Paradise Found

Ahhhh, Key West. A vacation destination whose very name conjures in many people’s minds mind sun, sand, icy drinks garnished with the ubiquitous umbrella and a debaucherous nature second only to Las Vegas.

My Key West, while not chaste by any means, is quieter and certainly less flashy.

I love the architecture. The homes in Key West’s Old Town boast the biggest historical district in the US and derive their shapes from a veritable melting pot of influences. They hail their architectural notes from England, from ship builders, from the Bahamas and from economic and industrial necessity. Boiled down, they are referred to as “Conch Homes.” I must say that owning one, even as a rental that I can visit every so often, is my heart’s desire.

I love the history. Key West is the second oldest city in Florida (St. Augustine being the first - natch) It has a very colorful history of Indians, Pirates, Wreckers, Cigar Makers, Spongers, Politicians as well as (and relatively more recently), Writers, Poets, Musicians (Jimmy Buffet, anyone?) and dreamers. (Mel Fisher, one of the greatest dreamers of our time - “Today’s the Day!” - has a museum in Key West with his name on it and is a testament to all of us who dream big.)

I love the vibe. The acceptance. Be who you are, and what you will be. Key West was progressive in that it was one of the first cities in the US to openly embrace alternative lifestyles. Indeed, Richard Heyman, elected in 1983, was one of the nation’s first openly gay Mayors. But, the ‘live and let live’ culture is not limited to same sex relationships. It is pervasive throughout the Island. You like to knit? Talk to doorknobs? Walk aimlessly? Or somehow live on the fringe of society’s accepted norms? As long as your quirks don’t harm anyone, you are accepted here - and you will likely find other like-minded folks.

I love the people. In general the people, particularly the locals, are friendly. They smile, wave and ask how you are. And, after the slow burn which led to a fiery love affair with this place...I found myself cultivating relationships with some of the folks that I had come across during my visits. As time passed, I was no longer just a groupie of favorite destination...I had made friends. All of them different, and all of them important. I know that with certain ones, I have made a connection that is life-long.

To celebrate my sister’s bachelorette party this past weekend, I was able to take all four of my sisters to Key West. In a quite militant style, I took them on tours, on bike rides and generally schooled them on my adopted home. A couple of my sisters had only cursory visits in the past...one had only been exposed to the party side of Duval Street.

As this was the first time all five of us had been on vacation together...as adults...without parents...I hired a local photographer. I wanted him to to take some photos as a memento of the occasion, and hopefully get a great shot of all of us as a gift for our parents. (One of the proofs, which did not make the cut, is at the beginning of this post.) We went to the Key West Botanical Gardens, which was absolutely beautiful and absolutely HOT! for the photo session.

I felt so proud as I led my 4 sisters through the streets on bikes, circling the Cemetery...and took them to Sunset celebration on Mallory Square...walked with them on the Ghost Tour...showed them the historical bits in East Martello.

It was like I was home.

And once I came back to my ACTUAL home yesterday, the one that is my current address, where I live while I pay my bills...I was a bit morose. Perhaps even a little depressed.

I yearn to go back. To the Island that holds my heart and now is the location of friends. I scour the Internet...Where is the cheapest house in Key West? What will it take to renovate it? How soon can I go back?

When I already live in an area that many would consider paradise, I think it may be selfish to push the paradise envelope farther.

But a girl can’t stop dreaming, right?

A Quick Post

I have been writing, I swear.

I have written invitations, thank you’s, e-mails (many of those, as they are the veins that my company’s blood courses through), agendas, and most certainly in my head and in the notebook where I scribble ideas for writing topics.

But not here, which is where I wish I had more time....or made more time....to do so.

I leave again tomorrow for yet another trip. This time, to my geographical heart, Key West. A trip to celebrate one of my sister’s impending nuptials. Five sisters in all and this will be the first time that all of us have traveled together, on our own, sans parents. I am sure this trip will provide much fodder for my writing.

Another topic of writing close to my heart - I have also gotten a glimpse of Taylor’s next phasing of adolescence. While still challenging, this next phase brings a cool breeze of fall against the last 12 months of scorching hot summer teen angst and disquietude.

I will be back on this page again. But before then, I will be stretching my legs, peddling my feet and opening my mind down on the Southernmost tip.

Sept 11th - A Rant

On the surface, I largely ignored the importance of yesterday’s date. Mostly because it is tough when I do take the time to reflect on the chaos, the fear, the utter horror and the collective loss of lives and innocence on that day. However, my thoughts have never strayed far from it.

I was already at work Tuesday, September 11, 2001 when the first murmurs of a commuter plane hitting one of the towers circulated in the office. I naively took the news in stride and tried to focus on my work. The subsequent hit to the other tower was verbally reported as a news helicopter that crashed into the other building.

Then reality sunk in. I kept refreshing news websites, but they were all intermittently down due to the unexpected large number of hits. In my office, people started to gather in the offices and conference rooms that were equipped with televisions to watch the carnage and the news reporters do their jobs while weeping.

I just stayed at my computer and shouted out updates as soon as I received them. After the plane hit Washington DC, I remember vividly reading the incorrect report that the entire Mall in DC was on fire.

It was then that I began to inwardly panic. We. Are. Under. Attack. My mind repeatedly envisioned the opening sequence of the 80’s movie, ‘Red Dawn,’ and figured that today would unfold along the same lines. It may not have been the Russians, but someone who hated the US was coming en mass to fuck us up.

Though it was delayed due to disbelief, my next thought was overwhelming and visceral - my daughter. I needed to be with her. I needed to hold her and protect her from whatever evil forces were intruding.

My company thoughtfully put out a memo via e-mail that stated we could leave the office if we felt the need to do so. Though under normal circumstances, I am a workaholic, I didn’t need a second invitation...I was outta there.

I dropped everything and ran to pick Taylor up from her school. I felt panicky as I drove the few short miles. She was surprised but happy to see me. (As the fates would have it, this was an “Early Dismissal” day.)

I can’t remember exactly what I said to her. I just remember that I told her that bad men had crashed planes into big buildings. I am sure that this day was not one of my prouder Mommy moments as she could not have missed the terror and despair on my face.

Once home, I put her in her room to watch a movie and nap and then barricaded the doors and the gate. I sat shaking, on the couch and watched the news.

I made phone calls...to my family and to friends. I needed to hear that everyone I loved was grounded and safe. It must have been a universal feeling as my phone rang incessantly with incoming calls. One of them was from my future husband, who was at the time just a friend. He was stuck in the Orlando airport. He was booked on a flight that morning to Boston, where he was to have had an interview for a potential new job.

It was a relief in the ensuing weeks to celebrate my birthday and to continue to parent my almost 6 year old daughter. My psyche needed a break from the endless stream of news on the TV and the internet. It was just too overwhelming and heart-breaking to take in and mentally digest.

However, I realized that I had turned inwards too much and had ceased to be participatory in life and present for Taylor. This was made abundantly clear one evening about a month after 9/11. I was in the kitchen and making dinner for Taylor and I. The evening news was droning on in living room.

“Mommy, MOMMY - come quick!” Taylor screamed. I ran into the living room, wiping my hands on a dishtowel and looked down at my unharmed, beautiful daughter. She pointed at the TV where the evening news was replaying events from that horrible day. She had tears in her eyes and the fear that squeezed them there was apparent.

“The bad men crashed the planes again!” she wailed plaintively throwing her little, innocent body into my grasp. I woke from the stupor I had been functioning under and murmured reassuring things into her ear while holding her closely. It was just a video, the bad men weren’t coming to get her and she was safe.

While I suffered no immediate losses on September 11, 2001, my heart lost a little chunk of itself for the sorrow for all who did.

And I am angry, deeply angry at all of the human beings who planned, carried out and condoned the actions.

May you all rot in hell for coldly and cruelly taking the lives of almost 3000 innocent people that day...for removing the innocence of America....for making the entire globe live in a place of fear...and other for many unhappy, unnatural things.

But selfishly and personally...god damn you for making my daughter’s world an unsafe place to live in.

Taylor and I returned recently from Maine. (Donnie stayed behind to drive down to Connecticut for business.)

It was the first time that I had been back to my Husband’s home state in 2 years and it was my 5th visit in the 6 years he and I have been a couple.

My first visit in, 2004 (with Taylor in tow - she has always accompanied me or later us, on our sojourns to Maine) was when Donnie and I were newly in love and doing the long distance thing. The official goal of this particular trip was to “Meet the Parents” as well as the “Protective Friends of the Inner Circle.” The trial by fire went well - I now address Donnie’s parents with the familiar Mum and Dad and one of the inner circle of friends was actually my Matron of Honor at our wedding. But, a side benefit of that trip was that I fell in love with this quiet, throw-back, nature-infused part of the world that was very unlike anything I had ever known.

Subsequent events brought us back to Maine over the ensuing years, including one rainy weekend in October of 2005 for Donnie’s parent’s 40th Wedding Anniversary and the wedding of our good friends, Tim and Britney. (Hereafter and forever known as “The Weekend I Didn’t Get Engaged” - but that is another blog post of its own.)

Our last visit in late summer 2008 was for his 20th High School reunion, which took place in a giant field...complete with strains of 80’s rock coming from a cover band on a wooden stage that overlooked dozens of campers and tents.

Despite our almost yearly trips back to central Maine, Donnie has spoken wistfully and fondly of the Piscataquis Valley Fair and his desire to go home for it. The Fair is an annual event that has been (in part) run by his parents for many years and has been a big part of his and his sisters’ halcyon childhood memories. However, the timing of the fair in late August was always inconvenient as Taylor was always in her first few days of school by then.

But this year, I finally capitulated and booked a week-long trip for Donnie to go and be a part of the Fair preparations with his parents and also got Taylor and myself up there for a long weekend.

The experience didn’t disappoint. Our vacation was jam-packed with activities. And of course, the Piscataquis Valley Fair was our Copernican event.

Prior to leaving I made joking remarks about the skillet tossing contest to Donnie and his friends and family. Thusly, I found myself signed up on Saturday for the official Skillet Tossing Contest. I didn’t even warm my arm up and left my chances to the skillet tossing Gods(esses).

The Skillet Tossing contest is divided into groups, according to age. I found myself in the second heat along with my two sisters-in-law and my good friend, Lori (afore-mentioned Matron of Honor.) I was ever-so-grateful that I was not alone and prayed quietly that I would not shame my Maine family.

I quickly was ‘learned’ that a Skillet Tosser is not limited in her throwing technique, (overhand versus underhand) but must she (yes, one must be a she - this was a completely female competition - with a touch of misogyny) not touch the line. I choked a bit on my first throw as the MC / Announcer / Barker was heckling me a bit about having married into “all of those Merrills.” But, on my second throw, I tossed my skillet 35 feet. I felt I had thrown respectably and knew that some other women had thrown a shorter distance and some much farther...but was not prepared for what was to come.

Apparently, there is a skillet throwing dynasty in central Maine...and these women are uber-competitive. 2 women in my age group and one older shamed me and all the rest. The longest throw was over 80 feet...a distance I would consider driving.

After getting spanked in the Skillet tossing contest, (well, actually my Mother-in-Law placed 3rd in her group), we all wandered off to take in the rest of the fair.

There were rides (not that I rode them), livestock displays as well as horse and tractor pulls. I was sorry to miss the Frog Jumping Contest and the Pig Scramble. Taylor happily joined Allie and their contemporaries for a few blissful, unsupervised hours at the Fair. The rode the rides, and walked the traditional teenage loop around the valley which was undoubtedly steeped in hormones.

Later that evening, we celebrated Ronnie’s 40th Birthday Party (Donnie’s best friend from waaaaay back and the husband of my friend Lori.)

On Sunday, a group of us went boating and tubing on Sebec Lake. As Taylor had spent some quality time tubing on Sebec during her Epic Summer Trip in July, she had been looking forward to getting her parents on the tube...and watching while we were tossed about like rag dolls and drowned like rats. We ended the day at the lakeside camp of a friend of a friend for tidbits and drinks. The view and the camaraderie made me question my intended choice for my housing dollars....should we forget getting a house in Boca and instead just invest in a camp on the lake in Maine?

Monday we spent with Donnie’s wonderful parents. Taylor got an invitation to go back out on the lake that day and I pretty quickly acquiesced. I knew that Big Don (As he is known in these parts and also as Donnie’s Father) wanted to drive us around and show us some land and figured that Tay would be sad and surly if she came with us knowing that she was missing out on the comparatively fabulous time on Sebec.

After a scrumptious breakfast served by Deanne, Big Don sat shotgun in our rented mid-sized vehicle and directed us to a spot about 15 minutes North East of Milo. Big Don had set his sights on a good-sized plot of land and was considering purchasing it.

Unreachable by any vehicle save snowmobiles or four-wheelers, we walked the path alongside the untouched piece of Maine land that he was yearning for. I was struck by the beauty and wildness of undeveloped land. During our hike, Big Don showed us where he would plan on building a road, which trees he would sacrifice to the lumber industry, where he imagined a bridge crossing the creek and where he thought a good spot for a camp might be.

After our adventure, the Merrill family (Donnie’s parents, Donnie and I, Taylor, sister Dina, sister Darcy and her two children Jake and Hillary) convened at Don and Deanne’s for a farewell feast of lobster (natch - we were in Maine) and steak.

The next day, after tearful goodbyes, we were on our way home...back to South Florida and the crazy, faced-paced tempo of the life that we know.

I love Maine...I love the wildness of the terrain, I love my husband’s family and friends, I love the architecture of the homes and buildings, I love that this area doesn’t just give lip service about days gone by...but actually lives by a credo of a better time.

Laughter and Embarrassing Moments

As a balance to previous posts about my angst, I wanted to post about laughing.

I love laughing. I love when something tickles me so much that I can’t help but double over, tears streaming from my eyes and my breath coming in ragged snorts through my nose.

I recently picked up one of Taylor’s Teen Mags which regularly have a “most embarrassing moment” section. In these Teen Magazines, the embarrassing moment is usually about an audible fart or (oh the horror) leaking menstrual blood at an inopportune time.

As sophomoric as the reading material was, it made me think about my most embarrassing moment...which many of you have heard, but it is good enough to bear repeating.

Plus, I enjoy making others laugh, probably more than I like laughing myself.

Many years ago, I worked for a well-known adoption attorney. As you might imagine, our office was pretty serious, what with the business at hand. And it was made up almost exclusively of women.

I was newly divorced at the time, and to say that I was ready to dip my toe into the dating pool would be an understatement - I was ready to swan dive into the deep end.

I had gotten married and had my daughter relatively young and thusly had missed the dating craziness that many women experience in their early twenties. So I was ready to if not sow, but at least prune, my wild oats.

It was my job to sit at the front desk at the office. I welcomed clients, answered the phones and managed files on the computer and in the drawers.

One day, a group of electricians came through the office, to check on and replace lighting fixtures throughout it. Which is how a deliciously handsome, slightly scruffy, jeans-hang-in-just-the-right-way man was climbing a ladder right in front of me, in the waiting room, just outside of my welcome window, and just outside my grasp.

I craned my neck through the window and peered (towards heaven) upwards and asked “Would you like some coffee?” I batted my eyelashes shamelessly. He replied, “No thanks, Ma’am.” Non-plussed by this initial brush-off by my man candy, I continued to batter him with offers of coffee or (me) water. All of my offerings were declined and the young man seemed in a hurry to rush off, ladder tucked under his arm.

Through one of the office windows, I noticed the electrician’s van outside and its panels that were marked with the name of the company, and noted that they also offered air conditioning services.

During my lunch hour, I found myself riding in the elevator down to the ground floor with an older gentleman, who’s shirt bore the same company name as (the shirt on my heart’s desire) the van parked outside. During the elevator ride, I talked him up, asking about the young man with the (cute ass) brown hair and blue eyes. The older man sized me up and let me know that the (cute-ass guy) young man I was inquiring about , was 18 (EIGHTEEN) and was engaged to be married to the owner of the business’s daughter.

I coughed and stuttered and probably muttered, “Oh, that’s nice.”

Then I tried to really save myself.

Remembering the van outside, I thought I would tell him that I might need air conditioning work sometime (never) in the near future.

I opened my mouth. What I meant to say was, “When my Air Conditioner blows, I know who to call.”

What came OUT OF MY MOUTH was, “When my Air Conditioner goes, I know who to blow.”

The last four syllables of the terribly misplaced sentence were still being said, out loud like a cartoon character with the words hanging over her head...when the elevator doors opened - and the shocked, concerned (and frightened) face of my 18 year old man- candy was staring right back at me.

Man-Candy literally turned on his heel, and sprinted away. The older gentleman, sensing my need to be alone with my utter shame, quietly stepped past me.

I never saw either of them again.

So please, share your stories of complete embarrassment...let me know that I am not alone with my size 9 mouth.

Just Trying

My crazy, fast-paced, frenetic summer is coming to its conclusion.

I kicked off the summer with wedding celebrations for one bride (my friend Deb) and am finishing it off with the wedding celebrations of another (my sister, Michelle). I am Matron of Honor for both.

Sandwiched in between was Taylor’s Epic Trip (2 weeks at camp, several days in Maine and a glorious week in NYC), our family of 3’s cruise through the Western Caribbean and our Manhattan experience together.

Next on the agenda is our trip this weekend back to Maine to spend time with my husband’s family and friends during the Annual Pisquataquis County Fair, followed by a 4 day Bachelorette weekend for my sister in Key West, FL in late September.

October 2nd is my Sister’s wedding day which will punctuate the end of a whirlwind 12 months. It was just shy of one year previously that Deb got engaged and honored me with the request that I be her Matron of Honor. Michelle’s engagement and subsequent request came just a couple of months later.

In amongst all the wedding plans, special occasions and family trips, we have been living our lives. Sometimes I feel like we are barely holding onto them. The details have become buried under the avalanche of Important Events.

During these last twelve months, Taylor completed the 8th Grade, her final year of Middle School. After initially being denied for the High School Choice Program of her preference, she got in at the 11th hour and is now in her 2nd week at Boca Raton High in the illustrious STEM (Science Technology Engineering and Math) Program. In the last few weeks, I have become much more painfully aware of how much she is growing. Not in her height, but in her faux sense of maturity that can only worn by a young teen.

Donnie and I have both been nose to the grindstone at work. We are both exceedingly grateful for our jobs, but the increasing responsibilities, which are no doubt (and understandably) due to hiring squeamishness of our respective companies, have put us on professional full throttle.

This past year, I have also enjoyed a 6 month process of exploring my writing capabilities with a wonderful and wise writing coach. The process was extremely invigorating and enforced a discipline in me with regards to my writing. As I told her towards the end of our sessions, “I feel more like a writer now, and less like someone who is trying to write.” This was another small, but important milestone tucked into the crevasses of the Mountains of Important Days.

I am thinking of all of the other small, but important moments of the last 12 months. My Father losing his job, my Grandfather celebrating his 102 year, a cousin ready to deliver her second child, a friend in crisis, another friend losing her home, a sister dealing with unemployment, another sister in marital distress. All of these are important LIFE moments - and I hope that despite all of the ‘have-to’s’ that littered my calendar, I was an adequate enough woman, sister, daughter and friend to be present for all of them.

I really hope I was.

Me and a Model

Before last week, I had absolutely nothing in common with Gisele Bundchen. Actually, I kind of really disliked her.

Gisele was the leggy model who stepped into NFL Football star Tom Brady’s life when his former girlfriend, Bridget Moynahan was still pregnant. Gisele postured and posed after her boyfriend’s son was born and made very incendiary proclamations about how she loved the child “like her own.”

She and the NFL lothario got married and now have another baby. She then came under fire for proclaiming that childbirth was not the god-awful painful endurance that most women have believed it to be.

She said, “It wasn’t painful, not even a little bit. The whole time, my head was so focused—every contraction, the baby is closer, the baby is closer. So, it wasn’t like, ‘Oh, what pain.’ It was, ‘With every contraction, he is getting closer to me.’ I wanted to be conscious and present for what was happening ... I didn’t want to be anesthetized. I wanted to feel. The second day, I was walking, I was washing dishes, I was making pancakes in the kitchen.”

Reading her quotes was a bit unsettling, because all of a sudden, I have something in common with this freak of nature model who I had previously considered an insensitive interloper.

You see, I have always maintained (to mostly disbelieving audiences) that my experience during childbirth was (while not completely pain free) a really satisfying and exhilarating experience. Yes, it was hard work. Yes, there were some moments during it when I asked if I could take a break and finish later. But, I was an awake, alert and active participant in the birth of my daughter.

Just recently, Gisele exposed herself to more criticism when she stated in an interview that there should be a law that required new Moms to breastfeed their infants for at least 6 months.

The backlash and increased hatred towards her was immediate.

While a law for women to breastfeed for 6 months is certainly unreasonable and unconstitutional, I am now an unlikely ally of a widely disliked supermodel. (***Sigh***)

Because I kind of get where she is coming from.

First I will say that breastfeeding is not the easiest thing – it is a ‘learned art.’ Manipulating an infant’s tiny, searching and impatient lips into the “correct” position on your swollen, sensitive nipples within hours or minutes after delivery is just the first challenge. Continuing down the path of exclusive nursing is yet another.

It requires perseverance, patience and dedication to the goal of breastfeeding. But, once you hit 6 weeks, you are in the groove…in the ‘honeymoon’ phase. For some reason, nursing is pretty much seamless after that time mark and you and your infant become a nursing couple.

Obviously, I breastfed Taylor. It was more of a destiny than a choice.

My own Mother bucked the norm in 1969 and not only had her husband in the delivery room when I was born (during a natural childbirth,) but also chose to breastfeed. (Yes, my parents were wanna-be hippies)

My Mother went on to have 5 daughters. 3 were “homegrown” and 2 were adopted.

Mom decided when she was going through the adoption process for her 4th daughter, who she mistakenly thought would be her last, that she wanted to breastfeed. Just as she had successfully done before.

During the excruciating and invasive adoption process, she used a breast pump to reawaken her body’s reflexes. By the time our family welcomed 3 month old Lara into our home, Mom had successfully gotten about 50% of her milk supply to come in.

Baby Lara became part of our family, and Mom breastfed her with the assistance of the Supplemental Nursing System (SNS).

3 months later, my Mom learned that Lara’s birthmother was pregnant again, and requested that the new unborn child be placed in the same family as the first.

It took about 5 minutes of discussion between my parents. They wanted this newborn – who would be blood related to the daughter they already called their own.

After Lydia (the 5th sister) was born, my Mother then tandem nursed two babies, who had not been born of her body.

So of course, when I birthed my own baby…there was no question. - I would breastfeed.

My nursing experience was 22 months in length and not without challenges. But, I look back and am so grateful.

When I went to Taylor’s pediatrician’s office for her first illness, he commented on the fact that her file was so slim. She was a stranger to the doctor’s office…a robust and healthy 3 year old. (I quietly and secretively attribute this to breastfeeding.)

When I went to a birthday party for one of her friends when she was 6…I casually polled the other Moms, whose children were all in the Gifted program – they all had breastfed. I felt momentarily vindicated.

Now that Taylor is 14, and I am far removed from baby discussions…I get way less validations that my choice to breastfeed was right.

I look back at Gisele. She is a model, a Mom and she breastfeeds and she is outspoken about it.

While her sound bites may be incendiary, I applaud her and her convictions. I myself have had friendships challenged due to my convictions on the subject.

May every baby just get a moment at the breast.

Happy Breastfeeding Month