHaylee Elyza Nichelle(all my 5 babies) And FIFTEEN names to keep track of? WTF is with MaeHaylee?!!! Is her name Mae or Haylee? Make that SIXTEEN. Hope you have name tags.
82.Destiny Faith, Christopher Hunter ( destinys cause she was destin to make it here and faith in the lord got her here, i had a lot of problems with her)
83. Jacob Brent
84. Sofie Adaline
85. Tori, Hannah, and Spencer

Mercury's Retrograde...at least in my world

OK, things haven't been going so well this week. So I need to rant:

1. I've been working with a local uptown hotel for MONTHS to have an event there with work. They wined and dined us...three times. Even treated me to a Panthers game in the luxury suite. They assured me they could work with our budget. So why is it, then, that out of nowhere, they're telling me the date we've discussed for ages is now unavailable (turns out it was a lie) and the proposal they sent is TWICE what our budget allows? Yet they say they still want our business? Is it because I wouldn't get my freak on with the owner?

2. After weeks of debating whether or not to sink $350 into a weekend-long Life-Coaching Retreat, I'm told it's canceled. I tried posting as an event with a social group I belong to, but the jackass owner says it's a "business solicitation." Whatever. He's a sexist prick. He wouldn't let me post Race for the Cure because it violates some stupid arbitrary rule about charity. Yet he allowed a guy (who happens to have a prick) post Race for Peace. And other pricks can post Operation Christmas Child, Habitat for Humanity, Jingle Bell Ball, Ski Bees dances, yada yada.

3. I missed an appointment I scheduled for the other day because I'm a complete diz-brain. I feel like a dork.

4. After finally feeling up to jump back into the dating pool, my online profile has been removed for no reason whatsoever. WTF?!?!

5. I accidentally "outed" a gay guy who goes to my church....to just about everyone. He accidentally sent a personal e-mail to a bunch of people, disappointed in the lack of compassion he's getting from his Christian therapist. I responded by replying to "all," sharing some of my baggage in the process to make him feel better. Now I am too embarrassed to show my face there.

6. The YMCA's upping my dues to some ungodly amount yet to be determined.

7. Editor's Note: Deleted because it's just a little tooooooo rant-worthy.

8. No one's returning my e-mails.

9. I was kicked off my server at work

What...the...?!??!?!?!?!

OB

The Other Half

This doesn't happen that often. I don't hang in the circles of the rich and famous in Charlotte. So when I got a last-minute invitation to spend the evening in a luxury suite at Bank of America Stadium watching the Panthers play the Patriots -- complete with free food and open bar -- I accepted.

Our box overlooks the end-zone. We got clobbered: 24-7. But few of us were paying attention to the game anyway. My friend was trying to set me up with the guy who owns the company who has the suite. Sorry....NOT interested. Yeah, he's loaded. VERY loaded. He owns something like 30 hotels and is literally worth millions. But, apparently, unlike many women in Charlotte who frequent luxury boxes at Panthers games, money just doesn't turn me on enough to overlook the fact that I find him rather....ahem....troll-ish. Nice guy. Fun as the day is long. Interesting to talk to. But a shag-mate? Um, sorry. :-(

It's too bad, really. It would be really nice to be taken to nice restaurants, expensive plays, and see how the other half lives.

Epistolary Relationships

Following are some exchanges between me and my brother and me and my mother that date back several years. Welcome to the family! :-)

Subj: (no subject)
Date: 7/10/00 10:32:10 PM Eastern Daylight Time
From: TabbyGrad
To: DeBug40
Mom,
My friend Kristina, who's moving to Boston on Thursday and is also a writer, gave me a book titled Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. It's an instruction book on writing and life. I opened it up yesterday while laying by the pool. An hour later, I was writing like a fiend, recalling our trips out West and the calamities we encountered along the way. I haven't even reached the tip of the iceberg, but I have a long, varied list of things I'll eventually devote to paper. It was nice to get some thoughts out that might someday be read (God willing) by someone else.

I got to thinking about why on earth I'm a writer. Some may say I inherited it, and it certainly seems that way. Between James Street, Papa and you, it was basically imprinted on me from birth. But writers have more than genetics to thank for their ability. After thinking on it long and hard, I'm convinced that writing is more than stringing words together into eloquent, well-crafted phrases and paragraphs. It's a way of seeing the world, and that, I believe, has little to do with chromosome strands and more to do with the way we were taught to see the world when we were kids.

Here's what I wrote yesterday in an explosion of "creative" energy:

"My mom is a spectacular writer. Her flair for description is magical, sincere and exceedingly affectionate. She falls in love with the people and places she describes and her affinity for them is contagious. She had her nose in books from the time she was conceived, I believe, and books, along with nature, were her refuge, her escape, and her singular passion. She'd weave stories of her idyllic childhood in Hattiesburg, Mississippi with such reverence and detail you'd think you were there with her, or you wished you had been."

Following this vein of "nurture versus nature," I mused over why it took me until I was 28 to give in to the notion that this was my destiny and that trying other things, like nursing or hotel management, was downright futile. And I came to the conclusion that you and I have something else in common. We listened to others.

I remember when your professor told you and your classmates that an English degree was a dead end. I always got the impression that Dad saw your talent (and mine) as more of a hobby than a practical career choice. And I listened to David Dick, head of the School of Journalism, when he told me I should major in broadcasting because my goals were too unformed for his prestigious program. All I can say is that I hope a day will come when I can send him a copy of my first novel with a personal note inside that says, "looked what you missed out on, buddy."

The way I saw the world as a child, as a teenager, and as an adult has everything to do with the way you and Dad saw it. Dad saw it as a place where work matters, where taking the safe route was noble, predictable and secure. That philosophy served me well and probably went a long way in making me a semi-responsible, security-conscious, industrious person from an early age. That penchant for pragmatism, however, combined with a less-than-stable state of mind while I was growing up, made Dad a high-strung, high-anxiety person who, as I've said before, "equates losing a hoe with nuclear holocaust."

And then there was you, whose personality, I am convinced, is Dad's mirror opposite. Aside from seeing your family in danger or pain, nothing ever ruffles you. When we were rolling that godforsaken green Ford Econoline van down the hill to Raton, New Mexico for the 10th time, you laughed at the absolute absurdity of the situation. What great fodder for a writer! And I'm the lucky, lucky beneficiary.

I'm convinced that most people would have written off my experience with Lizard Head, the ill-tempered used car salesman in Charleston, as a bad customer service experience and forgotten about it all together. But I chose to tell people about it, and they get the biggest kick out of it. I'm sure I'll write of my "bright shining moment" in Aspen when I mooned the entire hotel pool too. Remember how Sabrina laughed until she couldn't breathe when I told her about it? My friends can't believe all the strange and curious tales I weave about my experiences. But I'm convinced that they have just as many colorful stories to tell: they just got caught up in the frustration of the moment, as Dad does, and don't see them as opportunities.

I just thought you'd want to know this. All this upheaval with David, Mike, John, Dad, and me in our personal lives has given me pause to think about how grateful I am for this twisted, quirky, eccentric cast of characters who have appeared in my life over the years. Without them, I wouldn't have a thing to write about; without Dad, I wouldn't have the practicality to make them useful; and without you, I wouldn't have the eyes to see them.

Happy belated Mother's Day!
Tabitha

Subj: Re: (no subject)
Date: 7/11/00 11:52:51 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: DeBug40
To: TabbyGrad

What a wonderful letter, and what a great attitude! That will carry you far in writing. This letter is a great piece of writing and a joy to me to read. One of the letters I wrote to my folks was in their file cabinet in a manilla envelope labeled in my dad's handwriting, "A Treasure from Diane." Well, this one is my "Treasure from Tabitha," and I will always cherish it. Thank you so much for sharing it with me. You don't know how much better it made me feel about my own life.
I love you,
Mom

Subj: This'll take a while....
Date: 7/9/00 12:35:44 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: TabbyGrad
To: daccad36@hotmail.com

David,
I don't know how to respond to your last post except to say again that I'm disturbed by it. While your observations are no doubt interesting and revealing, I find myself thinking more about you than the content of what you wrote. As I said before, you and I have spent a lot of time dissecting Mom, Dad, Charissa, Mikey, etc., but maybe you need to think very carefully about your own motivations rather than questioning others'. I've been doing a lot of this self-questioning myself. I may say things you won't like, David, and I won't be so arrogant to assume I have all the answers, nor do I claim to be blameless. This is a great way for me to ferret out my own weaknesses and insecurities. I hope you won't freeze me out after reading it. These are merely my observations and opinions. If you're not interested in reading them, best to close this now.

I don't think you realize how arrogant you come across. After reading other e-mails you sent me, I'm starting to think that you consider your "intellectual superiority" as much a tool for manipulation as you claim others' "benevolence" is. I see you making sport out of outwitting your bosses, the secretaries you wooed, Mom with your story of emotional problems, etc. Are you "testing" me as well, waiting to "prove some theory" you have about me?

What screams out at me is how overly concerned you may be with the way others see you (your comments on how women swoon over you, how you were Charissa's hero, how people thought you're psychic and fascinating, etc.). Your quest to be mysterious, intriguing, worldly, intellectually "ahead of everyone else" and insightful might be a way to avoid exploring who you REALLY are, David, because you're so terribly afraid of being "average" or "ordinary." Once you face that fear and see the superficiality of the things you've chosen to define you, transcending them FOR REAL becomes FAR more difficult than it is now. Believe me, I fight this myself more than I care to admit.

You certainly have every right to your opinions about our family's problems, but have you considered that casting Mom as the singular force of destruction in this family may be exonerating yourself, me, Dad, Charissa and even John of any responsibility for our OWN lives and actions? I know because I've done it myself. And I suspect you'll come to regret the barbs you've thrown her way, regardless of how on-target you may or may not have been. Is YOUR motivation "benevolence?"

I don't think good intentions are what has motivated either one of us in our never-ending whining over our family situation. For instance, maybe your true, albeit subconscious, purpose for trying to empower Charissa has more to do with being her "hero" (your words) than trying to make her life better. Being a hero is easy. Being David (or Tabitha, for that matter) is difficult and frightening. And do you think that maybe your diatribe to Mom is more an exercise in self-indulgence than trying to provide your unique brand of "tough love?" Was there really ANY "love" in what you sent Mom? Or was it all about you -- your need to be the Prophet of Truth and the only one insightful enough to see it? Was the worst thing that could have happened was not getting a reaction from her?

Mom said your kidney stones treatment was a story conjured to cover up the fact that you were seeing a counselor for your "manic depressive-ish condition." But you told me the condition was partly a cover-up to assess Mom. If that's the case, why DID you borrow $800 from them? It's not my business to know, but it's worth asking yourself. I certainly don't think that money itself has that much bearing on relationships, but what it represents does: freedom if you're the one earning it, dependence and a nagging sense of failure if you're the one receiving it from someone else. According to Mom, you often call her collect. She hides the phone bills from Dad; more to protect you from Dad's judgment than herself. Is that $800 only a tip of the iceberg when it comes to Mom and Dad's "economic outpatient care" you're receiving from them? Again, that's none of my business. I've received an occasional loan from them; they spotted me a couple hundred so I could take a long-awaited trip to NYC last year, for instance. But I suspect that you fibbed about the $800 (and maybe other loans) because you're embarrassed of not being the huge financial success you told everyone, especially Dad, that you'd be. You, like me, are still trying to make them proud of us, which is a big reason why I got so upset last week.
It may be an "ordinary, average" affliction that makes you just like everyone else, but it's definitely one worth exploring.

I'll admit, it makes me wonder about the whole James Bond-esque drama surrounding the law firm job and the seemingly unfair circumstances under which you lost your headhunting job. Is that scenario yet another smokescreen you've conjured to either "test" me in some way or to hide the fact that you may have contributed to the bad outcomes of these jobs, and again you're embarrassed? How many times did Charissa weave such tales to rationalize being fired, saying someone was out to get her and "set her up" to make it look like she was stealing, for instance? All to spare herself Dad's judgment. I can't blame her. While you may have dealt with some vindictive, jealous or scheming characters, surely you've explored your own behaviors that exacerbated the problem and led to two consecutive ugly situations. The common denominator, seems to me, is you, is it not?

Preoccupying ourselves with the dysfunctions of our family is taking valuable time away from living our own lives and becoming people who can enrich the lives of others, including our family. Such a pasttime is as much a denial of responsibility for our lives as Mom's.

Whatever "action" you're planning to take as a result of your newfound assessment of Mom, I suggest you think long and hard at what you're hoping to get out of it. You may wind up alienating the people you rely on more than you care to admit. Like it or not, you of all people should be grateful for all your parents do for you. If you aren't, or if you resent it, stop accepting their help. Mom tried her best to protect you from the ridicule of everyone, including your own father, and although her motivations may have been misguided, naive, or, according to you, diabolical, one thing remains clear: she is your mother, she loves you, she has EARNED your respect and gratitude, and she deserves better than to be the scapegoat of her kids' unresolved personal issues. I'm neither attacking nor defending her quality as a parent -- I won't go there with you anymore because I think it's terribly unhealthy and counterproductive to do so. What matters is what you choose to do with your own life. Do you want to be financially bound to Mom and Dad forever, for instance? Sounds to me that you have bigger fish to fry than trying to ride in on a white horse and be this family's hero, particularly when you're 12 time zones away. Be your own hero.

I don't recall an e-mail from you about Mom being "big nurse," but I probably lost it when I switched computers. I certainly didn't forward it to Mom. I haven't forwarded anything you've sent me. But, from your last post, you said you'd understand if I did, and that it was the reason you forwarded mine. I didn't know about this. What e-mail of mine did you forward? Who gave you permission to do such a thing? It certainly wasn't me, which is the only permission that counts. In the same vein, don't forward me Mom's assessment of my so-called jealousy because I figure if she wanted me to know, she'd tell me.

As far as Dad goes, I suggest you call him at work if you want to reach him privately. His number is 606-281-4912 and he can be paged. You won't be able to call collect, but if I may be blunt here, if you feel Dad's worth it, which you seem to think, you'll spare the five bucks or so and call him yourself. I don't want to get in the middle of this.

Of course, I care about what happens to you, David. You're my brother. But I am concerned about you. Whatever crisis you're experiencing has taught me a lot about my own shortcomings and skillful methods to distract myself from the work I really need to do, so I'm grateful for these exchanges. If you want to talk about it, argue about it or whatever, feel free to write any time!

Hope to hear from you,
Tabitha

Subj: Disclaimer
Date: 7/10/00 9:44:47 PM Eastern Daylight Time
From: TabbyGrad
To: daccad36@hotmail.com

Hey there,
This won't be long, I promise! Certainly not as long as my past post. I re-read what I sent you, and I think I may have taken some unfair liberties that I shouldn't have. Your financial relationship with Mom and Dad is none of my business. And they don't share it with me except in small, unconscious snippets that slip unnoticed. For instance, when I was there last week, we all went to Our Land. As we were hiking up the creek bed, Mom realized she had forgotten a book she wanted to read while we hiked further down the trail without her. She asked Dad if he could go back to my car and get it out of her purse. He started back, then Mom suddenly said, "Oh, never mind. I don't want it." Dad immediately went back to hiking, and I asked Mom, "Are you sure?" And she whispered, "I don't want him in my purse." I offered to get it instead. When I returned, I asked her why she didn't want Dad to get it. She said, "Because there's a phone bill in there with lots of calls to and from Japan." And, of course, she told me about the $800 because she probably felt bad that she didn't get me a birthday gift.

That's all I know for sure, and that's enough. For all I know, that's it. For me to claim you're financially dependent on Mom and Dad is something I should keep to myself, and more importantly, not even care about. As long as I'm not, that's all that should matter. I guess I was just trying to help when maybe you don't need any.

I still believe I made some salient points, particularly with regard to your need to explore your motivations for airing your grievances. Talking to Dad privately about Mom won't get you the result you hoped for. Do you really want to be the wedge that alienates Mom from everyone in this family? Do you really want everyone to turn against her? You may not know it, but that's what it appears you're trying to do, and as fucked as we are, it'll take more than that, I believe.

I've been writing a lot the past few days, and I'm really excited about it. I got to thinking about what makes me a writer today, and why it took so long for me realize it was basically my destiny, like it or not. I think that it took so long because I, like Mom, bought into the stigma surrounding writers as starving, pensive brooders who were a drain on society, fostered by Dad's ceaseless fear of risk and lack of understanding about the value of creativity, and, of course, Mom's sad stories of professors who talked her out of chasing her own dreams of being a writer.

You didn't buy into any of that. Whatever motivated you to leave the U.S. to travel, be it wanderlust, adventure, a search for yourself, fear, insecurity, or escape doesn't matter. You didn't listen to the nay-sayers. You took a risk, and that's why Dad will probably never understand you and why Mom admires you -- so does Charissa and so do I. It may or may not be all that you had hoped, but at least you didn't allow anyone to talk you out of your dreams. I, like Mom, listened to everyone but myself. And I'm working to change it while there's still time. God willing, there's plenty of it!

Take care!
Tabitha

"The Strangest Secret" and other brief rants

Sometimes you can't "fake it 'til you make it," as Earl Nightingale, father of the motivational recording industry said umpteen years ago. Sometimes you try, and you just can't.

Sometimes (well, for me, most of the time), you just have to live through it before you can learn from it. It's simple. And sometimes faking it can help you live through it, but it's only when you stop pretending that you finally learn from it. Dang, I'm sure someone's already said this (and I'm just repeating it), but if it isn't, I'm totally claiming it. I should get it copyrighted (okay, okay, it's not that great....)

I can't believe I'm going to say this, but it's kinda nice to watch TV again and follow something with a modicum of regularity (I don't even watch "Sex and the City" reruns that much anymore...gasp!). The second season of "Big Love" is really great. I'm somewhat hooked. And it's nice to be hooked to something when I feel so detached ... as if I have created a life for myself that has become almost tyrannical. But that's all in my head.

Because I can have whatever life I choose. I have the one I chose. And it's not so bad. I am more fortunate than I even give myself credit for. But those close to me know that. They see it. If only I could see what they see sometimes.

It could be worse. But man, it could be so much better. I do know that. I'm tired of being Miss Independent all the time. I've done it so long it is truly second nature. And I just have to let go of some stuff -- physically (weight), spiritually (guilt & shame), materially (de-clutter/purge/give more), and professionally (knowing when it's time to go, perhaps?).

I can sometimes visualize what that would look like. But most times I can't. Or I distract myself. Maybe I should visualize more, like (oh, I swear this wasn't planned) "The Secret" that's so popular now and is totally just a modern spin on "The Strangest Secret."

I'm feeling smart right now. :-)

I'm the Fairy of the Enchanted Forest

I have heard from a lot of old high-school classmates lately. It's a weird cluster, I suppose. First was Kim, who I had lunch with last weekend and who I didn't hang out with much in high school. But she and I got to know each other during our high school reunion last year.

Then I got a nostalgic e-mail early this week from Larry, who has a story all his own I'll have to share another time.

Then I got an e-mail the other day from my friend Ashley, who I met when we were in third grade and who I'm lucky to see every two years, I consider to be a brother. He's coming my way this week on his way to visit his parents and needs a place to crash.

But the strangest, most bizarre encounter I've recently experienced came in the form of an out-of-the-blue e-mail from Brian B. - aka "Barbie" in high school - who is hands-down the most flamboyant, out-of-the-closet, unabashedly gay man I have ever met.

He was kicked out of Lexington Catholic for setting fire to a locker. Although his standard-issue couture in high school was khakis, polos and dock-siders, he also carried a purse. Yes, a purse. And it contained only two items: a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes, and a bottle of Pretty Feet and Hands.

As I sat at my computer stunned that I heard from this guy, memories started flooding back:

• He drove a camouflage Volkswagen Thing that had a broken gas pedal. We'd drive around town with me sitting on the floorboard pulling the cord with him screaming, "Pull it harder! We need to go faster!" as my fingers were screaming in pain.
• He later sold that VW Thing for a rocks glass full of hash oil.
• He belongs to a very wealthy family who made its fortune in thoroughbred breeding and racing and were part of the Kentucky elite. His aunt is Beverly Fortune, society writer for the Lexington Herald-Leader. He had an affair with socialite Anita Madden's husband, Preston Madden. The Maddens are known the world over for their Derby parties, where celebrities travel from around the world to attend.
• He had me and my freind, Glenn, visit his parents' house while they were away. The inside of their beautiful home was riddled with piles of shit created by their senile poodle. He took us to the back yard with his kidney-shaped pool that was completely covered in algae and asked us to swim. We were like, "Ewwwww.....no." But he stripped down to nothing and dove in, emerging looking like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

The most vivid memory I have of Brian, however, is from the last day of our junior year in high school. He, my friend, Richard, and I skipped school and went to one of our favorite teenage hangouts: the Lexington Cemetery.

I was the designated driver, and in the back seat of my 1979 Chevy Nova, Brian spotted a pair of fishnets I had been saving for Halloween or something. He immediately stripped down to nothing but his Polo and put on my fishnets. As we sat at a stop light, a friend of ours, Donna, was behind us in her car and honked at us. Brian leaped out of the car and started screaming, "Dooooonnnna! Dooooooonnnna!" and proceeded to maul her with kisses through her drivers-side window. Meanwhile, I was freaking out at the spectacle he was creating and told my friend Richard, "When this light turns green, I'm outta here. He can get in Donna's car. He's just way too much and he's going to get us in trouble."

True to my word, the light turned green, and off I went through the intersection, until I heard him screaming at the top of his lungs, "Taaaaaaaabitha. TAAAAAAAAAAAABITHA!" I looked in my rearview and he was flailing his arms and running through the intersection. Cars were honking at him. People were yelling at him.

And yes, I turned around and got him.

Off we went to the Lexington Cemetery.

He refused to put his pants back on, being quite enamoured with the way the fishnets made his legs look. So I insisted that, at the very least, he should wear my tied-tyed gas jacket.

Now, let me stop for a moment and tell you about this jacket.

It was made of canvas, and I bought it at this crazy, funky boutique called "Deja Vu" near the University of Kentucky. I wore this jacket every day. I mean it. EVERY day. Without fail. Eeeeeveryone in high school knew me by this jacket. So giving it up to a shreiking, out-of-control gay man was evidence of my utter desperation.

We went to the cemetery and shortly after arriving, Brian leaped out of the car, donning fishnets and my jacket, and started plucking flowers and ribbons off the graves. We were in this area called the Family Circle, a cluster of graves that surround a Confederate monument that's right across from the mausoleum.

As Brian ran from grave-to-grave plucking flowers and stuffing them in the waistband of his fishnets, Richard and I crouched behind a gravestone trying not to be seen while almost peeing on ourselves from laughing so hard. Soon, Brian was skipping from grave to grave, singing, "I'm the fairy of the enchanted forest. I'm the fairy of the enchanted forest."

I can only imagine what went through the mind of the family who was leaving the mausoleum across the drive after visiting their dearly departed when they emerged and saw this teenager in fishnets and a tie-dyed long jacket with flowers and bows hanging off his ass skipping about in the Family Circle and singing.

Richard and I were screaming, "There are people there! Hide! Hide! Stop it!" But Brian didn't stop. If anything, knowing people were there just made him sing louder.

The family, stunned, turned around and went back IN to the mausoleum.

I think it was then that Richard and I really did pee in our pants. It was the funniest thing I think I've ever seen in my life. That family did not know WHAT to think!

Forunately, I was able to get a few pictures. Here's my favourite.
I talked to Brian on the phone yesterday. He is currently living in New Orleans and works for the government collecting delinquent taxes. His house was flooded in Katrina.

"So, did you evacuate?" I asked.

"My sister made me evacuate, but I was going to have a big hurricane party. I had bought a bunch of ice and frozen pizzas and had a bunch of drugs. But this storm was bigger than Texas and was headed right for us, so I left."

"Wow, I bet you're glad you listened to your sister."

"Yeah, can you imagine tripping and being all strung out in the Super Dome?"

Silence. Um, no, I can't really imagine that, Brian.

Sigh....our conversation continued.

"So, are you dating anyone?" I asked.

"Yes. We have been together two years and just moved in together. But we met on Man Hunt. I'm sure you've heard of it."

"No, I haven't."

"Oh gosh...it's a Web site. It's a gay cruising site and it's really, really seedy. I just love telling people I met my husband on Man Hunt."

OK...I was most definitely a fag hag in high school, but I was never a gay man. And I am definitely NOT a fag hag now. Why would he think I knew anything about this Web site? Grrrr...

For as depressing it is to see how much all of us have changed in the 20 years since high school, with the expanding waistlines and receding hairlines, I must say it's even more depressing to see that some of us haven't changed at all.

Let's Do The Time Warp...

I received the following message from an old high-school chum, Larry, who found me on myspace about a year ago and who sporadically drops me e-mails waxing nostalgic:

Saw Duran Duran on live earth last night. How can it be that those guys have not aged a day in twenty years? I was really impressed with their performance. It was spot on, every note. After the show, Simon peeled off his rubber mask and was actually Blake Lewis from American Idol. Nick was really Phyllis Diller and John was that guy from robocop. Robo-John. Actually, they're all robotronic. In the eighties they were vegetarian, now they eat only baby food. Twenty more years and they'll be appearing at Chuck-E-Cheese (all locations, simultaneously).

Thought about you when I noticed that I still remember every word to "Girls On Film". I had a flashback moment of you dictating the lyrics to me in super slow motion over the phone... "...The diving man's coming up for air, cause the crowd all love pulling dolly by the hair..." and I was thinking, what the hell does that mean?

I never thought that in the year 2007, Duran Duran would be performing live to 65,000 people with a broadcast audience of over 2 billion. Welcome to the future.
I can't believe he remembered that twisted, crazy, verbose passage from "Girls on Film." It's too funny, and it's proof positive that we definitely have an effect on people -- in ways we can't even imagine.

OB

Crime Victim

My car was broken into last night while I was at an outdoor concert. They pried my door handle and got into my trunk, which is where my purse was. They tried to go to an ATM but couldn't get anything out. Luckily, my bank froze my PIN. So I was up late last night putting out fraud alerts, canceling credit cards, etc.

I thought I was going to have to re-key my locks because I had a house key in my purse, along with my driver's license that had my address. But, as luck would have it, some guy found my purse this morning about three miles from my house as he was walking his dog.

All they took was a $10 bill and some small checks I had yet to cash. They didn't even steal my iPod, which was in my gym bag that they had opened and rooted through. Crazy.

Needless to say, I am pissed and feel violated. More than that, though, is just being inconvenienced. My insurance company won't cover it because the door still locks. So I'll have to pay around $150 to replace my door handle and my bank is charging me $16 to have a new
debit card UPS'd to me at work tomorrow.

And those checks? They were all from my employer (expense checks) and they are making ME pay for the stop payment if I still want them, which is more than the checks were worth (cheap bastards!). So I'm out another $90.

So this little incident's cost me about $300, plus a day of my treasured, sacred vacation time.

GRRRRRRR!!!!!!