Lucky

I’ll never forget that he chose me.

As an adult, until that day that I met Lucky, I had previously been a cat person. Save the one wonderful dog (Daisy) from my childhood, I had always been around cats.

So when a 50 pound, spotted Dalmatian mix kept jumping into my car’s passenger seat every time I left a certain boyfriend’s home circa the year 2000 – all I thought was, “oh, no…I don’t know what to do with a dog!”

My then boyfriend, Brian, a committed animal lover, had rescued Lucky and was keeping him until a “forever home” could be found. Lucky at the time was very feisty and true to his part Dalmatian nature, very crotchety. Lucky felt that it was his calling to be ‘top dog.’ But, as Brian already had Rascal, a beautiful Belgian Malinois, Lucky felt like a second class citizen and was definitely not okay with his status. He was constantly growly around Rascal and itching for a fight.

And during the time I dated him, every time I left Brian’s house, Lucky ran out and jumped into the passenger seat of my car…with his front paws folded over and clearly suggesting in his stance, “Let’s get the fuck up on out of here!”

Eventually, Lucky stopped going back to Brian’s house and so did I. Brian and I broke up a short time later and I kept Lucky by default.

Blending Lucky into my home was not easy. My then 6 year old daughter was delighted with having a dog. However, she had two strikes against her in Lucky’s eyes. She was a child (and therefore deserving of suspicion - again he was true to his Dalmatian roots) and she was a competitor for my affection. We did everything short of tying a pork chop for Taylor to drag around behind her to help in fostering any affection in him for her. (Wait – we may have done that!) In the end, the best antidote was time. Taylor grew, older, wiser and in height and eventually he saw her as another leader in our pack and ceased his petty growling with her.

When Lucky first came to live with us he was not neutered. This lead to more than one episode of him running off in search of a mate whose promises of pleasure he smelled in the breeze. I remember a neighbor from two developments away bringing him back after one of his walkabouts in search of a good time.

A funny memory I have of that time is when I finally did have him neutered in the hopes that it would keep him more of a homebody and somewhat less cantankerous. I gave Taylor the plain, but age appropriate explanation of what neutering our dog meant, and what changes we might expect or hope for. I took Lucky with me to pick up Taylor from school a couple of days later, shortly after his “snip.” He surveyed the elementary school children waiting to be picked up and uttered a continual stream of a guttural growl that Taylor heard when she got into the passenger seat. Taylor settled and buckled herself in. After listening to Sir Growly-Guts for a bit she sighed, “Mom, the ‘balls thing’ didn’t work.”

I am pretty sure that during those years when it was just the three of us (5 if you include the two cats we had) that Lucky served as a protector and guardian. While other homes in my neighborhood had been broken into...ours was untouched. Likely Lucky's greeting grin didn't come off as a welcome to any potential burglars.

And he did grin…every night that I would get home I was greeted with a toothy grimace that was Lucky’s way of saying, “Hello! Glad you’re home! Thought you’d never get here!”

Then came Donnie.

My now husband moved from upstate New York to South Florida to live with Taylor and I in October of 2004. Lucky was used to sleeping in bed with me back then, his head on the pillow next to mine. Though he had become grudgingly accepting of Taylor, he had NO intentions of giving up his favorite spot in the bed right next to me. That first night was a nightmare. Lucky positioned himself on the bed next to me and Donnie told him to move over. There was growling, snarling and yelling. Then Donnie and Lucky took the fight outside (of the bedroom.) Whatever happened (neither of them ever told) – Donnie had taken position as lead in the pack. And from that moment on, Lucky and Donnie were best buddies.

Donnie is a dog person and Lucky really benefited from that.

After Donnie and I married in 2007, I flirted with the idea of having another baby. As a tonic to this notion, we instead got a Chihuahua puppy for our first anniversary in April of 2008. We were extremely nervous about how Lucky would react to the new addition.

We soon saw that our fears were for naught. Lucky was patient, gentle and kind with Minnie. He showed her where to “go” outside, what is okay to bark at and other proper doggie behaviors. We couldn’t have asked for a better teacher for Minnie. And, Minnie seemed to have a positive effect on Lucky. He had a renewed bounce in his step and both Donnie and I remarked how he seemed to act younger.

However, over the past 18 months Lucky has had a slow but marked decline.

At first, he failed to be able to jump into bed with us. A trampled, circled space in between us on the bed had been his spot. Once he had several failed times, we made him a comfy bed next to ours.

Then he fell down the stairs a few times. He loved being with and following us throughout our home. But once he took a few hair-raising tumbles down the stairs, we blocked off the stairway. To make him feel less lonely, we spent many nights sleeping on the couches downstairs to be with him.

Then he started to lose control of his bowels. Lucky had previously always been fastidious in that regard. I knew that it embarrassed and pained him to leave a mess. But after several episodes where our furniture was involved, we regulated him into the kitchen and dining area of our home.

Then he lost complete control of his bladder. So we were forced to limit him to just the dining room. We hated it as much as he did and turned to our vet for answers.

With crossed fingers and heavy hearts, we started rounds of steroids and other medications for Lucky under our vet's supervision 5 weeks ago.

Nothing helped or made any difference.

With the understanding and blessing of our vet, we made yesterday’s appointment a few days ago. While that may sound calculated, I was grateful to have this Thanksgiving with him. Lucky had his fill of turkey, stuffing and any other treat he wanted.

I was very proud that my now 16 year old daughter opted to be part of yesterday’s heart-wrenching farewell. This is not easy for any of us and it is in a teenager’s nature to hide their head in the sand. But my Tay, in her stoic nature, came with us and stayed with us and Lucky through the very end. I am so proud of her. Owning and loving a pet is really fun – until the end, saying goodbye, which is the really hard part. And she demonstrated incredible maturity.

All three of us drove him there, cuddled him and pet him during his last moments. The details are morbid and horrific, so I will spare you.

Lucky was an incredible, complex and loving dog. He made me feel safer during my years as a single Mom and protected me and my daughter. He completely fell in love with my husband who ceaselessly cared for him, particularly during his older years. He taught our beloved Chihuahua, Minnie how to be a proper, house-broken dog (and unfortunately passed along his fear of thunderstorms.) He was fiercely loyal and loving towards us, his “pack” family.

There will never be another dog like him. He was one of a kind.

And, he was a converter. He made me, a former cat-owner into a dog lover.

Dearest Lucky – I hope you are jumping after squirrels and rabbits right now, with the bouncy legs that you once had. And, that you are getting to spoon and snuggle close with someone until we are reunited with you.

I will never forget that you CHOSE me – I don’t know why you did, but for that, I am eternally grateful.
.

It takes a village...or an Island

Life has been frenetic around these parts, for sure. I have had a couple of very close friends sadly move very far away. One of whom, I helped in driving her back to her hometown in Tennessee. I have been travelling for work (which I will do more of in the coming weeks.) October heralded both of my parent’s birthdays, my daughter’s Sweet Sixteenth and my parents anniversary (which they celebrated at Fantasy Fest in Key West!) When we rounded the corner of November, my husband celebrated 42 years on this good green Earth making him the same age as me after our annual 6 week 1 year age disparity. (The duration of which he never fails to call me a cougar at least once.) My sister-in-law came to visit us last weekend from Maine, which was wonderful and activity-filled.


I have been making plans for upcoming holidays and vacations. Early December I go to NYC for a seminar which I will lengthen slightly to see a friend in New Jersey. Spring Break 2012 I will be in Orlando with Taylor and her BFF. Donnie and I will celebrate 5 years of wedded bliss in Las Vegas in April.

However, Key West and my connection there is never far from my mind. With scheduled time off reaching into summer of next year I often wondered when…oh when…will I get to visit my adopted hometown again?

I feel the pull even more keenly due to some recent events.

A local Key West and nationally featured photographer and acquaintance of mine, Rob O’Neal, was involved in a scooter (his) versus an automobile (a tourist) accident a week ago. You don’t have to be a statistician to know which vehicle wins in that scenario. Rob was badly injured and is now at a hospital in Miami. He is facing surgeries, rehabilitation and a lot of recovery time. You can see his beautiful work here: http://robo.zenfolio.com/

As I pull for Rob in his recovery and pray for his speedy return to doing what he does best on the island of Key West, I am truly heartened.

Via Social Media (namely Facebook) I have watched as “my” adopted community of Key West has quickly circled the wagons. You would think that in such a touristy and transitional area that the idea of being neighborly would be hard to come by. Not the case here – Good people have set up a Facebook page to manage official updates, organized benefits and coordinated drop offs and donations. Local businesses have offered their space, goods and services to benefit the cause for Rob.

The flurry of activities and the clear sense of community makes me so incredibly proud. Well, at least adjacently so. While I am not yet even a freshwater conch (a new resident of Key West can’t become one until after 7 years of residence), I still feel that I am a part of this vibrant, loving, accepting, creative and loyal society.

My last visit “home” to Key West was with a friend, Janet and my sister, Michelle last June of this year. Michelle had travelled there with me before and Janet had been there previously but not with me. After pedaling endlessly through the streets and hearing my well-worn anecdotes about Key West, Janet said to me, “These are your people!” She went on to say how lucky I was that I had found a place…a commune of like-minded people that I feel connected to. She is right. I count several residents as good, true friends. People who treat friendship, connection and kinship as sacred. I found my voice as a writer due to one of those connections.

And I do feel fortunate for that.

As you have read in this blog or heard me say, Key West holds my heart. Now more than ever. Please visit Rob’s page, purchase one of his 2012 calendars, http://www.roboneal.com/roborecoveryfund.htm
or simply include him in your thoughts and prayers.

One Human Family is the motto of Key West.  It has become mine as well.

In Memoriam

Cliff’s passing was sudden and very sad. Below is a story that I had written a couple of years ago. I really like this memory of him and it is what I will read if I am asked to speak at his memorial.


Saturday, April 4, 2009


Late one night a couple of weeks previous to the above date, I was in our downstairs bathroom and heard some skittering and scratching behind the wall. I came out of the bathroom into our dining / kitchen area and saw a tail disappearing behind the oven vent that runs along the top of our kitchen cabinets.  I was completely freaked and told my husband, Donnie about it the next morning. Much to my irritation, he was a little dismissive. However, he too heard, but did not see, whatever it was a few nights later. Soon after his auditory confirmation of an uninvited guest, he went about setting up some “humane” rodent traps in the area where I told him I had seen the “tail.” I did not share any of this with my then 13 year old daughter, Taylor as I did not want to get her all freaked out as well.

That balmy April 4th Saturday evening we were hosting my good friend, Janna and her new boyfriend, Cliff over for tapas and cocktails. While the four of us were sitting on our patio chatting, Taylor was sitting on the computer in the living room. (Watching Jonas Brothers videos on You Tube, I am sure.) Suddenly, Taylor came outside and said, “Mom, there is something in the cabinet making noise.” I said something to the effect of:

“don’t worry about it…didn’t want to tell you, but we think we might have a mouse…Donnie has put some traps down…no big deal.”

But she insisted that I come in to hear what was going on, and so I did.

Inside, standing in my home at the edge of my kitchen it sounded as though a 250 pound lumberjack was thrashing around on top of the kitchen cabinets. (She was mistaken when she thought the noise was coming from IN the cabinets.) I came outside and told Donnie, “It’s bad, come inside.” My friend Janna has a ‘first responder’ type instinct, so she immediately leapt up and was followed closely by Cliff.

All 5 (Donnie, Taylor, Cliff, Janna and me) of us stood in the entry to the kitchen and were witness to the thrashing about and then the poked-up head up of some sort of rodent up there.

Upon seeing the thrashing rodent, Janna started screaming, which kicked off my own special brand of high pitched screaming. Taylor started screaming as well and stood on an ottman clutching Minnie, our Chihuahua, to her chest. Lucky, our Dalmatian started barking and jumping around. It was a melee.

I watched as Cliff picked up a chair and started to head towards the corner of the kitchen where the noise was coming from. I understood his intent immediately. He was going to stand on that chair, reach up and grab the intruder in the trap. With this knowledge and having no desire to have a part of mission-catch-a-rodent, I fled back outside to the patio with Taylor in tow. Janna was close behind us. My daughter loudly whispered to Janna, “Your boyfriend is crazy!”

A few minutes later, Cliff confidently strode out of the house and carried the vermin (which I insisted was a mouse, even though everyone else had seen it and had identified it as a RAT) to our community’s dumpster. My trying-to-be-helpful-and-now-semi-emasculated-husband was right behind him.

Ugh, how nice. Nothing like a rodent break-dancing above the cabinets in your kitchen to get a dinner party going. So much for me trying to be the consummate hostess. I wondered if Janna and Cliff would ever come back for dinner.

As they were leaving that night, Cliff leaned in and told me somewhat ominously, “Where there is one, there are usually more.” And of course, he was right.

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That is one of my funniest and strongest memories of Cliff and I think is one that kind of sums him up as I knew him. He was cool, calm and collected in times of crisis. He was generous in his actions. And he was sage and wise about many things. I witnessed his kindnesses towards my soul sister, Janna on many occasions. I knew him to be adverse to adversity, a lover of animals, a student of nutrition and cleansing, a fellow reader and lover of books. And all in all – just a nice man.

The post script to the mouse (aka rat) story is that Janna and Cliff did brave coming over to our home again. Several times. As a matter of fact, the four of us had many happy times together. The most recent was a weekend afternoon trip to the movies not too long ago. All of us were on bikes; Janna and Cliff on the Harley and Donnie and I on our little Vespa. We had a lovely enjoyable day filled with camaraderie and laughter. I remember with clarity how Cliff and Donnie were chatting away in the lobby of the movie theater found each other to be movie soul-mates.

Cliff, we miss you. Wherever you are - may you find the best books to read, the best gyms to work out in, the best movies to watch and the best friends to do these things with. Until we join you.

May peace and love be with you.

The Tenth Anniversary - Never Forget

Yes, I will never forget.


• That morning at my new (7 months then, now 10.5 years) job.

• MSNBC.com and CNN.com being down due to the huge unexpected traffic to their sites.

• The co-worker that has a sibling as a pilot and was awash in worry.

• The corporate e-mail allowing employees to leave at 11 AM.

• Picking up my sweet 5 (now 15) year old daughter from school early.

• Trying to shield her from my crying and shaking.

• Talking to my then friend and now husband who called from the Orlando airport where he was scheduled to fly from there to Boston.

• Spending the rest of the day watching news updates in horror.

I spent a moment in silence this morning honoring all who lost their lives on that beautiful September day 10 years ago.

And I thank and genuflect in gratitude to all of those who fight for my freedom. I spent this Sunday lazing around, going to the market and readying for the upcoming work week. I was able to do this freely thanks to those who are actively fighting to keep the evil and hate at bay.

Make sure you kiss your loved ones and tell them how much you love them. Every day. I know I will.

Quitcherbitchen (a nod to Teri Garr)

(The above is a great shot that Taylor took which showcases her talent and includes the puzzle mentioned in the below post)

I spent some time this morning feeling down, whining and kvetching due to some double-whammy news I received yesterday. I was bemoaning the fact that much of my “disposable” (ha) income for the next few weeks will be going towards roof repair and my daughter’s wisdom teeth needing to be pulled.

Then my kvetching amplified.

My Boo-hoos:

I haven’t had time to write…work is so unrelentingly busy…my home is a mess…I am so unappreciated…I work out every day and no one notices…nobody likes me and I’m gonna go eat worms.

And no, smart asses, I am not PMSing right now.

After spilling my tale of woe to a good friend, she gave me some much needed chiding.

The roof repairs? Are BECAUSE I have a roof over my head. Taylor’s dental work? Is BECAUSE I have a beautiful, healthy daughter. My life is fine…and in fact it is actually very comfortable.

This brought me back from Planet Bitches-O-Lot.

My gripes are clearly of the ‘First World’ variety. (As opposed to the Third World kind – lack of clean water to drink, dubious shelter, not knowing where your meals will come from or even if they will come, fearing for your own life and the lives of your children…and so many other worries that thankfully are not part of my everyday reality.)

I look around me this evening. Husband obsessively finishing a puzzle. Daughter ‘allowing’ me to make her a quick dinner, which she consumes while watching her step-father and I triumphantly throw the last pieces of the puzzle into place.

We all have our health. We have an incredible, loving family and dear friends spreading wide on both sides of our nucleus.

I won’t remember having to fix the roof or pay for Tay’s dental work in 5 years time.

Inconsequential.

What I will recall in 5 years and what will stay with me are all of the other small things, the tangibles and intangibles of being blessed.

In other words I need to quitcherbitchen.

I promise will post about my emotional reunion with Taylor and our subsequent stay in a beautiful home on a Lake in Maine – I just had the moment of passion to write about my state of mind right now.

Being Annoyed & Teenage Werewolf

About a year ago, I read a really great book about parenting a teenaged daughter. My friend JP had recommended it, while we were perusing the shelves at our local Barnes & Noble, as she had seen some positive reviews about it. As the book was located in the Parenting section, I initially demurred. I am not typically one for anything that smacks of “self help.”

However, the subject matter was close to my bleeding, worn and ragged Mom-of-a-Teen heart and the premise was very interesting.

My Teenage Werewolf by Lauren Kessler is about her journey with her own pre-teen and teenage daughter. As writer with an anthropological focus and as a Mom with a vested interest, Lauren vividly details the rocky, desperate and loved filled trip.

Most amazingly (to me), in the name of research, she actually shadowed her daughter to school. She tagged behind her in the hallways of Middle School, catching snippets of conversation and sat in the backs of classrooms, a front row observer of the class and caste system of her daughter’s Middle School life.

I just found that to be so, so…cool. And brave. On both of their parts.

The book was extremely well written, kept my “I Don’t Like Books From the Parenting Section” attention easily, was thought provoking, relevant and made me tear up with it’s spot on authenticity.

After finishing the book, I looked online and found that the author, Lauren Kessler has a blog. Her daughter is a very occasional contributor. (Again, how cool!)

Because I am a geeky reader and favorite writers are my celebrities, I followed her blog. Sometimes I commented on it – and I was thrilled when Lauren responded.

A few weeks ago, I spent one Friday evening (much like this one) catching up on my favorite blogs. Lauren’s entry on her ‘My Teenage Werewolf’ caught my attention. The title was On Being Annoying and was a mini-rant about macro and micro irritations with her now older (but still a teen) daughter. At the close of her post she solicited comments from other Moms to tell tales of woe and annoyance.

So I did. Below is my comment:

Now that Taylor is almost 16, our ‘werewolf’ years have started to improve. 
Similar to the baptism by fire of entering them three years ago, I am now noticing that she is demonstrating occasional flashes of the (nicer) woman she will become. 
However, we are not out of the thicket of teenagedom yet, so here are my top three annoyances:


#3. Earbud(s) I am with you on those little cochlear implants. Only in my case, it is just one. Taylor likes to position one bud in her left ear…hidden by her hair. I, like you Lauren, listen to talk radio in the morning on the way to school. And I know that she does this (the one bud) specifically so that she can CHOOSE which information stream / music she prefers at any given moment. This includes selectively hearing her Mother’s voice.


#2. Recognition. I grew up as the first of 5 daughters. There were not a lot of extras for any one child. But as an only child, Taylor has traveled extensively. She has wanted for very little. She has an iPhone and wears trendy hypster attire. She is attending an exclusive camp in Maine. I have sacrificed and worked hard to ensure that she gets the best education, medical care and extracurricular activities. When she takes these things for granted…it makes me crazy.


#1. The bedroom wastebasket. I realize this can sound trite given numbers 2 and 3. But, bear with me. She has a wastebasket in her bedroom. She drinks soda in her room (which I have asked her not to do.) She chucks empty cans and paper plates into that wastebasket until it overflows…and apparently expects the trash can fairy to deal with it.
I keep up with the wastebaskets in every other room – I naively expected that she would routinely empty hers. Not so.
Last Tuesday found us having to eat dinner out…so we could bomb her room for all of the ants who had rightfully laid claim to her bedroom – given all of the empty soda cans and all!

It wasn’t until this evening, when I had the time to catch up on my blogs again that I realized that my little mini tome had been mentioned in Lauren’s most recent post entitled ‘More Annoying Stories.’ She referenced the previous post and her entreaties to the blogosphere to share stories. She shared the the entries she had received from other Moms, and had something special to say about my own contribution:

In the she’s a slob category, there were a number of vivid tales involving overly ripe gym socks, cosmetic encrusted wash cloths, Doritos-ed bed sheets and post-snack kitchens that looked post-tornado. However, my absolute favorite story in this category – one that put in perspective my own daughter’s horribly annoying habit of blanketing her room with wet towels – came from a mother who had to bug bomb her daughter’s room. The girl chucked empty soda cans and paper plates into her bedroom waste basket (It goes without saying, doesn’t it, that she isn’t supposed to have food in her room.? It also goes without say, but I’m saying it anyway, that she never empties the waster basket.) The room was overrun by ants…thus the aforementioned bug bomb.

At first, I was SO excited ! My comments were mentioned in a blog…a blog by a favorite writer! My initial enthusiasm about being mentioned was very quickly tempered…with the humbling realization that my story had been picked as a “best of the worst.”

***Sigh***

Oh well, so my kid is a slob…no news there. But apparently writing about it is blog-worthy.

Post Script: Cleaning out and re-arranging her room last weekend (which required multiple trash bags for the refuse I found under her bed) was an exercise in patience.

But - I still can’t wait to see her. (In 15 Days)

I have been away from my blog for a while. For the most part I have been very busy, having strategically scheduled a very activity-filled couple of weeks after my daughter’s departure for camp. Being busy did not eliminate the raw hole in my heart, but it certainly helped. The frenetic schedule kept me focused, task and results oriented, and gave me various reasons to get out of bed each morning, with a full agenda to accomplish.

Taylor left 2 Sundays ago, with two heavy bags (and my heavy heart) in her hands. The scene at 6 AM at Palm Beach International was not completely unlike the one the year before. The three of us sat together on a bench just outside of security and watched other campers and parents arrive. (Just as we had done the year previously.) We saw many familiar faces and some new. However, this time around both Taylor and I were imbued with a sense of confidence. We both knew the routine of separation. She was less nervous and more excited; I was less naïve and more prepared.

I hugged her very tightly to me, right before she was going through security and embarking on her 5 week summer adventure. Big fat tears rolled down my face as I felt my chest constrict in pain.








A few hours later Donnie and I met some friends in Fort Lauderdale for an outing on their boat. (As much as I was tempted to stay under the covers in bed, which is where I had retreated to after our early morning return from PBI.)

It was a lovely afternoon, balmy and sunny.







It was one of those days in beautiful South Florida that makes one exclaim (whilst standing on a sandbar and clutching a frosty adult beverage in one hand and catching a tossed football in the other), “We live in paradise!” We are blessed with a network of great friends and I was incredibly grateful for the chatter, the inclusion and the camaraderie.

48 hours later, I was Chicago-bound for a work conference. Actually, the conference was in a hotel that was right next to the O’Hare airport. So I was not actually in Chicago, the city.

The Data Reporting Workshop I attended may not sound sexy to a lot of people, but it really got my brainy / nerdy juices flowing. I got to spend quality time with people in my same line of work who came from some huge “name-drop-type” brand companies. We shared reporting techniques, best practices and of course the impact of Social Media and Social Response to our industry.







I did get in early enough the afternoon before the conference started to venture into the city via the train…an activity that I likely wouldn’t have done on my own. My co-worker and friend, JP, is an expansive person and a lover of life experiences. She easily convinced me that the day we arrived we should get into the city, see and do something important and have a slice of Chicago pizza. So we did. We went to the Sears Tower (now called Willis) where I tricked my brain into allowing my feet to step onto a glass platform 103 stories up. Later we went to an authentic Chicago Pizza joint. (Still too thick for my tastes, I prefer NYC style pizza.)

After coming back from Chicago, I was home only one night before leaving for a girl’s weekend in Key West.

As I have mentioned previously, Key West, for many reasons, holds my heart. I just feel at home down there. After numerous recent visits, I no longer feel as though I have to fit every one of the friends that I have down there, nor a bunch of activities, into a few day time frame – I know now, with certainty, that I am coming back. I just get to relax, touch base with familiar faces and places and revel in the peace that the Island brings me.

For this particular trip, I brought my aforementioned co-worker and bestie, JP and my sister, Michelle. Though Michelle and I are separated by 10 years (I am the first and she is the third of 5 sisters), we are extremely close. I felt very fortunate that she was able to take the time and accompany me down to my geographical heart on the Southernmost tip.








We “girls” sipped Mimosas during the day and good wine in the evenings. We guzzled good old H20 while riding our bikes for hours. We rid our bodies of any calories or toxins via the heat and exertion in sweat equity. We went on a somewhat touristy bike tour. I looked (as I always do) at available Real Estate.








We also got to spend a raucous (to us) Saturday evening with my good friend and writing coach, (who for the purposes of anonymity I will call “Tink”) having cocktails at the Porch and a delicious, healthy dinner at a new restaurant, Amigos.

All in all, it was a lovely, wonderful weekend and I was sad when it ended.

Upon my return to reality this week, I was able to dive back into my work, with only a few tear-inducing thoughts about my daughter disrupting my daily routine.

I have received one letter from Taylor and it sounds as though she is having the time of her life.

3 more weeks to go until we reunite. Before then, I am planning for Tink and her family to come up from Key West and visit us for the Fourth of July Weekend.

This weekend Donnie and I are going to Orlando to say Bon Voyage to my cousin and her family who are moving to San Diego.
After that, it will be time to start planning our trip to Maine to meet Taylor at camp and then spend a family vacation week on a lake in Maine. Our ‘Maine-iac’ friends and family will be joining us. We will celebrate a momentous birthday of one of Donnie’s sisters.

So, I am half way to the summit of “missing Taylor.” At any given moment, I wonder what she is doing and how she is doing.

That wondering is coupled with a strong sense of pride. She is stretching the legs of her independency, while I am finding out who I am besides being a Mom.

With those growing pains I am realizing that our future, while tethered together for just a few more years, is looking pretty bright.

I, she…both of us…just might make it through this.

Wish us luck.

Distraction

http://photos.parents.com/parents-cover-contest-2011/23/2011/70


I am TOTALLY stressing about Taylor leaving for Camp in a mere 31 hours.

However, one of the things that has distracted me and made me happy is seeing my friend’s baby son rise up in the ranks in a contest to be on the cover of Parents Magazine. This babe’s parents are Adem and Lauren. Adem was my sister Michelle’s boyfriend back in her Middle School days. He is an awesome guy – so our family has stayed in touch with him.

I had the pleasure of seeing him and meeting his lovely and witty wife, Lauren and their adorable son Rhys when they came down to So FL a couple of months ago.
Rhys is quite adorable and photogenic.

So it comes down to this shameless plug…please click on the link and vote for Rhys!

http://photos.parents.com/parents-cover-contest-2011/23/2011/70



Never fear, I will post about Taylor’s departure and my subsequent teariness after Sunday. My heart already hurts.

Prelude to Goodbye - Part Two

Last year when Taylor left for camp, I knew it would be challenging to be without her. I just didn’t realize how much it would hurt – nor how keenly the realization of her growing up and away from me would sting.

I pretty much melted down the Monday after she left last summer, while I was getting ready for work. Once I was at my (wonderful) place of employment that morning, I decided (given my puffy, swollen face and my inability to string a sentence together without dissolving into tears) that I would take refuge in an empty cubicle in another building (close to my core team, but far away from my cross-functional teams that I typically work with on a day-to-day basis.) One of my co-workers patiently spoke to me through the cubicle wall. “Are you okay?” she whispered. The only response I could muster on that day was, “I.Don’t.Wanna.Talk.”

My disposition did improve slightly over the ensuing days. I knew that my daughter was having fun, having new experiences, making friends from around the globe and gaining the all-too-important confidence necessary for navigating this life on her own.

A few weeks later, when Donnie and I flew to New York City to see my (our) daughter after her stay at camp, the week in Maine with family and friends and then the few days with one of my best friends in NYC, I could barely contain myself. I knew that my feeling was rightfully one sided…but I was still looking forward to being able to embrace her, to see her.

My Mommy (somewhat-worthy-of-therapist-couch) neuroses were apparent when Donnie and I exited the plane at the Airport. I started to sprint for a cab. Donnie had other ideas. He decided that he needed a coffee at an airport vendor. I stood beside him…tapping my foot and glaring at him. “Really?!?” I said, “Can’t you wait???” My subsequent reunion with my daughter was tearful. (on my part, of course)

I realized soon after that I would have to steel myself for the future.

And part of that future is now just a few days away.

Taylor loved camp so very much. And, was completely committed to going back for a longer stretch of time. Initially, I wanted her to work for it.

Then, after she got into the academic-heavy program at her High School, I told her I would pay…as long as she had all As and Bs. She met her academic requirements, even in the College course she has taken this year as a High School Freshman. So I paid (quite a price) for her to attend camp this summer for 5 weeks.

Now we are 14 days from her departing for camp in Maine. The camp is old-fashioned and eschews cell phones, computers and television. They encourage being outdoors, swimming, boating, archery and creativity. This is all lofty and good, but, I can’t talk to her during her stint at camp. I can send one way e-mails and she can send snail mail. And, I won’t see her. Nothing, nada from June 12th until July 15th.

As I have stated before, this feels like a dress rehearsal for the final flight from the nest. I believe that it is because of that knowledge that I have become somewhat clingy and a bit teary in recent days.

Where has the time gone?

It seems like only yesterday I was trying on the term ‘daughter’ and introducing the idea into my everyday life and lexicon.

I baked birthday cakes for her and decorated them. I spent long lovely evenings with her – when it was just the two of us – cooking or ordering takeout, watching movies and cuddling. I was there when she learned how to walk, speak, shop, swim, fish and negotiate. Ages 2 through 9 were dreamy and wonderful. Ages 10 through 14…notsomuch, but all part of the ride.

Through the past 16 years of our shared life, she has been there…traveling this journey with me. Now she is taking that first tentative step out of our safe nest practicing for the final flight.

As am I.

She’ll be back after 5 weeks. And I know that the next time she leaves, it’ll be for good.

While I feel bereft and oh-so-very-sad at the thought, I am also feeling my heart expand with pride. I know I have tried my damndest to be a really good Mom and I know that she is a great daughter. She is brave, (braver than I was) smart, (smarter than I am…but please don’t tell her) and incredibly empathetic. (Towards humans and animals alike.)

As certain as the tides change, she will continue to grow towards her future. I will continue to try my best to grow as a parent alongside of her.

There are just three more High School years…then I imagine, she is off to college.

I am quite sure that this will not be my last post about Tay leaving…but I would love to hear from others who have survived not only the tumultuous teens, but those who have also then been smacked, painfully, upside the head and heart with the reality of the soon-to-come empty nest.

From Margaritaville to Mosh Pits

The weekend of April 23rd was a busy and very musically enhanced one for us. I had the good fortune to attend two concerts, one on Saturday and one on Sunday. They couldn’t have been much more diametrically opposed.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Saturday’s concert was more of an all day event. Jimmy Buffett was making his annual sojourn to South Florida. I love Buffett’s music and have been a fan since I was introduced to it at seventeen, whilst boating and waterskiing on the South Florida Intercoastal Waterway.

Since then, his music and celebrity have been woven into the fabric and soundtrack of my adult life in various ways.

The actual concert didn’t begin until 8:00 PM but, Donnie and I arrived at 11:30 AM to help prepare for an event for my work. (The company I work for makes products under Buffett’s well-known brand.)



I was a only mildly surprised to see that some die-hard Parrotheads (the self-applied moniker of Jimmy’s most ardent fans) had already begun setting up for tailgating by that time. Yes, a full 8-½ hours prior to the show. These hardy folks would spend the entire afternoon in the sweltering South Florida sun, drinking, barbequing, and playing catch while listening to Buffett music.

This was after setting up intricate temporary homes consisting of tents, with generators to power blenders, portable grills, tables, chairs, coolers, food, drinks, outdoor fans – all of which were festooned with blow up colorful parrots, grass skirts and any other brightly colored accoutrements. And of course this was before they would file into the venue to drink some more and listen to the man himself.

Though I have attended several Buffett concerts and tailgates in the past, I was still impressed by the sight and the fortitude of its dedicated hard-core members.

When my work commitment was complete, we assisted in some clean up and headed home for a mid-day break. I just couldn’t entertain the idea of remaining out there in the relentless sun all day. Plus, we needed to let our poor dogs out for a potty break.

We returned to the venue a couple of hours later, with a friend and co-worker of mine who caught a ride with us as she had a ticket to the show, as well. Shockingly, we were able to reclaim our close parking space and rejoin a group who were all seeing the concert together. We ate, drank and chatted up friends in the relative comfort of a large festive tent complete with all of the amenities. As we did so, I thought (as I often do) how fortunate I am for so many things – a great company to be employed by and brilliant, engaging and likable friends, and a wonderful husband to share the experience and music with.



We enjoyed the subsequent concert wholly. Jimmy never fails to put on a good show. We had great seats, but his exuberant energy always creates such an intimacy with his audience, that every seat is a good one. It is a gift of performing that I have only witnessed in a few artists.

We left just as the final song was beginning in order to beat the crowds and were back home by 11:30 PM.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

The next day (which was Easter Sunday*** ) I was exhausted from the previous day’s activities. However, I knew I needed to gird my loins for another concert.

A couple of months ago, my fifteen year old daughter, Taylor had expressed quite a keen interest in a band called 30 Seconds to Mars. It is headed by lead singer Jared Leto, an actor known for his roles in movies such as Requiem for a Dream and Panic Room. When Taylor enthusiastically showed me the music videos featuring the band, I pointed out that the lead singer had been the heartthrob in the coming-of-age TV series My So Called Life, which had aired back in the ‘90s and which she and I had watched in its entirety when she was 13 via DVD.

Given this new information, she squinted at the computer monitor and proclaimed him “still hot.” And, even though he was sporting a pink Mohawk in his band’s video ‘Closer to the Edge.’ – I had to agree. Plus, the band’s music was very reminiscent to me, both lyrically and in sound to the band U2.

I was heartened to hear that she had expanded her musical palette beyond the “JB’s” (Jonas Brothers and Justin Bieber) that had until recently dominated her listening tastes.

So, excited by Taylor’s interest outside of bubble-gum pop and knowing that music is one of her biggest passions, I did a quick internet search to discover that 30 Seconds to Mars would be playing live in an Amphitheater right here in West Boca Raton on April 24th, Easter Sunday. I purchased 3 regular open seating tickets (foregoing the $300 Golden Tickets that included a meet and greet with the band) thinking that if she didn’t have a friend who would want to go, Donnie would accompany us. I was also a bit nervous that perhaps her interest in their music might be fleeting and wane in the coming weeks.

I needn’t have worried.

I presented the tickets to her a week prior to the concert, as an early “Easter basket” gift. She was even more surprised and gleeful than I could have imagined and immediately invited an equally happy friend to join us for the concert.

We arrived at the concert venue that Sunday afternoon a full 2 ½ hours prior to the 7:00 PM show time. I was unfamiliar with the amphitheater and hoped that we would have some time to mill about, find a good seat and take in the views.

However, what greeted us when we got there was just a line that had formed at the closed gates. Her friend arrived shortly thereafter to join us – thankfully with fortification in the form of McDonalds and soft drinks.



We sat (again in the hot unrelenting sun) for the better part of two hours. There were perhaps 50 people in line in front of us. And as the minutes of waiting ticked by, the line behind us extended into the hundreds.

I took in the people in line. There were quite a few Mother and Daughter pairs, a testament to Jared Leto’s generation-spanning appeal. There were plenty of unaccompanied pre-teens and older teenagers. Mixed in with the rest of the crowd there were also numerous (what Taylor would term as) “goth” looking individuals in the waiting queue who sported very unique hair styles and piercings.

This band certainly attracted quite a diverse assembly.

The gates of the venue finally opened. Taylor, her friend and I were able to secure a spot right in the middle, directly in the front of the stage. While I was delighted with our coveted spots, I grew increasingly uncomfortable as the growing crowd pressed in on us.




I am not one for close proximity to a lot of other people, especially strangers. I am fine on a bustling street in New York City or corralled in assigned seating at a theater. But put me in an unleashed, uncontrolled throng of humanity and you can witness my dissolve.

So, during the opening band (a great, new start up band by the name of CB7) I practiced deep Lamaze-like breathing and willed myself to just let go and enjoy. When CB7 finished, we thankfully were joined by another friend of Taylor’s, and her Mom and the Mom’s friend. (Why I was thankful will be explained momentarily.)

Once the headliner, 30 Seconds to Mars (30STM), took the stage and Jared Leto shouted to the crowd “take three big steps…forward” (when I thought that three steps back would have been advisable) the crowd of hundreds pushed forward insistently.





There was suddenly a shove from behind. I stumbled and quickly righted myself. The other Mothers and I looked indignantly at the offenders behind us. There was a group of young men directly behind us who were staring up at the stage, zombie-like and throwing their bodies in that general direction. I did shove back, and like the uncool Mom that I am, reminded them (in my shouty-loud voice) that there are children here, BE CAREFUL!

Like trees bending to the wind, the crowd of people around us started to sway in accordance with the force created by the fans. Being familiar with my personal limits and quirks, Taylor had warned me earlier (being more unexpectedly wise in this particular situation) that I may have to take leave. We had already decided upon a meeting place and that I would carry all purses or personal items if I should decide to flee.

Though I greatly wanted to stay put and enjoy the music from my ideal front-and-center spot, my neuroses won out. I grabbed Taylor’s arm and I am quite sure that the look on my face was one of horror. I fully expected that the same terror would be reflected in her features when she turned her head to look at me. Instead, what I saw on her face was pure glee. She was one with this scene. I asked for her backpack, which she handed to me gratefully. I then grabbed the arm of the Mother of the other friend of Taylor’s and gasped, “Are you staying here?” She was completely nonplussed by what was going around her (further solidifying that fact that I am the nutty one) and responded with enthusiasm, “YES!” I told her that I had to get out of the crowd. Both she and her friend looked at me with surprise that I would willingly give up my prime standing spot. They promised to watch Taylor and her friend, as I elbowed my way out.

I found a spot very close to the side of the stage where I had a great view of the band and could kind of see what was going on where my daughter and her friends were.





Only after the panic and adrenaline had lessened their course through my body, was I was able to process emotion and thought again.

I felt guilt – it began to consume me almost immediately, even though I had left Taylor and her friend with other Mothers. Where are they…OH, I see their hands…waving pumping fists..they must be okay, right?

And then, Holy shit – I am 41 years old and somehow unwittingly found myself on the sidelines of an almost mosh-pit. Aren’t I supposed to be too old for this?

A few moments later….it looks like fun! After all, when some of the enthusiastic fans migrated ever closer to the stage, I was immediately reminded of some of my younger days. I used to circle and dance around the edges of mosh-pits! I was there when the term was invented, dammit!

I was torn between my adult Mommy and my carefree youthful self.

I found a few other comrade Mothers who had chosen to watch the concert from our shared view point. I soon realized that my fear was (mostly) unwarranted. From where I was, I also got a close up view of the lead singer becoming enamored with a fan who was wheelchair-bound. Jared insisted that he be carried onto the stage in order to enjoy the experience up-close.

The other Moms I had huddled with on the sidelines were also fans of 30STM's music, they had young sons and daughters in the crowd in front of the stage and they had no personal desire to be a part of it. One woman, a photographer had met Jared Leto in person, another had taken her 17 year old daughter to see as many 30STM concerts as they could reasonably get to or afford, and another had not only her 13 and 15 year old children in that mass of humanity in front of the stage, but also two high school exchange students. (Who would certainly return to their respective homeland countries with a slightly skewed view of the USA.)

The girls returned to me after the last song, relatively unharmed and just simply vibrating with excitement and breathlessness. “Best concert EVER!” was their refrain while I dusted of my last vestiges of worry and concern. We purchased complementary t-shirts for them to wear to school the next day and went home.

The dichotomy of the two wildly different concerts hit me a couple of days later. I felt as though I had straddled some sort of musical, lyrical span between my youth and my adulthood, all in one 36 hour period.

From the guitar strumming soothing ‘Come Monday’ to the energetic beats of ‘Kings and Queens.’

I am simply amazed at how music can define a decade, evoke feelings, span generations and join people.
So tell me, how has music moved you? What are your memorable concerts? Does certain music make you feel like a certain season of yourself?




*** I am Christian and do recognize the sanctity of the day. He has risen, indeed.

Single Mom and Tide Change

I was a single Mom for many years. 6 to be exact, from the time Taylor was 2 until she was 8 and Donnie came into our lives.

When I was a single Mom, it didn’t seem like a big deal. I simply did it. I took Taylor to school, I went to work, I picked her up, I came home. Then I did the Mom things like cook dinner and help with homework and cared for our two cats (Hemingway and Fisher) and one dog (Lucky). Rinse, Repeat.

Granted, I had lots of help. Taylor’s Grandparents and Aunts on both sides were simply invaluable as they cared for her outside of school hours, shuttling her to appointments and filling in where and when I couldn’t. And her Father was also very much involved and later her Step Mother as well. This family cell with Taylor as its much loved nucleus was a poster child example of “it takes a village to raise a child.”

I became a single parent again over this past week. Donnie had to travel for work to Alabama. He left on Sunday evening, and was not due to be home until Midnight on Friday. Taylor’s Father was also traveling for business this week, so it left a 6 day stretch of uninterrupted single Mother time. ***

I soon realized that there are a lot of things that are different now than 7 years ago as I stepped into my well worn single Mom shoes again.

For one, my career is much more fulfilling and with that, more demanding. In the past few years, I have become used to having a couple evenings a week to spend a few hours catching up on e-mails or squinting over a spreadsheet after I get home. If Taylor was not with her Father, she and Donnie would watch one of “their” shows or even go to a movie. He has also become King of the Kitchen and makes dinner almost every night in our household.

Our pet situation has also changed over the years. One of our beloved cats (Hemingway) passed away and Fisher, the lone remaining feline of the house has developed diabetes and now requires twice a day shots and a special diet. Lucky the aforementioned dog, who has been with us since Taylor was 5, can now be described as geriatric – and that is being kind. He must be regulated to the downstairs as he falls if trying to navigate the stairs. He cannot control his bladder or bowels very well anymore (much to his embarrassment) and has to be let out at very regular intervals or we suffer the consequences of a very unpleasant clean up. And then of course there is Minnie, my Chihuahua baby substitute, whose health is very robust but who also requires the same love and care as all of the other sentient beings in the household do.

Then of course there are the major changes in the being who put the ‘Mom’ in single Mom to begin with, my Daughter. No longer the sweet, amiable and loving child she was at ages two through eight, she is now a teenager and has fully presented in the last couple of years all of the adjectives that the chronological term implies.



So even though I entertained fantasies of long meaningful talks, cuddling and watching movies with Taylor during our week of togetherness, I have been in the teen daughter trenches long enough to know that reality could almost literally bite. As I have written about before, we are in the throes, the war zone really, of teenagedom. I am not her favorite person anymore, my responses to her ‘what’s for dinner’ question are typically met with whining and eye-rolling. (No matter what is on the menu.) Any comment or remark either of us would make to the other could spark the smoldering embers lying just below the surface of our tenuous daily attempt of truce or cease fire.

So, I tried to be realistic about our week together. Just us and our everyday grind. Expecting the best, but preparing for the worst, as the old adage dictates.

It was a busy week. I was up every day at 5 AM to give myself ample time to care for our needy menagerie, caffeinate myself, get Taylor rolled out of bed and do my own three “S’s.” (Don’t know what those three S’s are? Ask me offline.) During this week Taylor had her FCATS (the Florida school standardized testing that has become a State recognized event). In addition to this and my professional responsibilities I had to get her to the Orthodontist as Minnie had delightedly taken a nibble of her retainer ($250) and we had to go to her pediatrician to get her physical done and forms signed as a requirement for her camp this summer. Lucky the dog did deposit several messes, one of which was rolled in and necessitated me scrubbing the floor on my knees at two AM one night. We were never home before 5:30 PM, at which time I would throw down my purse and briefcase and usher the bladder-challenged out the door.

And to top everything off, during our phone conversations over the duration, Donnie told me that his trip was not going as well as expected. He would not be home Friday, then Saturday was looking grim as well.

By the time today (Friday) rolled around, all I wanted was to put my comfies on and curl up, perhaps with a book and preferably in the fetal position. I picked my daughter up this afternoon and realized with surprise that she was not concocting a sleep-over or a get together with a friend. She said, “Can we go see a movie together, Mom?” With the fantasies of doing ‘nothing’ dancing in my head and a negative response poised upon my tongue I thought back over the week.

There had been very few verbal missiles thrown at each other. There had been a sense of camaraderie, and indeed there were offers of help from her. “I’ll let the dogs out, Mom.” And “I’ll help you carry the groceries in.” We had been a team again…soldiers in arms so to speak, instead of at war.

So, I capitulated. After a brief stop at home, we went to the movies, smuggled in some verboten Arby’s Beef and Cheddars in my purse into the theater and had a thoroughly enjoyable a Mom and Daughter date night.

Perhaps the week alone with Taylor helped me to see that she is maturing, growing in increments beyond the “terrible teens” and into a lovely young woman. One who I love hanging out with, talking with and continuing to guide as even she guides me at times.

She got me where it hurt a couple of times over the week. Once during one of our only verbal skirmishes we had she called me out on something that I said that was petty. “See Mom, I only act like THIS, when you say things like THAT.” (She was right, I had stooped, allowed my feelings to come out in an inappropriate verbal way.) And then again but not intentionally, when we were at the pediatrician’s office for her physical. She was eyeballing her chart while the nurse was copying down the dates of her inoculations. Later in the car she said without accusation, “I looked at all of the signatures of when I was getting my shots when I was little. It was mostly Grandma, or Mimi, or Dad and sometimes Grandpa.” I was filled with Mommy guilt.

As it turns out, Donnie will come home tomorrow. Taylor and I will already be at the Delray Affair (she is participating in a ‘mob flash’) when his flight arrives. Then she and I are off to the Miracle League where she volunteers.

Despite the long hours, being a single Mom this week wasn’t such a bad thing and had several little learning moments along the way. Even going to the movies tonight with Taylor when I initially didn’t feel like it reminded me of a framed poem that I had on my daughter’s bedroom wall when she was a baby, one that I have seen in numerous other nurseries:

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.

While the specifics are a little different, the main gist remains the same. Stop, slow down and be present for your child’s life. Your time with them is all too brief.



*** I know I am fortunate. The help that I had while raising Taylor was nothing short of amazing. Her Father is very engaged, not absentee. We have many family members who look out for us. She and I have always been cocooned in a strong web of support.
To the thousands of Moms whose husbands are in any form of the Military who experience much greater trials while their Husbands are on duty or assignment and also to all the Moms who experience parenthood on their own, regardless of the circumstances…my hat is off to you. Comparatively, I’ve had it easy. I realize that.

The Un-Government Experience at the DMV

Taylor has been bugging me ever since she turned fifteen, at first coyly and then more urgently, “when can I get my permit?” My response was that when she figured out what the requirements were and had prepared and studied for the test that I would take her to the DMV. My daughter then threw herself, uncharacteristically I might add, into the task with abandon. She appeared at home one evening last November with a couple of State issued books about roads and signs and how drinking and drugs can affect your driving.

A couple of days later she asked me for my credit card. “For what?” I asked. “To take my tests,” she replied. As it turns out, all a 15 year old has to do to get a permit in this state is to take a $25 test online, get a certification of completion in the mail and voila…just show up at the DMV and get your picture taken. I felt the whole process was somewhat lacking in the checks and balances department, but who am I to say?

After she received the certificate in the mail (on the second try) we decided to head down to the DMV on the last day before the holidays. She was out of school and I was already on holiday from work, so the timing seemed opportune. Apparently the timing was also great for the DMV employees to leave work an hour early to get a head start on their own celebrations, so the office was closed by the time that we got there.

Another try on one of the last days of the year was unsuccessful as well. By noon, the DMV was not taking any more people in as the wait time already exceeded their hours of operation. This little factoid should have set off warning bells, but we decided that the next time that Taylor had a late start for school for LTM at 10:30, (Normal school time is 8:30 – and getting one’s permit does not count as an excused tardy) we would be first in line when the DMV opened at 8:15 AM.

Which, is how we found ourselves at the hallowed doors of the DMV this past Thursday, at 7:30 AM sharp. Well, not exactly at the doors, more like a block away because the scene that greeted us was this:



There was already a line at least a hundred strong of the tired, poor, huddled masses in front of us. I espied folks with coolers, lawn chairs and reading materials. I sighed and muttered, “Geez, I remember sleeping out for a Madonna concert…but not for my permit!”

“Right!?” exclaimed a petite woman in front of me. She had questionable hair and teeth and her attire suggested she was a fellow ‘80’s alumni who had not left the look back in the decade where it belonged.

An older gentleman in mustard colored corduroy pants and a patterned sweater sidled up to the ‘80’s alum in front of me, kind of doing a sideways dance to cut in front of us. He appeared to be clutching an iPad in a protective folder. I eyeballed his curious and nervous two-step and decided magnanimously to let him stay in front of us.

A couple more women joined the line behind us, not connected in any way save the fact that they had arrived at the same time. One of them, who favored watching rap cartoons (who knew there was such a genre?) on her smart phone (without earphones) mentioned that she had been there the previous morning and she had seen an older man say something about not having his meds and just collapsing on the ground.

‘Good God,’ I thought. All of us in line had been making commiserating remarks about the disorganization and the inconvenience of waiting in line at an ungodly hour for the DMV, but not that it was health or life threatening. I subtly cast a glance around me to asses anyone who might suddenly have a case of the vapors. (As it turned out, my identification skills were weak.)

Chit-chat with our neighbors ceased and the ambiance of camaraderie dissipated once the doors were opened and people were slowly allowed to file in. The culture shift in the line reminded me of the phenomenon that happens when emergency vehicles are closing in from behind you on the road. You and your fellow drivers make way considerately, but once the blaring sirens are in front of you, it is every man for themselves – trying to be first in order to ride the ‘ambulance wake.’

We were all business now.

We were probably about 20 feet from the entrance when two employees came out of the building and started shouting for anyone not in need of a State ID or Driver’s License. Mr. Mustard Colored Corduroy pants in front of us said to one of the bellowing employees that he had lost his license. She said that he needed to stay in the line and pointed vaguely to the spot right in front of Taylor and me.

Dejected, Mr. Corduroy walked back into line and then for reasons known only to himself and God, decided that he would step over the low rope-like hanging chain that stood suspended between posts as a line of demarcation between the sidewalk and the pavement of the parking lot. His first leg he hoisted over just fine, but when he tried to pull his other leg over, his foot caught and forward he went.

It was one of those surreal slow motion moments. Initially, he started to fail his arms to stop the fall but then discontinued the effort. (I assume this was a misguided effort to save his iPad.) Instead, he elected a path devoid of self preservation and allowed his skull to be the direct point of impact.

I heard the ominous crack, dropped my bag at Taylor’s feet and rushed to his side (being very careful when stepping over the chain.) Several other people were at his side immediately, too. His face was still on the ground, and his body was facing away from me. He was making some sounds, and from what I could understand, he was trying to say that he was okay.

The same (bitch) employee to whom he had spoken was there when he finally got to standing with assistance. She said she would bring him a chair. He told her he was worried about losing his place in line. She procured a chair, sat it in the parking lot, facing the waiting-in-line crowd and told him that he didn’t have to worry, he wouldn’t have to wait in line. She left and the poor man sat there in his chair, clutching his intact iPad. He kept trying to shoo people away, saying he was fine. But as he sat there, I could see that he wasn’t.

Where his forehead had connected to the pavement, an enormous welt had begun. It didn’t even take two minutes to form and a fine stream of blood trickled from it down his face. Additionally concerning was the fact that his nose was misshapen and had widened and I realized in retrospect that the crack I had heard was from his nose breaking. He looked dazed and anxious. I hung back and tried to get someone to agree with me that he needed medical attention.

I was just considering calling 911 and how that conversation would play out when the (bitch) employee pushed through the throng of people again. “Excuse me, M ‘am,” I said touching her shoulder, “I do think that he needs to have medical attention.” The (bitch) employee brushed me aside and said she had to go open the gates for the EMT. I was relieved that Mr. Corduroy would get some much-needed assistance. But I couldn’t help but wonder about the fact that our local emergency team had been called out twice in two mornings. How many times does it take before someone says, “hmmm, perhaps there is a flaw in the system at the DMV”?

After Mr. Corduroy was safely being treated, we entered the building. I was greeted by a sign above my head that said, ‘Welcome to the DMV – The Un-Government Experience’ and to my right was a snaking line that reminded me of the S shaped lines that one would encounter at Disney World.

We had snaked through about half of it and my heart lifted a bit. The line was moving a bit quicker now, and I was shaking off the adrenaline that had coursed through me after Mr. Corduroy’s mishap, now that he was getting the medical attention he needed. I was still a little stressed about our paperwork (we had no fewer than 8 documents clutched in a folder) but internally assured myself that we had everything we needed. I was even able to chuckle when I saw this sign that warned anyone approaching this employee's desk, NO QUESTIONS:





Then, the loudspeaker came on; “for those of you who are in line for a State ID or Driver’s License, the system is down. We are on the phone with Tallahassee. The problem seems to be State wide.” Taylor and I exchanged glances. I was ready to throw in the towel. “Let’s come back tomorrow” I pleaded, “there is still time to get you to school on time.”

As only one with a singular goal can do, she rallied. She pleaded with me to just give it 15 more minutes. So I did. We had already come so far. Another (bitch #2) employee came through the line checking our paperwork. We were given a slip of paper that said OK on it and then shortly after, we were given a number and told to “wait in the lobby.” (a huge misappropriation of the noun)




I will spare you the details of our wait and the well dressed and well spoken Centenarian, who arrived with her nurse, to whom I proffered my seat and who fully expected to renew her Driver’s License. (The fact that she had been driven there by the nurse was inconsequential to her.)

Taylor and I listened numbly to the numbers being called. We heard “A101!” and I said to Taylor (much to the amusement of those in hearing distance) “Shit! I have never heard higher than 81 called at the deli line at Publix!”

Our number was finally called, and we high-tailed it to the designated station.

And sitting there was our final nemesis, a pleasant looking, clueless woman who went by the name of Frances.

I excitedly asked Frances which of the forms or documents she would prefer first. She accepted all of them, complained that another employee should have taken us. She shuffled our documentation around and said, “Now HOW do I do this?” Her voice came out gravelly and with a twang. Sort of like Marge Simpson meets a dedicated 2 pack a day smoker.

By this time, my eyebrows have met my hairline so often during this journey that they are fused together. I willed an exhale through my nose.

Frances decided to ask one of her co-workers how to process a Permit. “Hey Aaaaprilll,” she shouted, “how do you do one of these?” She redirected her attention to the papers in front of her and made a few key strokes on her computer. A few minutes later, she turned her head to squint her eyes towards the person she had asked the question of. Then her eyes shifted back to her computer screen and she mumbled, “That’s why she didn’t answer, her name’s Auuuutumn…not Aaaaprilll” and then she chuckled.

Though Frances was befuddled, spoke to herself frequently and sported an admirable mustache, her hearing was much more acute than her knowledge. We realized this when I pointed out our former comrade in DMV arms from the ‘lobby’, the Centenarian lady. Frances heard me whispering, let out a guttural guffaw and said, “Yeah, we’ll see if she gets her license renewed. Ha.” The knowledge that Frances possessed bat-ears forced Taylor to communicate with me via text while I was standing a mere 6 inches away. “Figures we would get the only person who doesn’t know what she is doing!” I had to stifle a chuckle at my daughter’s ingenuity.

I will say in Frances’ defense, she was the most cheerful person that we met that morning. Perhaps ignorance truly is bliss.


I did have to coach Frances through some steps of the process (which should have been 10 minutes, but which took 30.) I had to remind her that Taylor’s Birth Certificate was in her scanner and that the Parental Approval form rested on her printer. But, when Taylor’s photogenic moment finally came and she stepped in front of the blue screen, nervously adjusting herself for the permanent photo, Frances became the Patrick Demarchelier of the DMV. One shot and done. I smugly (Hey, I had few opportunities to feel smugness during this experience) noticed that the young woman next to us insisted on multiple shots from her DMV employee. Frances came through, as Taylor looks absolutely beautiful in her State of Florida Permit photo.

Taylor still had to answer a few more questions from Frances. Such as, has her license ever been revoked, has she ever been arrested for drugs or alcohol…oh, and does she want to be an organ donor?

This last question prompted Taylor to look at me with questioning eyes. “Do I want to be an organ donor, Mom?” Now, this is deep stuff for a 15 year old who is not legally considered an adult. (Now, why didn’t they include this little tidbit in one of the online courses or tests? Let the kid think about this at home and perhaps speak about it with their parents?) Without telling her what my feelings were, she decided ‘yes.’

Then all of a sudden, we hit the summit of our epic climb up Mount DMV when the coveted State Issued Florida Permit landed in her hot little hands. Eureka! We did it!

And then, my internal voice toned in and said, ‘Oh shit.’
After 15 years, 3 months,22 days plus 3 hours, I am a parent of a licensed driver.

Despite our trials at the DMV and also somewhat because of them, I am a little shell-shocked and surprised.

But my daughter? Is elated. She is a licensed driver in the great State of Florida.



eegads, wish me well.

The Tale of Key West and Two Hits

We spent last weekend in Key West, to ring in the New Year in my favorite place on the planet. I have written before about how this funky, lovely little Island town has somehow captured my heart with its many fine attributes.

One of the things that I find attractive about Key West is the people. Well, rather the locals. Due to my many sojourns and my mutual interests with the folks that call Key West home, I have made some friends. And it was a friend who graciously and generously sponsored our trip during a holiday weekend, which otherwise we could not have well afforded.

This trip, we drove my efficient, sleek, pretty, brand-spanking-new Prius, Daisy down there. Even though I had only purchased her a month and a half previously, I just knew it was her destiny to make many trips to the Southernmost tip. I was excited to ‘stretch her legs’ and count the mile markers down US1 to the final destination for the first time with her.

Once there, we parked Daisy in front of our host’s lovely little Conch home in the private parallel parking in front. (As seen in the pic above) She sat there for the duration of the trip, unmoving and soaking up the warm subtropical sun as Donnie and I always rent a scooter to get around when we are down there.

Scooters, bikes or your own two legs are definitely the preferred modes of transportation in Key West. The streets are Lilliputian in size and the other auto drivers on the road are mostly either taxis (fast and careless) or tourists (drunk and clueless.)

Donnie and I just love to spend entire afternoons just scootering around and reacquainting ourselves with the Island…stopping off at the Bookstores (the Used Book one or Voltaire’s), naming off now familiar sights and most particularly, looking at the architecture and Real Estate.

We have been talking more and more about the re-adjusted dream of not selling our listed townhome in Delray and moving locally, but instead just staying put and instead investing in some sort of Real Estate in Key West. Ideally it would be an income property, a project and a vacation destination. Then it would be a future retirement, a family reunion spot and finally it would be a legacy for our daughter and future generations. (Lofty, I know – but aren’t most dreams?)

We happened upon a very special property during our outing on New Year’s Day and in a fit of pique and optimism, I contacted the listing agent to make an appointment for the following morning to see it before we left town.

We arrived a few minutes prior to the agreed upon time of 10:00 AM the next morning. While waiting under the trees and gazing at our fantasy home, my phone rang. I looked at the incoming call…it was our host.

Our host is a wonderful, creative man. He is a local author, an entrepreneur and is deliciously enigmatic and charismatic. He is also a dichotomy of outgoing and introspective. When I first met him, I was enchanted. Our friendship blossomed quickly and as I said before, it was only because of his good will that we were even staying in Key West.

Hearing his voice on the phone while we stood and waited for the Realtor is not what unnerved me…it was WHAT he said. “There is a very nice man here, who knocked on the door. He said he hit your car.”

I was in a state of disbelief, and for a moment, knowing that our host is a prankster, started looking around for a hidden camera.

MY CAR WAS HIT? I quickly realized our host wasn’t joking, asked him to please accept the information being offered from the person claiming to have dented my Daisy.

We did tour the property, which is very promising and then raced back to our host’s home. Daisy still sat sweetly in the sun, waiting for us. Our host was not around, but the information left by the driver who hit the car was left prominently on our host’s desk.

After returning home, I did call the number left on the ragged half an envelope while regarding the copied Auto Insurance card suspiciously. I needn’t have worried. The “Hitter” (which would make me, or Daisy, the “Hittee”) couldn’t have been nicer or more solicitous. He was deeply sorry and promised to do anything to help with the repairs. Upon calling the Hitter’s home (out of state – he had been on his last day of vacation) Insurance Company, I received similar treatment. They assured me of their intent to honor the minor claim and gushed about how long the “Hitter’s” family had been their client and how nice all of them were. All I could do was agree.

And truly, I am grateful. Key West is a paradise, but it is also very transient. My new car was hit by a spiritual young man who carried not only good insurance…but, something rarer nowadays…a conscience.

Daisy is scheduled to have her cosmetic surgery Monday afternoon. The damage was minor and I know she will look as good as new.

But just like Paul Harvey…there is a “rest of the story.”






This very evening, I was sitting outside of a popular Mexican restaurant in the posh downtown Boca area known as Mizner Park. Several girlfriends and I were celebrating the birthday of one of our own.

While sitting there, munching on chips and sipping Margaritas, we all heard an awful CRUNK noise. We all turned our heads to see a car pull away after hitting another one, right in front of us. I leapt up from the table and chased after the offending car, copying down the make, model, color and license plate. We called security and all they did was stick a note under the windshield wiper of the little black convertible VW bug that now had a sagging front bumper. I did add my name and number and hope that they contact me so that I can provide the details that I have of the “spineless twit” who left the scene.

I have come full circle; I went from a plaintiff to a witness in just a few days.

Our lives are indeed, at times, shaped by those that we meet along the way.


“Hitter,” I apologize for your moniker in this blog as you deserve a much better one. However, I wasn’t creative enough to think up a better one. I thank you for having moral fortitude to knock on a stranger’s door and admit to a mishap. Let it be known, I am a kindred spirit. And I am truly grateful.

“Spineless Twit,” I make no apologies. You hit someone else’s property, caused financial and property damage and fled the scene of your crime. I have done the best that I could to identify you.

“Host,” I am proud to call you a friend. You are indeed an enigma…but that is part of your charm.