WIth President Trump in office, we hear so much about the term “globalization” these days.   With a successful businessman at the nation’s helm, the word might be more about a global marketplace.   Maybe,  but I think it represents how we’re all interconnected by the smallest and oddest of ways.   It explains how we’re separated  by mere degrees with Kevin Bacon nowhere in sight,

In order to define my version of globalization, (as odd as this might sound) we have to start with the death of Princess Diana,.   We’ll mark the 20th anniversary of her death this coming August.    Where as the time gone?

Anyway,  Diana was a very British woman.    Her gentlemen friend at the time was a wealthy Egyptian playboy. They crashed in a French tunnel while riding in a German car powered by a Dutch engine.

It was driven by a Belgian man who was supposedly drunk and had spent an evening slamming back (among other things) 12-year old Scotch.
Their car was being closely followed by mostly Italian Paparazzi riding on Japanese motorcycles.

Once Diana  arrived at the hospital, she was treated by many doctors—one was American trained who used numerous medicines which of course, had their origins in the flora and fauna of the Brazilian rain forest.

This post has been prepped and edited by me, a Texan of Polish descent. I used a computer which utilizes Taiwanese micro chips and processors and more than likely, the monitor is Korean-made.

Furthermore, my PC was probably assembled by Bangladeshi workers at a plant in Singapore, then transported by Indian lorry-drivers, who were then no doubt hijacked by Indonesians. They in turn, struck a deal with Sicilian Mafiosos who transported the cyber contraband to Senegal where it was handled and unloaded by Latvian dockworkers who did so under the supervision of an Armenian boss who sang Innuit whaling songs as he checked inventory.

It–my computer–eventually made it to the U.S, probably via a Malaysian trawler, then was unloaded at a harbor somewhere in Northern California by Russian stevedores. The computers were then driven en mass to Central Texas  by a Midwestern Teamster named Sven who’s wife is a Yap Islander named Matunga.

The computers were then offloaded by undocumented Peruvian workers at my friendly neighborhood “Computer Shack” which is owned by a Croatian conglomerate. This particular location is managed by a guy who was born in Romania, who owns two African Gray parrots, one Burmese python and he loves Greek food.   So much so, that he regularly dines at a little dive called “Takis Take Out” where all the food is made and served by Bolivian political refugees.  They recently catered a bon voyage party for a Cypryot family the night before they left for their vacation in Portugal.   The head cater waiter has grandparents from Malta.  His girlfriend is from Jersey, but currently living in New Zealand for a Swiss bank.

Lastly, I was dating a Mexican gentleman at the time this was composed and as I typed, I was drinking a Canadian beer.  The shirt I wore was given to me by an Israeli friend who defied the odds and married a lovely Palestinian woman who worked in Guyana, where she bought the shirt for her husband to give to me,   It read, “Save the Galapagos Turtles” and sewn by an 11-year-old seamstress of indigenous extraction who toiled in a Panamanian sweat shop for a few weeks back in 2009.

And THAT my friends, is the true definition of GLOBALIZATION!!!

The Lottery

“I only have to make it through the news”, she thought. “I just have to stomach the news.”

The lottery numbers were always announced just before the weather segment.  Usually, she could time it out and avoid hearing about  the bullshit in the world.    Why watch it, she would say, when she lived it.

But not tonight. This night she felt the need to be present….to see the numbers as they were announced.

She put her empty beer bottle down on a cluttered table, it was now one of five amidst a pile of final notices, junk mail and pill bottles; medication for a kind of pain nothing could quell.

The news intro ran and for the next 30 minutes, four beautiful people would give you the ugliest news of the day, all with a smile.

The lead story—–A suicide bombing somewhere the Middle East killed 26 people, including five children.

” I lost my boy eight years ago”, she said out loud. “Cancer killed my Paulie and it took four years to do it. Those kids were lucky.”

She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

The balding man with the booming voice—–Jim somebody who’d been preaching from that six figure, televised pulpit for 17 years now, announced how drone strikes leveled a neighborhood in Syria.   She lived in a bombed out neighborhood in Detroit. What was the difference between a drone strike and all the GM plants closing down?

A car dealership commercial.

A second spot for pest control as she watched rosch make its way across her coffee table.

Now it was the blond’s turn to speak.   She was perfect, thin, coiffed hsir.  She’ could keep her composure in a tornado. Words about joblessness spewed forth from her young lips.

“That’s news???”, she asked. I haven’t had a job for four years.

There was a six car pile up on the interstate. Traffic was backed for hours, she didn’t care. Her car had been repossessed years ago. She rarely ever had enough money for bus fare and when she did have a spare buck or two, that went to buy beer, cigarettes and those precious slips of paper on lottery nights.

She insisted the  beer was vital, a part of her viewing ritual.

The cigarettes? Everything looked better through a smoky haze.

There was a story about a re-election bid for a politician. Why vote? Her alderman abandoned her neighborhood. Years ago.  The governor was as useless.

There was a shooting at a mall.   She heard gunfire all the time.

A four alarm fire in a furniture store. In her her neighborhood, arson gave the kids something to do.

The blond then announced the night’s winning lotto numbers would be announced “after this”.

Commercial. Commercial. Twenty second network promo.

And then the moment she had waited for. She lit up a cigarette and grabbed the last beer in the six pack.

6 21 34 43 49 51

She took a long drag from her cigarette.   She double checked her ticket.  Those were her numbers. Her numbers. The ones she always played.

Her age when Paulie was born

The age her son was when he died.

The day and month of an anniversary of a marriage that had had also died a long time ago.

The number of her first apartment.

The age she was the last time in life when she was really, truly happy.

She’d won a million dollars.

She looked around her dirty, cramped apartment. One window covered in foil. A filthy kitchenette with a small refrigerator that housed her beer.   A counter and two burners that were as cluttered as her table.

What could a million dollars do, she thought.   What could it have done?   Could it bring back Paulie?   Could it have helped her breathe life into a loveless marriage and kept Jim from walking out on her?   Would it have healed the broken relationship with her only sister?    Would it have prevented her mother from dying of dementia?

Would a million dollars  have made a difference?    When did it ever make a difference?

She stood up and took a swig of her beeer and caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror.  Her face was weathered and, she’d aged well beyond her years.     She’d won a million dollars, but it only meant she’d have money to solve the unsolvable.   Why bother?

She fell back into in her chair at clicked off the TV.   There was nothing left to watch.

“No winning ticket again, tonight”, she chuckled.

She placed the slip of paper in a box under her chair. In it, along with a lock of her only child’s hair, a bridal photograph of a woman she no longer recognized,  a  well worn magazine that had a spread featuring her as one of city’s first female CEOs, a diamond wedding band, there were two other lottery tickets, each one from other “winless” nights.

Birthday Plus One




Yesterday, I turned 58.    Didn’t you see the skywriting?    The fireworks ?   Didn’t you feel the Earth’s  axis shift a smidge???

My family made a very big deal of my reaching this milestone at this particular  time in my life.  . I’m  grateful that they did.  The was tthe first birthday I’ve  celebrated in years.    I haven’t honored  my own birthday very much.   I’d ignore it since everyone else did, but that was my fault.   Why it was my fault isn’t important.   Just know that I’m aware I was to blame.   I accept that responsibility.

Anyway, my birthday celebration started in earnest on Friday afternoon. That was one stoned groove, people.

Then on Saturday, my sisters and niece whisked me away from the hills to be with other family members and that was equally delightful. I ate everything that was wrong and drank waaaay too much and now I’m so bloated that if I looked down and saw the word Hindenburg written on my stomach, I wouldn’t be surprised

As stated, it was the first real birthday celebration in years.    I remember one  a particular April 22.    It started like any other day and promised to end like any other day as well.      Ordinary.   Nothing special.     Usually, I was blaise about my birthday. but as the day progressed,   I began to feel sorry for myself,   I don’t remember the exact year,  but I know it fell  within a time I call,  “The Years of Without”.    Everybody has them at various points in life.   For me, I was broke as hell and either unemployed  or severely underemployed.   Still, I wanted to acknowledge my birthday, even  in some extremely limited way.

I desperately  searched old  jeans pockets, winter coat pockets, couch cushions and the floorboards of my car for any loose change I could find.    A four hour seatch resulted in about a buck -50.   I felt something  like a modern day Maccabee.

I walked across the street to a grocery store and bought a package of stale cupcakes in a bargain him.    I didn’t have any candles, so I found a match, lit it, stuck it in the middle of the cupcake and sang the traditional birthday song to myself,…. made a wish, well, it was more of a vow actually…..I  blew out the match, then cried.   I didn’t event eat the cupcake,   I didn’t want to deprive the mold and weavils from enjoying their desert.   So, I tossed it, but not my hopes that there would be better birthdays ahead.

Yes, I’m now 58 and I’ve never been this old before.    And yes,  I’m well aware that I’m no longer the cute, young, petite TV  news anchor.     I’m no longer the younger  smart ass morning show personality.    Yes, my body has morphed with age.  Time and tide have  made their marks.    And as I tried to state in a previous post,  I avoid mirrors .   The frightening possibility of turning to stone after viewing something so horrendous and traumatizing is too great.    So, I avert my gaze and avoid anything that offers a reflection of any kind.

And really, who needs a mirror when you have a blog??    Your physical reflection is one thing,  but a blog….providing you’re self involved enough, will allow you the self- indulgent luxury of seeing deep into within  your psyche, if you dare.   Your psyche can be like a cargo hold of a 777.    It’s stuff  you keep in a certain place and take it with  you everywhere you go.   You keep needlessly adding to it.    Like emotional hoarding.   That is, until you realize  jettisoning most of the emotional jetsam  is best.

You do it by  calling your own bullshit and trying to be a better you because your whole life has been spent not trying hard enough.     It was too easy to be uninvolved and self hating.    It’s all in the psyche,  baby.  That’s where the real Medusa can live and live quite comfortably, if you let her.   Banish her.   Snakey haired women make lousy emotional renters.

One again,  I’m pleased to report that for the first time in forever, I’m looking forward to the next 364 days.

The future Mr. Kendrick should be feeling the anticipatory tingle, too.

I don’t know him, where he his or his hair or eye color.   But I have a certain overview in my head.   He  should be very wealthy, well read, a UT football season ticket holder, an orphan, with no children or ex-wives. He’ll have no sense of smell, no libido whatsoever, he’ll demand  for the sake of space and sanity, we live In separate houses. He has a private jet, and a Maybach with a pilot and driver at my disposal. He’ll feel compelled to put me on all his accounts and will leave me all his money and be willing to sign a prenup I’ve authored.

Either that, or he’ll be a just an extraordinarily  good, honest and kind man who loves me and allows me to love him in return.   He’ll be patient and wise and generous with his time and affection.    From him, I’ll learn how to be a better person,   A better human.

He’ll teach me to see the beauty and magic in ordinary days.

I CANNOT wait.    I’ve always had a thing for certain teachers.














It’s Earth Day  and my birthday.

The irony of April 22,   a day set aside for revering Mother Earth and while celebrating  the anniversary of  my birth isn’t lost on me or anyone who really knows me.   Considering the size of my carbon footprint,  it’s downright hilarious.

I’m 58.    My boobs  look like World War II era German hand grenades.    My butt is impersonating a church pew.    I found a long lost piece of jewelry betwixt one of my chins.   I have a suspicious mole and outbofnut are growing with two hairs and what looks like a small hand.   My stomach starts at my armpits, my arm fat undulates  like a stingray and other parts of my body I refuse to  look at.   The frightening  possibility  of turning to stone at viewing something so horrendous and traumatizing  is too great.  So, I avert my my gaze and avoid anything with a reflection.

And really, who needs a mirror when you have a blog.    Your reflection is one thing but a blog….providing you’re self involved enough, , allows you the self indulgence of seeing deep into your psyche.   That’s where the real Mesduxa lives.

Despite a butt that can  comfortably  seat a small congregation, I’m happy.  I don’t give numerology all that much credence, but I i seem to give better years when my  my chronological   age includes an odd and even number.    I fell madly in love for the first time at 12 in 1971.   I had a considerably good time in life at 19, 21 and 25 .     I began  a lucrative career at 36.   Retired  at 56 and  I started getting my shit together at 58.

I look forward to the next 364 days.

The future Mr. Kendrick be feeling the anticipatory tingle should, too




















,   .








What Is It About Hair???

Actor/musician,  Lenny Kravitz was once quoted as saying:

“I needed to change my energy, so I cut my hair…..Now, I’m growing some new energy.”

And  then there’s whole Sansom story.    Samson was the last of the judges of the ancient Israelites mentioned in the Hebrew Bible.    According to accounts, Samson had this heavy duty head of hair that as long as he never touched a strand on his head, he’s be allowed him to go all Chuck Norris on his enemies.   As the story goes, he killed a massive mountain lion in an instant.   He mowed  down an entire army with a donkey’s bone.   Imagine that!!  Just Samson and the ass of a jawbone.    No wait….that should be, the jawbone of an ass.

And then he had a major problem with this Philistines (I mean, back then, who didn’t?).  It’s said he destroyed one of their templess with his bare hands.   Wasted it.

Well after that, the Philistines were pissed!!   And they wanted revenge.

So, they approached Delilah, the most recent Mrs. Sansom.   They offered her 11-hundred silver coins to divulge the secret of his strength.    And what happens?   The yenta figures it out and has his head shaved while he slept.   With his hair gone, so was his strength and then the Philistines pounced!   Several other things  happened….there’s something the gouging of eyes, forced labor at a gristmil….end of story.

But why did Sansom think all his strength was in his hair?    Well, that was the prevailing thought among many of the ancients.    For starters, long hair on men was a part of a Hebrew Nazarite’s covenant with God.  Plus, they believed that a man’s strength was in his hair.   One possible reason for this is the optical illusion with corpses they’d observed.  They thought hair continued to grow after men (and women) who have died.      Wrong!    It’s just the flesh shrinks due to dehydration and as skin dehydrates,  it retracts giving the appearance that the hair (and the nails for that matter) continue to grow.

We put a lot of stock in hair.    Balding men want it.   Women spend a lot of time and money coloring and finding the right style and a stylist.    But the story goes a bit deeper with women.    It is common for women to make statements with their hair  that often comes after a major break-up.     We cut our hair.   More often not, short.


So whether or not you believe that strength or energy comes from our hair (it doesn’t), it’s The  first visible change we can make with very little effort and sometimes that’s exactly what a heartbroken girl/woman needs to see when she looks in the mirror.

For the last seven years, San Antonio based,  Sara Garcia has been dealing with my hairy nonsense with a whip and a chair and a razor.     This ultra talented stylist  has snipped off about a ton of “heartache” in her 13-year career.

“I always ask a client who wants a huge change,  how long they’ve been thinking about it.    If I know them personally, I’ll ask if something has spurred the decision, and nine times out of ten,  it’s usually a based on a break up.”

Garcia goes on to say, “If the client is new or I don’t know them that well, I’ll still ask how long they’ve been thinking about of making a change and if it seems to be more of an impulse, I have no problem trying to talk them out of it.    I always tell them to take a bit and think about their decision.”

I agree with Garcia.  Never do anything rash.

I’ll be the first to admit change is good, but turning lovely 11-inch strands into two inch wispy cuteness,  is only the beginning.   It’s mostly a symbolic gesture but hardly a cure-all for Cupid’s lousy aim.    A drastic hair cut offers a distraction and distractions after heartache are welcomed coping mechanisms, but it’s also something that can be instantly regrettable.     Garcia adds, “I can always cut hair,  But once cut, I can’t tape it back on!”

You can cut your hair, but that won’t remove the heartache or cut the duration of the pain you feel.   That’s something that’s takes time and effort.    I think many women deal with heartache differently….to each her own, but chances are, they can understand why some would respond this way.  I mean, who wants to look in the mirror and see sadness staring  back at them?   Who wants to be reminded that you were berayed?    Believed  his lies?   Gave much more than you received?   Who wants to see themselves as walking wounded,  mourning the death of a grand ideal that included what you thought might be a future together.

Let’s say you’re better adjusted, still sad, but not feeling that morbid.   If that’s the case, cutting your hair can be a liberating experience  and can help you feel  as though you’re regaining a sense of control.  So often, in the aftermath of a breakup, especially when you’re dumped for another woman,  everything else in your life feels so out of control….among other things.

Garcia adds a drastic hair cut can also be a form of revenge.  “It also helps if your ex really likes long hair.  Cutting it off can also be kind of a ‘screw you’ type of move.”

There are other reasons women cut their hair after trauma.     Yoko Ono comes to mind.   After her husband, music legend, John Lennon was killed in December of 1980, she immediately cut her hair short….and she’s kept it short ever since.

Here she is before  John’s murder.

Yoko Ono At The Dakota



There are some obscure interviews that quote Yoko as saying John loved  her long, full hair, so when he died, she cut it off and gave it to him.    I can only assume her long locks were cremated along with his body and the ashes spread in Central Park.

But I also seem to remember hearing something after John’s murder that Yoko did it becsuse it’s customary in some Asian cultures (Yoko is Japanese), that widoes cut their hair and keep it short as part of their mourning process.

Cultural tradition, revenge snipping, the need for change, the need to feel in control of something—whatever the reason, there isn’t a woman alive in Paris, Texas or Paris France who wouldn’t understand the post break up reasoning for wanting to cut your hair.   Some go through with it, some dont.   It’s a matter of choice.   .

And hey—many times, short hair can be extremely complimentary.    It can be facially flattering, it can make your eyes pop.    When when you look great externally, you feel great on the internally.   It’s no secret appearance often translate into feelings.

So, if you’re hurting and decide to sheer, have no fear.   On the off chance, you feel the cut makes you look like one of the Manson girls during Charlie’s murder trial….


It’ll always grow  back.







































Finishing School

Oh, to be a properly finished young woman; one who knows how important it is to exit a room as well as enter it; how to exit a car in a ladylike fashion, which knife or fork to use and to float with the ease of a graceful dandelion from social situation to social situation and without breaking a sweat.

When I was much younger, my mother made me take a rather protracted course in manners and etiquette.   It was an attempt for me to spend my teen years and my adult years with poise, tact, confidence… know, all that shit.

I can’t remember how long the whole course was, but I know the classes were an excruciating seven to eight hours in length, every weekday and I remember resenting that it ate into a chunk of my precious summer break.    I only knew one other girl in the class.  We became better friends a few years later (quite the rebellious ones were we)  and if we learned anything in that class, we never used it.

This was the 70’s.    We were true “tweens” back then.   We were in between  eras.   We were too young  to be hippies, Vietnam ended in 1975, so did Nixon’s political career.  Carter to was too Milquetoast to protest.    There was nothing to radicalize.   Then Reagan took over and well…what can I say?    There was  disco which in my opinion, was the bleakest time in musical history.    I’m including the zither, here.

But as much as I didn’t want to be in this class, I still remember a few things and yes, they have served me well on the few occasions I’ve needed them.

I learned the proper way to exit a car.   If you’re not with a date and a chauffeur isn’t present (uh-huh) then you’ve no choice but to open the car door by yourself.  Do so with your arm completely extended; open la puerta as wide as the length of your arm .  Do it smoothly and gracefully.     And for the love of everything sacred, keep your legs together!!    Swivel on your derrière towards the door and put both feet feet on the ground at the same time, then place one foot slightly ahead of the other (for balance).   Again, legs together.   No one wants to see panties, a hint of Depends  or a C-section scar.    Although I once knew a certain guy named Owen  who would’ve paid for the privilege of that particular  visual trifecta.

But contemporary  women who live and work in pants have altered this mindset considerably, still a properly finished women enters and exits a car this way be it wesring slacks, a burka, pajamas, a sari….whatever.

Did I mention you can only use your hand to lift yourself off the seat???    Placing your hand anywhere on the interior portion of the door is strictly verboten.

Oh really???     Tell THAT to my arthritic knees, elbow, shoulders, wrists and rectum.    Yes, mine is.   My proctologist marvels over the fact.

All cutlery should be used from the outside in, depending on the course.  There are fish wives and fish knives.

When making formal introductions in a social setting,  you introduce the person of lesser social standing to the person of greater social standing.     As if Queen Elizabeth, Dirty Jimmy Joe McAsscrack, (Canoga Falls’ local panhandler)  and I would ever be at a party together.

Speaking of parties,  when you enter a party for for the first time,  walk -in and pause for a few seconds as you scan it visually.  Optimum time allotted for this?     Three seconds to your left, three  seconds at dead center and three allowed for a glance to right.   Identify your host, walk up and offer polite greetings, extolling your joy at being invited to the party.   In other words, lie.    If the host is no where in sight, find someone you know well or well enough.   Or just do as I do, bypass everyone and head straight to the bar.

Never be photographed holding anything that could harm your reputation.   I would learn later this means a drink, a can of beer, a cigarette, a coke vile, a joint, a plastic bottle of Xanax—prescribed to your aunt, a purse from last season and so on.

Napkins have their proper place.   This was beaten into my psyche by my mother as much as it was my etiquette teacher.     Don’t unfold your napkin above the table.   It’s an action that shouldn’t be seen.  Do it above your lap, but below the table.

Don’t wad your napkin in a crumpled heap on the table.   It stays in your lap  (folded in half) while others are still eating.   When everyone is finished eating, fold your napkin in a casual, liaises-faire manner on the left side of your plate while still seated.  Once your folded napkin has been placed on the table,  stand and run like hell towards the exit with the hopes someone else will pay the tab.

Need to visit the head in the middle of  the meal?   Place your napkin on the seat of your chair.   No need to announce your intended destination.   It’s impolite.   If you do and dining with my family, once out of esrshot, everyone in  will trash you unmercifully.   Word to the wise, should you find yourself spending an evening with the Kendrick family, don’t do it.   Politely  decline the invitation and find a nice quiet corner and count your blessings.   Trust me, we’ve made Teamsters go fetal.

I could  piecemeal a few other mannnerfied memories, but why drone on?   The days of proper finishing schools that included semesters, room and board have gone by the wayside.   These these schools were hot, hot, hot in the 40’s.     Princess Diana attended a famous one in Switzerland which has since gone mammaries up.   As evidenced by Diana’s enrollment,  the students at these once proud institutions, especially  finishing schools in the US, were daughters of wealthy parents who wanted mademoiselles, India Euegennia Smithson Barcode or Elizabeth (Bitsy)  Olivia Soapdish von Standoffish to find suitable husbands (read: men from families just as wealthy) and etiquette was viewed as some kind effective of social snare.

Look, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with manners.   To be honest, I have a real problem  with anyone who uses a fork while sitting amidst pristine white linen,  to liberate  remnants of a salmon Niçoise from his or her molars.    But I feel some of these  rules are a tad arcane and aren’t always applicable to situations today.  But generally speaking, good table manners will always be relevant.

If you don’t have time, the money or a pushy mother, or a simple, laid back lifestyle,  don’t  worry about learning about formal introductions, how to recognize a cold meat fork or knowing effects caviar has on metal utensils.    But manners are a must.    They’re life hacks that are extremely beneficial.    There are many on line courses and You Tube  has plenty of videos that can teach you not to be a rude, raging slob.


So, ultimately, what is class?   Glad you asked.   It’s being helpful, polite, respectful, aware,  creative, authentic, funny and above all, it’s being kind.

These are the things that are the ultimate definition  of class.  That’s it!

Being a smooth, condescending operator  who knows he’s in deep state debt but ignores it:  wears Armani with a Patek Philippe watch on his wrist while ordering Cristal paid fit on a near credit card a mere $.99 from being maxed out in the bar of a snooty restaurant where he knows he’s less than  five minutes away from being banned for a second time—-isn’t.

Don’t use drugs, but always use a napkin.   Following this rule is a two-fer for the late Nancy Reagan.   Do it for her!!!





















In The Meantime

Experts, including ordinary people  who’ve lived through loss, insist  that any and all major decisions should be put off for at least one year.   For 12 months, don’t do anything rash.   Don’t get involved in a new relationship, don’t move, don’t buy, don’t sell…..dont, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t.

Of course, this doesn’t apply to everyone,   Some people are more resilient.  They don’t need time after a traumatic loss and/or event.   They have that enviable, almost annoying way of only walking on the sunny side of everything,

I’m going on month four- post loss.     I won’t apologize for having the occasional bout with grief, but I’m also getting bored.   I mean no disrespect for the dead, but I’ve tried to refrain from doing all the things I’m NOT supposed to do.     For me, doing nothing only makes matters worse.   Routine has gotten too routine.

So, I bought a new house….well, it’s new to me.    I didn’t deliberate the decision for weeks.   There was no lengthy meditation, no ashram in sight.     I came to the decision very quickly and in what some might think is absolutely crazy reasoning.    I broke the same little toe on the same table in two weeks, just trying to walk through my Nabisco cracker box sized bedroom.   When it happened, I screamed at the top of my voice, letting out some choice expletives.    Stevedores would have blushed.

I was in physical pain, but also extremely frustrated with my boring, go nowhere life and the fact that I’ve outgrown my current home.   There’s simply not enough room here for me, my ego and all these ghostly memories.   It’s too damn small.

With toe  throbbing, I immediately went on a real estate website, earmarked three homes, called my realtor, toured the three dwellings over the next two days and found myself making an offer on one home 72- hours later.   Damned if the homeowners didn’t accept it.

This was my reaction to their swift response ….it was similar to my toe mishap.


For you young ones, this is an old school dialog bubble that was placed over heads of hand drawn characters in comics….the funny pages, as some called them.   See, there used to be things called “newspapers”  and the Sunday edition included pages of cartoons, comics, funnies.    And whenever a character got angry, instead of using an F-bomb  that would have been their undoing, cartoonists implied cussing by using question marks, pound signs, at symbols, ampersands, the etcetera symbol, and so on..   Let me put it in terms you might better understand:  these were early versions of wingdings.

And this bubble with all those implied expletives stayed above my head the minute the owners accepted my offer.   In a way, I was hoping they’d laugh, mock me and go with another offer.    But they didn’t and my phobia of commitment became full blown panic.

But, what can I say??    It’s happening.   My family has been very supportive, including my mother who like Mikey in the classic Life cereal commercial, disapproves of almost everything.


They insist this is exactly what I need—the ultimate project.   They’ve suggested in no uncertain terms, that if I DON’T make a drastic change soon,  healing won’t ever start.

So, I thought about the offer they accepted, sent up queries to the Divine, the Cosmos and even sought answers from pantheons of gods I don’t believe in and got my answer very quickly:   I have to commit to change.  I need to commit to renewal.    I realized I can handle scar tissue much better while living  in a slightly bigger home, with almost all of the amenities I’d asked for.   It isn’t that far from where I currently live, but there’s enough distance to feel the change…to actually breathe different air.

Plus, if I make room for new love in my heart and in my home, then the “if you buy it, he will come” movie mantra has to be true, right it?

So, I signed the papers and wrote a check in which I dotted the “i” with  tears caused from buyer’s remorse.    But it’s getting better.

I’ll move in July.

In the interim, I’ll throw away what needs tossing, give away what I can give, donate whatever might help others and then endeavor to perform an exorcism of sorts.    Ghosts aren’t always floating ectoplasmic globs.   Painful memories and sadness are more formidable haunts.     These things can be imprinted in the interior of a home.  You can paint, replace tile, tear down walls and construct new ones, but once the soul of a home is fractured, it’s practically a loss cause.

I have to change.   I have to be better, more emotionally intact and I’ll have to make sure it’s enough to cover the walls, the floor, the ceiling, enough to infiltrate the plumbing and the  HVAC system of my new abode.    And more importantly, I can’t move into my new home with the weightiness of woe.   I’m now too in debt to be pathetic.

Things will get better.  I’m getting better and my Easter/Seder gift to my tens of readers is as follows:  I’ll no longer bore you with any more of  these sad ass sob stories that have turned me into something of poor woman’s Edna St. Vincent Millay.    Promise.

So with that, I bid you Shalom.


Happy Easter.

Chag Sameach

And for my friend RMD, it’s Sunday.