Just Beneath the Surface

Some people are stoic. Or good actors. Or totally in control of their emotions. I am not a member of any of these clubs.

Regardless of the emotion, I have no control. I have broken into hysterical giggling at church and even had a couple of Mary Tyler Moore moments at funerals. During the children's portion of worship last Sunday, one of our boys developed an amazing fascination with his genitals.

And I can cry for no reason or every reason. The best thing about showers is the ability to cry and no one can hear you. I cry at touching commercials or songs that remind me of fun times, bad times, people I miss, etc. That commercial with the dogs in shelters sends me running for the Puffs.

Today is my 47th birthday. As much as all my Facebook friends think I'm hung up on the age, I'm not. In a weird way, I like my age. I'm certainly proud of my accomplishments and old enough to know I've lived (so far) an extremely blessed life.

When my stepson (I HATE calling him that!) was little, we would say our prayers. When we would get to the "God bless so and so and so and so" he would be so exhausted just trying to get through the list. I cherish that memory and I hope he does too. I also hope he still says his own version of that prayer. His statement to me, "I have so many people that love me" resonates with me today. Cards, Facebook notes and more have made my day.

Vanity is supposed to be wrong and I guess it is. Where do we draw the line? Am I not supposed to notice that I've aged 10 years in the last year and 1/2?

I've laughed today. I've cried in the shower -- mainly because of one email that reminded me of what was. Every emotion has reared its beautiful and ugly head.

It's my birthday and I'm embracing the emotions.

"We Always ..."

It's slowly closing in on one year since my marriage ended. While I am still legally married, the beginning of the emotional end started in the Fall of '08.

Since then, we had another anniversary; we did not spend it together. We've both celebrated birthdays and his was a milestone one. We didn't see each other for either. Separately, we acknowledged the one-year anniversary of the deaths of his parents, my original oldies. Not to mention kids' birthdays, friends' anniversaries and the holidays.

Not that this is any harder for me than it would be anyone else but I love routine. I cherish tradition. And I love the idea of knowing our favorite menus, our regular vacation buddies and our holiday traditions.

We are not enemies and I don't think we're going to be. We're friendly but not friends. "Acquaintances" feels wrong -- it implies knowing someone but not well. We know each other scarily well.

So what are we? We are no longer a we.

The Scary Side

The other night I was sitting with my friend in the Flamingo Lounge, aka her family room. We were recounting our day. Mine basically boiled down to a couple of episodes where I wanted to scream, "Move aside incompetent people! I will handle this."

She calmly said, "That's your scary side."

I come by this honestly. Everyone is afraid of my mother. (Some of her friends pretend like they're not but they're not fooling me.) Even my goldies -- my friends who have known her since our childhood -- are still afraid of her. They tread softly. A wise choice. My father who was struck with the thunderbolt, freakish, out-of-this-world love potion of adoration for her knows when to clam up and move on.

I must admit she is still capable of scaring me with a look. I think all parenting skills should be modeled on the Boy Scouts/Girl Scouts. The scary look is a badge to earn.

We celebrated her birthday earlier this week. Then we had a minor health scare. In the heat of the moment, I forgot to keep my cool and my scary side came out. I believe I said something like, "Please stop doing your hair because when you're dead, they have people at the funeral home who take care of that."

Happy birthday to my scary mom and genuine thanks for the DNA.

It's A Wonderful Life

As I write this on my birthday, I must admit to a few thoughts of "what if..."

So. let's play George Bailey. What if I'd never been born?

I did not (and will not) discover a cure for any disease. I did not invent anything that will improve mankind. I did not spread the gene pool. I did not do a lot of things that I hope I may have the ability and the time to do.

Tonight I will say my prayers and I will start them with the same prayer I have said and amended since I was a little girl.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

I go off on my own from there so I won't bore you with that. But, most of my follow-up is about the gifts of my life and the abundance I have. Oh sure, I throw a few things in that are extremely and vitally selfish -- I'm human!

As another year has been acknowledged in my fleeting life, I mostly marvel at the gift of time. I hope I have more.

Even if I don't, I can put my head on the pillow, say my prayers and know that I have a wonderful life.

Happy birthday to me.

I Love You Philip Gulley

Did I ever mention my obsession with Philip Gulley? I admire him. I read his books -- even the ones he receives death threats about. I identify with him. His Indiana childhood seems to be my Indiana childhood although in moments of clarity I realize both of us are doing a lot of editing. If he is speaking nearby, I go. I once introduced myself to him as, "Hello, I don't mean to keep stalking you."

That's his latest book in the photo above. Please read it, although he does not need my endorsement. It will be a best seller along with the others.

The other day a car pulled into the driveway. My father-in-law stepped out with arms stretched -- reaching for a hug at the sight of me.

(Ok, technically he has not been my father-in-law for 23 years since I was stupid enough to divorce his son and cause great pain all around. Whatever. I still think of him as Dad.)

In the midst of the bear hug and wonderful feelings and the tugging of tears, he handed me this book. Not only does he know how much I love Phillip Gulley -- he is friends with him. Not only does he forgive me for being an impetuous, self-centered human being -- he still bothers to love the woman I want to be and try to be.

So, he handed me this book and said, "Happy Birthday."

I try not to use names on this blog. I figure if you out yourself in a comment or by sending me an email, I have still kept some weirdo blogger-journalist code of ethics. But I am making an exception.

I love Philip Gulley. I also am truly blessed because I love Bob Friedly.