Finding Bliss, Again

I've used the title Finding Bliss before. January 30th, to be precise. I just read it. Wow. I was good. I haven't taken time to look back over my older posts. I didn't even realize I started in January. I've come so far since then.

Six months ago, I was drowning in grief and anger, intensified exponentially by family betrayals. I was overwhelmed with the responsibility of caring for The Daddler. Keeping my promises to my mother. Bearing the brunt of his pain. Finding the strength to understand that he lashed out at me because I was safe. Like a toddler with his mother.

But here I am. I've survived. Thrived, even. Surprised myself with how strong I am. I wouldn't have dreamed I could manage this daunting responsibility. When I feel like giving up, I remember Mother. Holding her in my arms. She became my child and I, her mother. I told her not to cry. That I'd take care of her. And Daddy. Not to worry. It would be ok. I would see to it.

And I have.

Finally, I'm finding time for myself. Getting some balance in my life. Fresh back from a wonderful trip to Boston.

Speaking of balance reminds me of something. Wednesday, FF and I visited the USS Constitution Museum. We were two happy guinea pigs for a prototype of an interactive game. It involved stacking wooden blocks on a small model ship suspended from strings. The goal was to stack the blocks on the deck, keep it balanced and not tip it over. Now, Mr. Man and I are extremely competitive. We're constantly playing one-upmanship with each other. I think I surprise him when I hold my own. He's really, really smart.

We took turns carefully and strategically placing the blocks when I had the brilliant idea of making a wager. Loser buys lunch. Then it got really fun. Of course, right after that, I tipped the boat, the blocks fell off, and I lost the bet, but he does have the advantage of being a sailor. So we spouted ideas to the two sweet interns (did you know there's a graduate program in Museum Studies?), and I started stacking the blocks. On the table this time, not the tipsy ship. I got no fewer than 25 stacked, then dared FF to put the little wooden man on top without tipping. He tried. But no cigar. Unfortunately, I didn't think to challenge him to double or nothing. Not that he'd have gone for it.

It reminded me of Kiddo's toddler years. I'd stack wooden blocks and he'd knock them down. He never got tired of this. Even with all his elaborate toys, the bright wooden blocks were the best.

Playing like kids was just what we needed. So much togetherness after so much apartness (550 miles worth), was too much at times. We'd had a rough patch and decided to put it aside and enjoy the last day of our trip. Which turned out to be the best. We're still just getting to know each other. Slowly and carefully. Which is not a bad thing. I'm still healing, with a very long way to go. But I think this thing with Dude is speeding up the process a little. Or a lot. Still, it's scary. Complicated. Exciting, frustrating, challenging, crazy-making. Uncharted territory for both of us, I think. We're so much alike, but at the same time, incredibly different.

But whatever happens, I'm better for it. I hope he feels the same way.

So here I sit. Missing that man more than I'd like to admit. But I'm settling in, facing mountains of laundry and emails and paper. Enjoying The Daddler, Kiddo and Bulimic Cat. My Enchanted Aerie. My books and magazines. My guitar and computer. All the comforts of home.

O. M. G.

Look at what I just found.

Located in the historic Back Bay, at 100 Huntington Ave, Boston MA 02116, Copley Place is Boston's most distinctive shopping destination with 75 fabulous stores including Neiman Marcus, Barneys New York, Tiffany & Co., Jimmy Choo, Intimacy, Tourneau, Salvatore Ferragamo, Porsche Design, David Yurman, A|X Armani Exchange, Louis Vuitton, Emporio Armani, Christian Dior, Burberry, and BCBGMAXAZRIA. A dazzling mixed-use complex, Copley Place is a concept unlike any other in the Boston area. Located on a 9.5-acre site, the upscale center includes two levels of shopping, restaurants, four office buildings, 1,400 parking spaces and two hotels, The Westin Hotel and The Boston Marriott Copley Place.

And guess where I'll be staying. Wow. How lucky is that? When I looked at the hotel website last night, I noticed Tiffany's in the photos. I figured that would be good to tease FF about. After my honeymoon suite comment. Pending age and health-insurance related deadlines. I wonder if he's figured out that I'm not kidding. That, or he really is fearless, because I should've scared him off by now.

So, when I woke up at 1:30, too excited to sleep, I thought I'd see exactly where that Tiffany's was. Now I know. And I'll never get back to sleep.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not one to hang out at the mall. In fact, I get downright phobic of it between Thanksgiving and Christmas. The Wolfchase Galleria any time of the year. When it comes to malls, I'm kind of like a man. I just go in to buy what I need and then get the hell out. Except times like this. Nothing is more fun than going to a great mall in a new city with lots of stores I've never seen before. Looks like I've hit pay dirt! Damn. Right there by the hotel. So I can go as much as I want. Maybe I should check two bags!

Actually, I have a rare ability to spend two hours in a mall (that's about my limit) and leave without having bought a thing. This is on the rare occasion when I'm not in my man-on-a-quest mode. Sometimes it's just fun to look. Or just too hard to decide what to buy. So I buy nothing. Actually, I procrastinate and think I'll come back for something and then I hit saturation point and getting out seems more important than whatever it was I was thinking about. So there is an upside to this anxiety thing, I guess.

In addition to all the great stores, Copley Place has Legal Sea Foods and Au Bon Pain. Yum. I had crabcakes at LSF in Baltimore with my girl Mel. That was a great mall, too. It's a good thing I'll be doing lots of walking so I can eat like a field hand. And I'm glad I splurged on my new Taos sandals with a contoured footbed with metatarsal support. I can't go clomping around Michael Kors in my Brooks. As a matter of fact, I need to think about how one should dress for shopping in New England. I'd hate to look out of place. But then, I guess that would be easily remedied, with the mall there and all!

Really, though, I doubt I'll spend much time shopping. I haven't figured it out, but I think we'll be close to Boston Common, Beacon Hill, Fenway Park, the Museum of Fine Art, and lots of other amazing places. Plus, the weather's gonna be crazy good. Highs in the 70s. I. Cannot. Wait.

Everything's Fine

The D's test results from the urologist were negative. Which is positive. I've always thought that was confusing.

I'm getting excited about my trip to Boston. Lots to do before I go, but I always manage.

The ironing board fell on me last night (don't ask), but luckily I didn't have any trouble running today. On the bright side, I'll have a nice, new colorful bruise on my leg to take the place of the one I had in Florida three weeks ago. At least this one's in the back. I wish I had a graceful bone in my body. My girl Jo is just as bad. I call her Divot-Head. She tripped and fell over her dog or something and is permanently scarred right in the middle of her forehead. But then I have the big scars on my chin and shoulder and knee from my face-plant on the Green Line last summer. We're dangerous.

My kitchen sink got invaded by ants. Luckily I was able to find the bug spray. Ick. It makes me itch just thinking about it.

I can't wait to see FF. I get there about 30 minutes before he does so we'll meet at the baggage claim. I'll never hear the end of checking a bag. I usually don't, but I'll need more than shorts and swimsuits this time. He was relieved when I told him that the BoSox don't have any home games while we're there. What a curmudgeon. There's something about him that makes me want to rough him up. Wrestle him to the ground. I can't explain it. The only thing I can figure is that when I'm around him, I feel like a goofy kid. Probably because he's goofier. In fact, it's a fierce competition to see who can be smarter and funnier and sillier. I'm smiling just thinking about it.

On that note, I'm gonna call it a day. I need to get my rest so I can be in top form in Boston.

On the Brink.

I spent all morning and part of the afternoon at the urologist. Doc said symptoms sound like bladder cancer. Decided to scope him. I had 30 minutes of major panic. Bro, sis and mother all had cancer. Doc did scope and said he was 99% sure no cancer. Just big ole' enlarged doughnut of a prostate.

Got some kinda samples. Go back in three weeks. They did a biopsy of bladder tissue. Cauterized it. Pee will look like tomato juice for three weeks.

Went to drugstore and bought male pee-pee pads. Not diapers. Just like maxi-pads for men. D seemed ok with it.

Fuck.

A friend called to ask me out for pizza. Good timing. Not that I'm hungry. Just wanna change of scenery. Tomorrow gotta focus on client work and packing for Boston. Begged hairdresser to work me in for a trim. That's at 6:45. Even if he just cuts my bangs, I'll be happy.

Gotta run.

High Anxiety

I woke up with it. My first thought was this morning's appointment with the urologist. I'm anxious on at least two levels. Mostly, I'm afraid The D might have prostate cancer. As I understand it, it's almost inevitable if a man lives long enough. But I also understand it's very treatable and slow-growing. Still. After my brother's fatal sarcoma at age 41, my sister's breast cancer at 40 (she's fine after 6 years), and Mother's pancreatic cancer, it scares the shit out of me.

My other, much less dire, worry is talking about my father's reproductive organs. I suppose I'll just turn my head during the exam. I can handle hearing questions about urination (The D and I have already discussed that, and I'm sure I'll have to translate for him), but I'll die if questions about erections or ejaculation or libido ensue. After hearing Mother tell the nurse that she was sexually active, though, I'll survive.

Ok, I'm on the verge of hyperventilating, so I'm gonna hit the shower. I need to figure out how to get to the urology clinic, what to wear, etc. It's times like this when I get paralyzed by small decisions, like what to wear, whether I have time to shave my legs and if they need it. The D, however, enjoys his doctor visits. He's dressed and ready and reeking of Old Spice. Deb buys him gallons of it. It's not helping my nausea.

I hope we don't have to wait forever. I'll try to figure out some work to take. I think I'm gonna buy a netbook for times like this. I think they're incredibly cheap now, thanks to the invasion of the tablets. For today, though, I'll just grab some magazines, because I'm sure the waiting room won't have Glamour or Oprah. Probably just Field & Stream, Travel & Leisure and the ubiquitous WebMD magazines. And lots of pamphlets on prostates. I'll try to resist the urge to read those. Maybe I'll be in luck and they'll have Garden & Gun...

Fuck the Napkin

Oh my god. I just outdid myself. I worked like a dog in the yard. Came in the house and realized that it was time for The D's din din. Heated up homemade soup. And buttermilk cornbread. Fixed a bowl of fresh blueberries and sliced some strawberries. Microwaved some leftover, homemade mashed potatoes. Put it on the tray. Asked if he wanted milk. He always does.

I put the milk away and checked on him. He was agitated. He needed a napkin. I can't even go there.

Nothing is good enough. Ever. I am so ready for five blissful days away from this purgatory of my life. Sure, he's 79 years old. Lost his wife 8 months ago. But I lost my mother. And I'm stuck with my dad. And he's not the nicest person in the world. But I owe my genetic makeup to him. And that makes me patient. Because, ultimately, I like my genes. He's smart, but uneducated. He never had a chance. I don't want to get into details, but he didn't have a childhood.

That's enough. He's a child now. I'm his parent. I'm a much better mother than the one who pushed him out of her birth canal. I comfort myself with that. I fail kiddo. But there's redemption with The Daddler. If only because I honor my mother every time I'm tempted to retaliate but I resist.

Time for a shower. I miss Dude. But I have too much to do between now and Saturday morning. I need to avoid distraction. And he distracts me. He's smart that way. But I'm smarter. He'll figure that out one day.

I'm gonna check on The D. Run a hot bath. Paint my toe nails. Practice my guitar. Read my book. Do some watercoler. Or talk trash to FF. If he's lucky...

Filthy Dirty

That's me. After my excessively cerebral day, I had a little excess energy. Threw on my latest workout clothes - major City Thrift windfall yesterday. Including today's outfit. Surfer shorts that fit just right, and tiny Carolina Blue basketball jersey with my second favorite number - 8. Don't tell Dude, but I found some really cute stuff. If he's sweet, I'll do my best to look cute in Boston. And since I've decided to check a bag, I'll have lots more options. Like more than two pairs of shoes. Maybe some bubble bath. A book or two, besides my airplane reading. Plus, I can shop. While he's in CLE. Bless his pea-pickin' heart. So glad I let my stupid CPA license go inactive. I have a feeling that texting could relieve the sting of continuing professional education. But dude says, and I quote, "Homey don't text." I almost ditched him right then and there. Not just for the refusal to text, but for the hokey comment.

But what he lacks in hipness (as far as pop-culture is concerned), he makes up in other areas. And I cut him a little slack for his advanced age.

Ok, my work here is done. I'm gonna wash this grime off my sweaty body. And make my packing list. As soon as I feed The Daddler...