Author Archives: beachmama777

About beachmama777

Completed a memoir about two alcoholics who make up and break up again and again through recovery. Sober for more than a quarter century, I remain in recovery.

If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with?

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I am forever a love romantic, a fool for love. I crave the high of those early feelings. Neurologists and love doctors have summed it up this way:   Hormones oxytocin and vasopressin in the hypothalamic-pituitary endocrine pathway and the neurotransmitters serotonin and dopamine induce feelings of attachment, happiness, and pleasure.

My brain is out to get me. While I love falling in love, what happens AFTER the fall? What happens when the hormones and neurotransmitters stop shooting out those pleasurable impulses?

For me, there’s a crash landing.  I have to admit that I don’t know what love is anymore. I’ve heard the descriptions “soul mate,” and “the love of my life.” The problem is that I thought I’d found it in HIM…then it was HIM…and yet again HIM.

I’m in the process of divorcing for the FIFTH time. Yes, you heard it right. In fairness, I have married, divorced, remarried, and then re-divorced TWO men TWICE. If you’re confused, it means there were only THREE men altogether.

I thought Number Two husband, who was also Number Three husband, was my true “soul mate” and the “love of my life.” If you’ve read my memoir, you’ll see that he died after we’d been together on and off for almost thirty years.

After he died, I married, divorced and then remarried Number Four and Five. Our divorce will be final in September. I suspect that he was in the realm of today’s subject. If I couldn’t be with the ONE I truly loved, this guy would suffice. But WHY do I insist upon marrying them???

I give the excuse to my girlfriends that I fall for the marriage proposals every time. They are like the ones you see on The Bachelor, if you’re foolish enough to watch THAT idiotic TV show (I do!) That kind of show feeds into our foolish love notions that there is a prince out there ready to rescue the fair maiden. I suspect anyone reading this post got sucked into fairy tales just like I did.

The reality is far from a fairy tale. I’m nobody’s notion of a fair maiden, and he’s far from a prince. It’s more than his aggravating habit of leaving the toilet seat up. In my case, we had a huge argument about the date of expiration on a jar of tartar sauce. When he rejected my prooffered out of date tartar sauce, I felt like I had failed as a woman. Really.

Those role models run deep. Mom would NEVER have tried to feed Dad and us kids with OLD tartar sauce! Truth is that, yes, yes, she would have. And Dad would never have noticed nor commented on it. But MY huz did, and it felt like a stab to the heart.

What is behind that feeling? I felt criticized, less than, a failure. It wasn’t just a jar of expired tartar sauce. That is but one example of the type of thing that we argued about, again and again, in different versions of the same tune.

He seemed so “perfect” while the oxytocin, vasopressin, serotonin, and dopamine were flowing. Once his “representative” left the room, it was just the two of us–and the realization that we are two flawed human beings who are totally unsuited for each other.

I’ll let you digest this post for awhile and come back again to express more feelings. It’s another death, another loss, another fantasy wrecked on the shoreline of reality. And reality is a word that this recovering alkie hates to hear.

 

 

 

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Feelings, those damned feelings

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Has it really been NINE months since I’ve last written on my blog? Gee, nine months. Wonder what ELSE takes nine months…oh yeah: birth.

Anyone remember the TV show Ben Casey? The opening line was “Birth, Death, Infinity.” That’s the true order of things. I was born many, many years ago. That was the beginning of the ride. Now, I’m facing death, and a whole lot of it recently.

My mom died on October 8th, just over a month ago, at the ripe old age of 97. The last few years of her life were rough. She had delusions. She feared that someone or someones were out to kill her. There was no good way of consoling her or denying her reality. It would be like someone telling me my dogs were cats. In her brain, those delusions were REAL.

She’d had a difficult life. Born and raised in a tiny town in Hungary, she was a Jew when anti-Semitism was alive and well in her country and in the entire continent of Europe. Her parents, my grandparents, ran the town’s bakery.

When her parents were no longer able to work, courtesy of Nazi Laws in Hungary, my mother and two sisters moved to Budapest to find jobs and to send money back to the rest of their family. To hide their Jewish affiliation, one of the sisters managed to get them all false Christian papers.

Mom managed to survive as a hidden Jew until someone voiced suspicions to the authorities. The gendarmes revoked her paperwork and took it back to headquarters to verify the authenticity. Meanwhile, Mom waited for them to return and to take her into custody. She said she wasn’t afraid to die. She was afraid of being tortured.

What I’m getting to is that, in her past, there were MANY someones who she feared were coming to kill her. These later in life delusions might have been fears she’d repressed from those horrible days in Hungary. Her parents, brother, sister and her family were murdered in Auschwitz.

Unlike today, people in the late 1940’s and ’50’s didn’t share everything that was on their minds. They had no access to facebook, and going to see a psychologist to “process” what had happened was not an option. So she did what most “sane” people did under those circumstances: she shoved those fears down, way down into her subconscious.

I suspect in her later years, those memories broke free from the web of horrible memories and emerged as real “boogey men.”

Towards the end of her life, Mom was incredibly hard to be around. She locked her house with chains around the door handle. She wouldn’t let anyone she didn’t know really well come into her place because she was certain they were stealing from her.

At one point, she was certain her neighbor in Leisure World was sending ants carrying poison on their backs into her home. She suspected the ants had spread the poison onto all her dishes and food, so she had stopped eating. She smelled gas in her bathroom and was certain someone was piping it into her ventilation system.

She wanted to move, and she wanted to move immediately. VERY long story short, under intense pressure, I quickly located a senior living home with only four residents fifteen minutes from my home.

Maybe a week or two later,  she convinced my daughter to sneak her out of it because she was convinced the owners had stolen her I.D. and were smuggling foreign relatives into the country. She stayed about a month with my daughter. When that didn’t pan out, my son moved her up to Spokane, Washington to live with him. That lasted about a couple months before she moved into a seniors apartment complex where she lived all by herself for three years.

She was completely independent, cooking for herself, taking buses to get groceries, and finally admitting she needed a walker to get around.

The night I called her to see how she was doing, she told me with real earnestness that she had been expecting, that very night, that the “killers” were coming for her. She had stacked a bookcase filled with heavy objects against the sliding glass door of her balcony to block them from getting in.

I asked her again, as I’d asked her so many times before, if she wanted to move back to California. At last, she admitted she did. We made preparations for my husband to fly up to Spokane, to pack up her few belongings in a U-Haul, and to drive it back here. I’d arranged a new senior apartment less than ten minutes from my home where she could live.

I flew Mom back to John Wayne Airport in Newport Beach, where she arrived at 6:00 pm. I picked her up, and she was ecstatic to be home. We kissed and hugged and were sincerely glad to see one another. I suggested we have dinner at a Norms restaurant. My teeny little mother hadn’t been eating much in recent times, so I didn’t even know if she was hungry.

I ordered us both fish dinners, and she managed to eat half the portion, along with salad and other vegetables. She had our server pack up a doggy bag so she could eat the remainder the next day.

We were talking and laughing like the old days. We reminisced about some of her funny old friends, and her memory was spot on. Because we were having such a pleasant time together, I asked our server to take a picture of us after we’d finished our meal.

We got into the car and headed home. Not even fifteen minutes later, she suddenly slumped forward in her seat. Her top denture fell out of her mouth. I could tell this was serious. I shook her and asked her what was wrong. She managed to utter, “I don’t know.”

Those were to be her last words.

I pulled into a fire station and laid on the horn. Several firemen rushed out. One took her pulse and said it was faint. They loaded her onto a stretcher, slid her into the ambulance, and told me to follow them to the nearest hospital.

Although I didn’t “know,” I knew. She was gone.

The on-call doctor told me that they’d tried CPR in the ambulance. In the hospital, they tried to shock her heart back to beating.

She was gone.

I got a chance to say a final goodbye in the hospital room, where Mom lay lifelessly. She didn’t look like she’d suffered. It was quick and easy, just as she would have preferred it.

It was a “perfect” way to die. There she was, back in her home state, having eaten a good fish dinner, and in the company of the daughter who loved her so much and whom she loved just as hard.

Birth, death, infinity. Wherever you are, Mom, I hope you have found peace.

 

 

Sobriety Collective Article

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  First of a Two-Part Series

I was not an alcoholic, nor an addict, nor a substance abuser. I was not even a “problem” drinker. After all, I was a college graduate, had stable employment, lived in a decent home, had a husband and two kids, and I was a Jew. Everyone knew that alcoholics lived under bridges or in shelters. Addicts stole and were incarcerated in the finest penal institutions. And, of course, both varieties came from dysfunctional families. Well, okay, my family was pretty dysfunctional.

Not only wasn’t I an alkie or a druggie, but also, in my career as a probation officer, I supervised them. They were on the other side of the desk. They were my caseload, and I was paid to “fix” them or to lock them up. I didn’t get arrested when I drove drunk because I had a badge.

Alcohol and drugs were my solution, not my problem. I used them to “take the edge off,” to cope with stress and unhappiness. I used them to help me feel at ease in uncomfortable settings—and anywhere was an uncomfortable setting. Mostly, I used them to feel attractive to the opposite sex.

Getting drunk and using drugs was cool—for a very, very long time. Most people would never have guessed I had a problem. I kept that secret behind closed doors. To the outside world, I was the life of the party:  I was funny and entertaining when I was loaded. My hijinks were the stuff of water cooler jokes at the office on Monday morning. My “outsides” looked just fine.

Towards the end, drugs and alcohol turned on me. My life got very dark. I drank daily and had blackouts in which I couldn’t recall what I’d done or with whom I’d done it.  I lived a double life: during the day, I was a professional in a job with incredible authority, but at night, I drank in the scummiest of dive bars with “lower companions.” From the time I got home from work and popped that first beer until the time I crashed at night with a wine glass by my bedside, I drank. After all, I had a stressful job and a difficult home life. I deserved to drink and to smoke pot!

I got sober on January 4, 1988. It was, and still is, a journey.

I’ve had a chance to take a good, hard look at my life as an alcoholic and addict in a memoir I recently had published:  Starting at Goodbye. I worked on it, off and on, for over ten years. In the first of this two part series, I will refer to a few excerpts to illustrate what my life looked like drunk and sober. The book is also an outrageous love story and testament to my late husband, Wayne. We shared thirty years of our lives together until his death from cancer. I picked up a hunky cowboy in a country western bar and took him home that night. Wayne was supposed to have been my last one night stand.

One of the main reasons I drank was to help me feel better about myself when it came to men. I had a horrible self-image based on my looks. I’d had horrible cystic acne as an adolescent. I was ridiculed by boys in both junior and senior high school because of my skin. I just wanted to be invisible if it meant they’d leave me alone.

When I drank, I felt pretty. I believed that if I went home with the cutest guy in the bar, I wasn’t so bad looking after all.

Here’s an excerpt from the book set early in my relationship with Wayne:

He flashed me his adorable smile and sexy wink, and I was toast. My anger melted like snow on a sunny day. I knew he was attracted to me for the security I offered, not to mention my cabinet filled with booze and a steady supply of pot. He needed my strength and stability. I needed him needing me. No matter what I did or said, he wouldn’t leave me. My weakness filled me with disgust, but I couldn’t really understand why I stayed. What was missing in me? Where was that empty space he filled? Why didn’t I believe I deserved someone who was my equal educationally, socially, and financially?

 We shared a desire to avoid reality. Although I managed to go into work most days, I found myself calling in sick more often after suffering worse and worse hangovers. With Wayne, I was drinking more than ever, matching him shot for shot. On weekends especially, we’d spend hours sitting around the dinner table sharing intimate feelings while candles flickered.

 “No one asked me to the prom,” I said. Tears plopped down my cheeks as I sipped sloppily on a glass of Gallo.

 “I’da asked ya if I’d known ya then.” Wayne leaned over and patted me on the hand.

 “No one wanted me. I was so ugly with my pock-marked skin. And all the boys in high school were so damn short. Some of the meaner ones teased me in front of everyone, called me a giraffe. I sucked it up and cried later, all alone, in my bed.” I took another sip, knocking over the glass accidentally.

 “Ahh, baby. I think you’re beautiful.” He jumped up to get a sponge to wipe up the mess and got out the crystal decanter to pour me some more wine.

 On nights like these, after I poured out my sob stories, we’d stagger upstairs and pass out on the bed. Often, with the room spinning, I’d puke my guts out first….

 I hated feeling so desperate. I questioned my attractiveness. What’s wrong with me? Wasn’t I pretty enough? Passionate enough? Feminine enough?

 The answers lay in the bottom of a liquor bottle. Once I was drunk enough, I could push down the pain, postpone the issues, and ignore what was happening in my life. 

Because I was a functional drunk and Wayne wasn’t, it was easier to focus on him as the alcoholic. His father suggested that I attend Alanon with him.

Here is an excerpt of my first Alanon meeting:

At 6:30 on the dot, Nathan arrived to drive me to the community center in Costa Mesa. A sign posted on a door declared “Alanon meeting here.” We entered a brightly lit large room with dozens of metal folding chairs arranged in straight lines. Slogans with trite sayings like “Let go and let God” had been posted on the walls. A woman dressed in a conservative, navy suit stood at a podium on stage. I surveyed the audience, composed mostly of middle-aged women in dowdy lounge wear with worn, beaten looks on their faces. This is going to be a laugh a minute.

 The leader read aloud some material from Alanon literature, which was followed by enthusiastic clapping. A parade of others stepped up to the podium, announcing their names, which were echoed by the audience—“Hi Loser!” Each told a tale of woe about husbands, boyfriends, or adult children who were out of control from alcohol. There was continuous mention of “the alcoholic,” as if he or she was an inanimate object.

 They had no sense of humor regarding “the alcoholic,” that’s for sure. I had to stifle a desire to laugh out loud on occasion hearing them describe some pretty riotous drunken antics. If they could’ve read my mind, they’d have booted me out of the joint. I didn’t want to humiliate Nathan, so I kept my feelings to myself.

 They ended the meeting by joining hands and reciting some stupid prayer with which I was unfamiliar. I think they said it was the Lord’s Prayer, which lent the whole shenanigans a clearly Christian slant, adding more icing to this unappetizing cake. I’ll give them a piece of my mind if they try to convert me, Nathan be damned.

 After the meeting, we were steered to a table which held Styrofoam cups, a big coffee urn, hot water and tea bags, and an assortment of pastries and cookies. Nathan nudged me in the direction of a group of women who had congregated in the area, and he suggested I talk to them about Wayne. One woman who appeared to be the head sob sister was surrounded by a group of fawning women. I approached the bunch timidly as they formed a spontaneous opening to allow me into the circle. I found myself tattling on Wayne, focusing on his sporadic work history, and recounting tales of outrageous bourbon-related incidents. The head sob sister swept me into her arms and hugged me tightly. Her cohorts made sympathetic tsk-tsk sounds while patting me on the back and muttering jargon.

 A tear slipped down my cheek as I grew more comfortable with this new role of victim. I began to embellish the stories, culminating with a synopsis of the SWAT blow-out.

 “How awful, you poor thing,” one grey-haired matron said, locking eyes with me. “Keep coming back!”

 I was beginning to relish being the center of attention. Hey, this isn’t so bad!…

Is this what the future holds in store for me? Sitting around with a bunch of pathetic losers talking about “the alcoholic”? Might as well shoot myself now and get it over with. Is being with Wayne worth it? I need a stiff drink. 

 

The second part of this two-part series deals with my realization that I too might have a substance abuse problem.

 

Recovery Rocks Interview

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Name:  Marilyn Boehm

Age:  66

Sobriety date:  1-4-88
Website:  beachmama777.wordpress.com
Facebook:  Marilyn Boehm

Bio:  I am a retired probation officer who has now been fortunate enough to focus on my other life’s passions. I am a dog lover, and I’ve started a meetup with others who love their fur kids. We meet at a local park, have lunch, and then go for a pack walk.

I love quieter pursuits, like gardening. I tend to be on the obsessive side, so my backyard looks like a tropical jungle. I also volunteer weekly at the Long Beach Veterans Administration nursing home. I simply spend time listening and joking with these disabled men and women. I help the blind vets with bingo games, and generally offer any kind of support needed. This is my way of giving back, and I find it helps me more than it helps them. Isn’t that always how service works?

My most recent, and significant accomplishment has been to write and publish my memoir, “Starting at Goodbye.” It is my story of alcoholism, recovery, and the crazy love affair I had with my now deceased husband. I worked on it for ten years, and it helped me deal with the grief of losing my life partner. He was also a Vietnam vet, so working at the VA helped me focus on the living, instead of dwelling on his death.

  • Describe your “rock bottom.”

There were a series of events that conspired to beat me into submission as I struck “rock bottom.” One of the most damaging memories I recall happened when I was in a drunken stupor, angry at my family for not helping to clean the house.  I threw my four-year-old daughter’s toys and possessions off the second story level of our townhouse. Watching her scream in terror as her things went crashing onto the floor of our living room should have assured me a rapid end to my drinking. It helped, but it didn’t end there.

When my husband, a nonfunctional drunk, went into treatment, I was forced to look at the extent of my own drinking. Because I appeared more functional, maintaining a career while drinking myself to death on a daily basis, it took moving the focus off him and onto me. I noticed that those wine bottles in the trash can were mine, and I couldn’t blame it on him anymore.

Lastly, I participated in a personal growth seminar in which I realized how numb I’d gotten from my drinking. The feedback I got from the other participants was that they saw “a dead woman.” I made an appointment for outpatient treatment the following week. I realized I needed help.

  • What were your first 30 days of recovery like?

I absolutely hated being sober! I had to learn to live my life without any drugs or alcohol, and it was extremely uncomfortable. I liked the fellowship—the laughter and the crazy stories—but I thought those who were enjoying sober lives were lying! Ironically, I’ve stayed sober since my first meeting 28 years ago, and now it’s me who shares about enjoying life.

  • What are the best things that have happened to you since you got clean/sober?

My husband relapsed during my first two weeks of recovery, asking me why he should stay sober when it was obvious I wouldn’t last one more day. Because I knew I couldn’t stay sober around my drinking “buddy,” I divorced him. Alcohol had destroyed us both. I still loved him, but I knew I couldn’t live in that madness anymore.

When he came into the program six months later and joined me at some of my meetings, we remarried! Our family life grew healthy for the first time, and we became responsible and stable parents for the first time. My husband eventually took his contractors exam and became a licensed contractor. We experienced financial security for the first time in our marriage.

Those were the most joyous days of my life. I still needed a little “edge” of excitement in sobriety, so we started adventure travel. We enjoyed seeing four kinds of monkeys and sloths in the rainforests of Costa Rica. We saw a tiger in the jungles of Nepal while riding on the back of an elephant. We saw a pack of lions hunt and kill a buffalo in Botswana.

When my husband got diagnosed with brain cancer, I was able to be his caregiver for five years, while working full time. While that experience was far from being the “best thing,” I learned the true meaning of love. It’s not a feeling, it’s an action.

I also got to see my daughter graduate from college after which she found and married a great guy. My son, who got the worst of my drinking, found a solid career in the railroad industry in Spokane, Washington. He and his ex-wife also blessed me with my grandson, who is now 11 years old. Seeing both of my kids grow up to become productive, responsible, and loving adults is HUGE.

  • If you could go back in time to you when you were drinking/using, what would you tell yourself?

I would tell myself that I didn’t need to anesthetize myself and numb out my feelings in order to live a good life and to be okay with myself. I would tell myself that I could have MORE fun in sobriety than I ever could find in the lowlife bars and with the lower companionship I considered as friends.

I would tell myself I am a funny person! In sobriety, I learned that I made people laugh when I shared. So I took a Stand-Up Comedy class and, for my final exam, I performed in a comedy club. I continued to perform a couple more times, but I realized it was too much pressure and that I shouldn’t give up my day job!

  • What have been the most useful things you have learned about yourself since getting sober/clean?

I have learned that it’s an inside job. When I was drinking and using, I focused on looking and sounding good. I believed I was ugly and needed attention and validation from men to have any worth. I wore a mask, hiding my true self from the world.

I have learned that one of the most important things is to walk in integrity, to clean up my act if I make a mistake and hurt someone, to live an authentic life that I choose.  I have found that the innermost me is a good person who is living her dreams and is grateful for what I have. I no longer want someone else’s life.

  • Tell me about something wonderful that happened to you recently that would never have happened if you had been drinking.

In June of last year, I challenged myself to do something for a cause dear to my heart: helping to save the life of elephants. I flew to Sacramento to learn to lobby for a bill that would prohibit the sales of ivory in our state. The bill passed in the legislature! In my drinking days, I would have complained that there was nothing I could do to help fix anything I found wrong in the world. In sobriety, I know that my voice matters and that I am not powerless.

Also, I had always wanted to be a writer but never believed I was good enough. When I was in college, I had signed up to be a journalism major. Because of one conversation with someone who walked me between classes and whom I didn’t even know, I changed my major and the direction of my life.

It was only in sobriety that I finally had the courage to tell my truth and to face my demons by publishing my memoir in November, 2015. The reactions from people who have read my memoir have given me the confidence to call myself an author and to believe I really am a good writer!

  • What are your favorite recovery slogans?

“Live and let live.”

“To thine own self be true.”

“A day at a time.”

  • And lastly, why does “recovery rock?”

By the time I got to the rooms of AA, I wanted to die. I have realized that, in sobriety, I am learning to live life on life’s terms. Now, I want more than ever to live a sober life as long as I can last. I want to feel all of my feelings, good and bad. My life rocks…and it’s all because I’m in recovery!

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My book is published

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It took me more than ten years, but I finally finished my book “Starting at Goodbye.” I think I hesitated and dragged it on for so long because I was terrified about dealing with publishing.

In the many critique groups in which I participated, I asked those who’d finally completed their books how they had gone about the publishing process. One woman said she actually got an agent who was interested in shopping her book around to different companies. She waited months and months and, finally, the agent told her no one was interested. In the end, she published it herself.

Wanting to spare myself a similar frustrating experience, I decided to skip the whole agent and famous publishing house deal by self-publishing. In this day and age, it seems like the easiest and best prospect for those of us who aren’t BIG named authors.

I found a guy on facebook in a writers forum who said he had just started his own publishing company. For $1000.00, he’d edit it, format it, design the cover, and then send it to Amazon, Barnes and Noble, etc. It sounded good to me, so I corresponded with him for several weeks. Allegedly, he had a partner who was the talented artist and who would design my cover.

The longer we were in contact, the more suspicious I grew. He was just too lackadaisical about the money thing (“You can pay me on a payment plan whenever you want”) and so on. He said he was based in California, where I live, but he wouldn’t divulge the exact location.

We spoke on the phone a couple times, and he sounded more nervous about it than I did. In essence, he wasn’t very professional, and I began to smell a rat!

After working on my book for so long, I was not about to deal with an unscrupulous publishing business.  My gut was screaming “run for your life!”

When he suddenly picked up and moved out of state with his “partner,” I was about done. Then the partner started pressuring me for money so they could pay their rent. Really?!!!

I decided to quit while I was ahead. I wanted no nasty repercussions, so I simply told him I planned to go with another option. He didn’t argue and just begged me not to share my experience of him and his business online.

I looked into other options and queried other writers who’d been through self publishing. None was willing to give me a solid recommendation.

While I’d been writing the book, I kept emails from different sources that offered publishing options. Most seemed to come from Book Baby. I held my breath, did some mild meditation, and decided to contact someone from BookBaby. The whole deal sounded so professional and straightforward, especially after my previous experience.

So I did it! I went with BookBaby. The whole thing, including 25 hard copies of my book, cost over two grand. Now that I’ve gotten those books in my grubby little hands, I feel like the whole thing was worth it. The books are beautiful! The cover, which I helped by suggesting themes and by sending three photos taken in a cheapy fair photo booth, looks wonderful.

I have already sold out those first 25 copies, giving a few copies to family members for free and saving three for myself. On November 26th, the books go on sale on Amazon, Barnes and Nobel, Nook, and some online companies I’ve never heard of.

You can buy an ebook for $4.99 and a paperback for $16.99. Of that amount, I’ll probably receive about $1.50 for each paperback book sold.

I didn’t write the book to make money and to be famous. I wrote it to share my life and my experiences with others. So far, my friends have told me they “love it.” Several read it almost non-stop, saying they couldn’t put it down. I may decide to market it, after all.

In my next post, I’ll share the first three chapters here. If you are interested, you can buy the book afterwards.

I’m ecstatic! I finished a major item on my “bucket list.” I hope others here will enjoy the journey.

Diary of a Divorce: Jan 26th

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THAT’S ALL, FOLKS…

      Well, that day has finally arrived: my marriage is officially OVER. As of today, I am officially restored to my single status.

       And how do I feel?

       Invigorated–Free–Renewed–and finally, just a little sad.

       Of course, it’s the clear acknowledgement that the dream has come to a close. All that hope and anticipation of a life spent together with this man have ended. It was, as my ex used to say, what it was. I can remember my wedding day. I was beaming with happiness. The house was filled with dozens of beautiful, multi-colored roses. It was a new beginning, a start of a new couple: Mr. and Mrs.

         Now, it’s back to me and to Ms. I have requested, and been granted in the dissolution, a return to my maiden name. I will proceed with changing all the paperwork starting on Tuesday as I apply for a new Social Security card. If I knew then what I know now, four marriages later, I would never have changed my last name. But it’s “water under the bridge.”  Ultimately, all those romantic fantasies boil down to forms, to regulations, to legalities. In the final analysis, a marriage is a legal partnership with ramifications often requiring resolution by courts of law. I’m grateful my dissolution was a “friendly” one that we handled by a paralegal. We had no property or children together.

           I suspect most of us enter into these partnerships willingly and with high hopes for happiness that will last forever.  As we know, that’s not always how it ends. Does it surprise me that 50% of marriages end in divorce? Nope. We’re not our parents’ generation. We demand that it be good. We are unwilling to settle for a warm body lying next to us in bed each night. The oldest reason many people stayed together was “for the sake of the children.”  Even that is often not enough to keep two unhappy people married.

         In a month and a half, my 28 yr old daughter will be walking down the aisle as she promises her life to her new husband. The wedding will be nostalgic for me, but beautiful and filled with all my hopes that my daughter will find in marriage what I didn’t or couldn’t. I wish her all the best with all of my heart.

          And, in the meantime, I will be bringing to a close this chapter of my life–and of my blog life. The diary of my divorce has reached its final page.  No, I won’t discontinue blogging. I just need a new name and a new goal. Perhaps I will talk about my new adventures as an older single woman. No matter what happens in my next chapter of life, I suspect it’ll be interesting. So please stick around, folks. You ain’t seen nothing yet!!!

 

Diary of a Divorce–January 22nd

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IT’S IN HIS KISS

     So I left you aching to know what became of my new guy, right? The guy who asked me out on New Year’s Eve and who seemed so “perfect” in so many ways. He is the epitome of consideration, kindness, good manners, and loves dogs. He’s 6’4″ tall, which is a nice match to my 5’11” height. He is exactly my age and decent looking, maybe shy a few hairs on his head, but he doesn’t try to disguise it in something hideous like a comb-over.

     What could go wrong, you might ask. The first sign came when I met him with our dogs at the park, had lunch, and went for a stroll on a balmy Southern California day. The conversation flowed, and, most importantly, his dog got along with my two!  But I guess I wasn’t feeling that “spark,” that physical chemistry.  Who can define it?

      Maybe, I figured, it was better all around if I didn’t feel passionate towards this guy. I haven’t had the best luck following my impulses where men have been concerned. Frankly, I think my “picker” is broken. Maybe it would be best to start off slow and let the sexual energy build gradually.

      We went to a movie and dinner on New Year’s Eve. We talked, we laughed, we exchanged details about our lives. So far, so good. He gave me a plant from his garden which he’d put in a beautiful pot. Along with this thoughtful gift, he’d enclosed a card. In it, he said, “Let’s take this slowly and build a solid foundation.” Wow. How many guys do you know who want to take it slowly?

      As we sat talking in his SUV, he bent over to give me a little kiss. Okay, it was awkward. I figured it was the position in which we sat in the bucket seats. Maybe, I suggested, we could try it again outside the car? So we did. And…..it was a wet kiss. One of those tongue kisses where you feel you need a towel afterwards. Ugh…I’m embarrassed to talk about it. It had never happened before. Every kiss with every man prior to this one had been effortless and natural. To make matters worse, my soon-to-be-ex husband is a GREAT kisser. That, and sex, were probably the only areas where we got along fantastically. If only we’d never gotten out of bed.. But I digress.

       I quickly made an excuse that we’d better head home before all the crazies got on the road after midnight. We said goodbye and he promised to call. Soon after I arrived home, he’d sent me an email in which he said he was so excited about the direction we were headed and that he was enjoying getting to know me more and more.

       And then, like a total moron, I did the ego embellishing woman thing: I thanked him a lovely time and told him he was a good kisser.

       What the hell was I thinking????

       Of course, he was thrilled to hear it and wanted to set up another date really soon–at his house. It didn’t sound like the kind of plan where he was trying to lure me into his lair to get laid. He’d actually carefully thought out the date to meet my specifications. He has a scooter and had asked me if I’d like to ride on it with him. I said it sounded like fun but insisted I wouldn’t ride on it in traffic or on the freeway. I suggested going to a canyon area or a more remote setting where I’d feel safer.

        He researched some canyon drives near his home, took a ride around them to find one I’d enjoy, and then invited me to join him. He also invited me to bring the dogs, and we could take them for a walk in a nearby park. Afterwards, he’d make me dinner. All he needed to know was whether I preferred filet mignon or prime rib. What a great guy!

       We were to get together a week ago Saturday. As the date grew closer, I could feel my anxiety building about the “kiss situation.” I even discussed it beforehand with a male friend. Ugh!!! Still, I decided to give him another chance. Honestly, he is a wonderful guy!

        When I drove up to his house, which is fully paid for, I was pleasantly surprised. It is in a beautiful canyon, surrounded by greenery and parks. He had decorated the place tastefully and in style–like those old canyon homes I recall from the ’60’s and ’70’s: fountains lightly trickling water, light effects to set the mood, lava lamps, and hundreds of plants both indoors and out. I felt comfortable immediately.

         We took a ride on his scooter, which is almost as large as a motorcycle, and I felt free and wild. What fun I was having!

         We came back to his house and played a game of stacking lego-like pieces until they collapsed. He offered me a smoothy he mixed up in his blender and then brought out a delicious appetizer. He put on a music DVD which was a concert of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. So far, so good. But I could feel my body language signaling him to keep his distance. I was nervous!

         We had dinner, which he prepared and served on cool stoneware. And then the moment came: He said he’d like a kiss…

         So I thought I’d try it with my mouth shut. And???? It…was… wet again. OMG.

         I made a hasty retreat soon thereafter. I knew this was not going to work. Everything about him is wonderful, but I knew I was not about to teach a guy how to kiss. If he can’t do THIS well, it doesn’t bode well for other more intimate activities.

         I discussed it at length with one of my closest friends the next day as we took a long walk with the dogs. She strongly suggested I tell him right away, instead of leading him on. He is a good guy and deserves someone who is “into” him physically.  I knew she was right.

         I came home to find an email from him saying how happy he was and that he was enjoying me more and more as he’s gotten to know me. I knew I had to let the ax fall.

        I sent him an email in which I very kindly and diplomatically explained that I’m not feeling “it” with him and that I know myself well enough to know that this type of thing can’t be forced. I offered him my friendship as I really, really DO enjoy spending time with him, but told him I’d understand if he wanted to blow me off. I offered to talk with him if we wanted to discuss this further.

        Two days passed, and then he called. He wanted to know what had gone wrong. He’d felt hurt at first, and then confused. I’d given him signs that I was feeling as positive about him as he was about me. He kept on digging for answers, and I’m not a very good liar. I asked him if he wanted to know exactly what the problem was. When he said he did, I reluctantly told him about The Kiss. Ugh!!!!

        We evaluated more specifics about kissing than I have EVER before discussed with a guy!!! I tried to explain exactly what kind of kiss turns me on–not such an easy thing to describe. And he…said he wanted to remain my friend!! I replied that I would be willing to try it as long as he understood it would never be more than a friendship. I don’t think you can change those types of feelings. It’s either there or it’s not.

         Only time will tell about how this friendship works out. He has already contacted me a couple times, including enthusiastically calling me to tell me he’d “won” an auction to get a second dog. He was so pleased with how his dog had interacted with one of my dogs that he decided to get his dog a playmate. We have talked about taking all four dogs to Dog Beach really soon.

        I don’t know about how this romantic stuff works, why it is that the guys who are the best guys aren’t the ones for whom I fall. Is it the “Good guys finish last” phenomenon? Honestly, if I could will myself to fall for this guy, I’d do it. We are so compatible in every other way. But you can’t fool Mother Nature. Deep within our bodies, pheremones or some such unconscious phenomena are dictating who turns us on and who doesn’t.

         I keep singing a couple songs: the Everly Brothers “Til I kissed ya” and the Shoop Shoop song. If you want to know if you love him so, it’s in his kiss. That’s how it is.