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I have been invited to a retirement party for a very special dog, a beautiful Golden Retriever with soft,reddish fur,and watchful eyes full of love. For her eight years of service, Henna has faithfully cared for her owner Dee, who has MS. Henna has helped Dee keep her balance and brace her on uneven ground and stairs. She has done her job very well, and never goes off duty until Dee tells her she can play. Unfortunately, Henna is getting older and slower, and will get to retire as soon as Dee gets her new dog. Henna will live with Dee and her husband Steve, and spend her remaining dog years being cared for, and just being a dog. Roger and I met Dee and Henna in a chair yoga class. Of course, Henna had the Downward Facing Dog pose nailed! Roger liked to pet Henna, because her fur was so soft and she stood still.

So now, Dee needs to raise funds so she can get that service doggie in the window. They cost a lot because they are carefully raised and trained to do their specialized job. I am thrilled that I have some money given to me in memory of Roger, and I have no doubt that Roger would want the money to go towards a new service dog for Dee. I can see him petting Henna and the smile on his face. He loved all of our dogs with his heart wide open.

Will you please help Dee get her new service dog? Join me in donating any amount you wish so Dee can get the help she needs. I admire Dee for her positive outlook, and she is very funny and makes me laugh. She has amazing courage and resolve to face MS, and not let MS define her.

If you mail any contributions, I will make sure Dee gets them. Payable to: Dee Sullivan
Thank you.

When I headed out the door to go to work, Roger would often call down the stairs, “Play nice with the other kids.” The older I get, the less I want to be nice. Nice is not for me. My Mother always said “If you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything.” Unfortunately, my quiet “nice” can fan embers of smoldering resentments into a raging forest fire. The kind of forest fire with zero containment, and threatening homes.

“Girlie” girls are nice, but very boring. I get a lot done when I’m pissed off. I can get the urge to clean house or worse! Nice is usually hiding something, like authenticity. I know please and thank you help social transactions flow pleasantly and smoothly. We coach our kids on please and thank you even when please sounds like “peas”, and thank you sounds like “Hank you”. If Aunt Edith gives them a shirt they would not be caught dead in, “thank you” is really a lie and so it begins…lying to protect other people’s feelings.  Slippery. I am done going down that road.

Nice never seems to grow up, but I grew up and life got more complicated. Whenever I go on a “nice” binge, I find myself committed to cleaning cat litter boxes, or making 50 phone calls to let people know a meeting has been moved. I don’t jump out of bed in the morning, excited for all the opportunities to be “not” nice. Yesterday I brought a blueberry scone back to the barista and politely told her that it was dry and stale. What I really wanted to say was “This scone is like a rock , almost broke my tooth , and the blueberries are the work of dung beetles.” I don’t cut in front of people in a line, but I do point out when someone cuts in front of me. I don’t run over old ladies, and I often hold the door open for them. See? I am not a meanie.

Kindness is important to me, and I can be “not” nice and still be kind. I have boundaries and rights like everyone, and I don’t want to be submissive or passive. I hope that “Be kind” can
replace “Be nice”. Think about it.

For much of my life, I played small, and even sat hunched over, legs crossed, taking up as little space as I could. I thought I was protecting myself from pain, and would become target practice if I lived in plain view, open and exposed. What would other people think of me if I released myself, and dared to create and express myself? I had questions and ideas at work, but I didn’t want to be “too much” outside the lines of my job description. I lived with my brakes on, and created deep ruts while I tried to move forward, and held myself back at the same time.

Silly me, in my fifties, life found me in my hiding place, dragged me out, and beat me up again and again. My son made decisions that, for me, felt like slaps in the face. How could he disagree with me and choose his own way in life? My healthy and fit husband got dementia in his fifties. I became his caregiver, and the job was 24/7 with lots of pain and heartbreak, and no pay. He disappeared before my eyes, and died of Lewy Body Dementia November first last year. This was not part of my plan. Reality choked me, and when the dust cleared I was left out in the open with no where to hide. Strangely, I wasn’t afraid.

I am 63 years old, and today, playing small doesn’t fit me; it’s the wrong size and is not my style. My job as a caregiver had required that I step up, be large and loud, and fight for the best care for Roger. I can’t go back and I don’t want to. I see that my son’s choices are what is so special and unique about him, and they are not about me. I am so proud of the man he has become. I am learning new things, and stretching myself out of my comfort zone. I play my banjo loudly and poorly, but still make music. My hero and teacher is Banjo John. He says I have to sing to learn how the banjo fits the music and vice versa, so I sing! I write this blog weekly, and somehow my thoughts get onto the screen and published. I risk having my writing criticized and rated, but I keep writing because I am a writer with things to say. I read and study extensivly about current affairs. I am the top student in my class of one. My need to express myself is so much bigger than any fears I have about being judged. My spirit and courage continue to be forged into steel by the fire that is life.

Donald Trump is a little (everywhere), lyin’, ugly asshole.

I said it, so it is a fact. According to Mr. Rump, bump, Trump, he “alone”can defeat ISIS, and at the same time build a wall paid for by the people he wants to keep out. Right!?   “I didn’t touch her.”Lewandoski …really?

This photo proves that Teds’ wife is ugly and he can target her because..wait for it…wait for it …”He started it !”

I dedicate this post to my husband, Roger, who passed away November of last year. We all miss his wicked sense of humor.  He would have demolished Donald Trump…

Yield. Signal. Obey speed limit. No cell phones or distractions. Merge with traffic. Lane ends. Right now, this very moment, these rules of the road are being blatantly disregarded on the 17 times around equals a mile track at the Fort Collins Senior Center. I am too anal to break the rules myself, and I can read, which gives me a head start. Sometimes I get a workout just holding my tongue. I really want to say things like “Hey stupid! The sign says no cell phones.” but I keep myself in check. I amuse myself with fantasies of ripping the phone out of their hands and throwing it to the gym floor below.

Monday, Wednesday and Friday we circle the track clockwise,(and you guessed it ) on Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday we go counterclockwise. This is what the sign says, but rules are made to be broken. Sometimes a wayward soul sees a clear lane and goes against the grain. There is much grumbling and mumbling about this infraction. Even the “they” is used like “They can’t read.” Of course,  no one says anything to the rule breaker, because of the “Be nice.” rule. Walkers or runners in the wrong lane create a “run the gauntlet” or “no forward motion” scenario, which makes passing a slower walker a risky move. Check your rear view mirror, yield to oncoming foot traffic, don’t forget to check both ways, say a Hail Mary and go!

On the bike trail, bikers say “on your right (left)” or ring a bell when passing. Usually this keeps both walker and rider safe. I don’t think this would work for traffic control on the Senior center track. Many walkers have ear buds or headphones on turned up to maximum volume for the hard of hearing. A jet engine doesn’t provoke a response, so a meek “Excuse me” doesn’t cut it. My loud panting as I jog is a mere whisper. If you are lucky, a hard stare or scowl at their back, at close range, often creeps them out enough so they wake up and yield.

The “regulars” on the track know the rules and this is comforting to me. We smile, say hello,and trust that no one will careen out of control because they took the curve too fast. If someone doesn’t show up for awhile, I notice their absence and hope theyare on a cruise and not sick or worse. I worry about the “older” walkers and think of myself as young. It’s all relative, isn’t it?

I can see the teeter-totter on the playground at St. Francis Desales Grade School, but I feel it more. Remember in the 1950’s, little girls wore dresses to school. My thighs and butt were in direct contact with the sun-warmed, weathered, and gray wood. I carefully fanned out the skirt of my dress to cover my upper thighs and panties. Boys could jump on quickly and not spend time adjusting clothing. Splinters were a hazard, so sliding forward or backward to get in position was ill advised, especially for girls. I remember that being stuck in the air was not the favored position, because it meant you were outweighed and powerless. Up or down, down or up. I didn’t tell anybody, but I actually liked to be up in outer space, the view was better.

The playground hierarchy was simple, number one was God, two was whichever nun was playground supervisor, number three was boys and last were girls dressed in pretty dresses. We were told to be careful not to show too much of ourselves. Every now and then a brave girl would hang by her knees and let it all hang out! ” I see London, I see France , I see ______
underpants.” Then sister would scold the culprit on Gods’ behalf, the boys would smirk and the other girls would cheer silently.

As we grew into young women, we left the playground but took the playground rules with us. Don’t,don’t and don’t. We were guardians of the dark secrets under our skirts, clamping our knees together to stop invaders. The game was “Name that Slut”, and now God was involved, and the faces of the nuns looked like the dried apples we used to make old ladies’ faces in art class.The boys were gamers having a good time, wracking up high scores and leaving “damaged goods” behind them. The girls turned on each other, pointed their fingers and labeled their sisters a slut. Some of us were raped, and felt guilty because our knees were pried apart and we couldn’t stop the invader. The pretty dresses we wore meant we were asking for it….

If we had children, special allowances were made. We lifted up our skirts and exposed ourselves to give birth. Babies entered the world through our vaginas, and lots of people watched. We were asked to spread our legs and push our babies out; totally exposed, we worked the hardest we ever worked. The miracle of birth was celebrated, but we quickly covered ourselves again. The “Birds and the Bees” returned.

We never get to brag about our magnificent vaginas and how well everything works “down there”. At 63, I still have a hard time using the word vagina. The Donald has no hesitation discussing how large his penis is. He used the word “pussy” to denigrate an opponent and all women. Imagine watching children play on a playground, and then picture a little girl in a pretty dress , wearing patent leather shoes and a bow in her hair. She is standing off by herself but suddenly she shrugs her shoulders and runs to climb on the jungle gym, and soon she is hanging by her knees, with a big smile on her face….

When Roger was still able to walk, he and I ambled slowly around the neighborhood. I created a quiz so that Roger had a focus and engaged in conversation. We played a little game I called “Five of a kind”, and I asked him to name five kinds of cookies, or five different birds, or five kinds of cake, etc….  His favorite cookies were oatmeal raisin cookies, especially the ones his Mom made. We both loved the meadowlarks’ song, and the striking blue of the Mountain bluebird.

When Roger was tired of the five of a kind  game we built new worlds. Heaven was his creation, and he picked the food he wanted, his favorite chair to sit in, and even his pick of tv shows. He always put me in heaven with him, even when I was sure  I didn’t belong there.

Now I play my own version of “five of a kind”. I try to  list my gratefuls daily, especially when my world turns to shit. This reminds me to pay attention to what is good in my world. As for Roger, I know he had butter and sour cream on his baked potatoe and a big slice of cherry pie for dessert, because that is what he ordered for his heavenly meal.

As soon as I think I’m doing ok, suddenly, I’m definitely NOT ok. Grief grabs me by the heart and violently shakes me. Maybe it’s a place, a memory, a feeling and even a smell that sneaked up on me and reminded me Roger is gone forever. Yesterday’s sun and mild temperature were bittersweet. I walked alone and tried to let the sunshine and warmth be my walking partners. I kept waiting for Roger to walk along with me. He didn’t show up, but grief did.

I grieved for several years as dementia relentlessly claimed more and more of Roger. I thought I knew how I would  feel when Roger died. I was wrong. No matter how long I had known Roger was dying, his death still shocked me and brought pain beyond anything I had ever experienced or imagined.When his last breath came, my heart was still begging him to stay, but what I said was “It’s all-right to leave, Roger. I will be ok.”
My last gift to Roger was letting him go; a gift that completely used me up.

Roger died four months ago. The high and low spikes of grief are still so extreme I can’t see a straight line. At times the waves of grief gently roll onto the shore; at other times grief is a wall of water, a tsunami, roaring towards shore, and I am running for my life. Lately, I have more moments of focusing on my life and not thinking about Roger.When I realize I have “forgotten”Roger for a few minutes, I feel guilty because I am alive and he is not. Grief and guilt are painful partners.

So often we resist talking about death; even though it is the ONLY certainty that life offers.When a song ends with the perfect note, it feels right and complete, and we are satisfied. In denying death we rob ourselves of composing our own song and creating our last, beautiful note to sound for eternity . When I am quiet I  can hear Rogers’ beautiful note, a symphony of one.

This morning, my wise and tired friend, Susan, said ” I’m too tired to have it all.” She was talking about her frustration with not having enough energy and time to do all the things she wants to do each day. I told her I felt the same way and Bingo!she just gave me the subject for today’s blog! What to keep, what to let go off, and what to explore, are the decisions that create a life. As we age we have less energy and less time to get it right.  Do we still try to have it all?

I think the children’s story, Goldilocks and the 3 Bears, has much to teach Susan and I about having it all. Let me explain! The story begins with the 3 Bears ready to dig into the porridge Mama Bear slaved over. Baby Bear whines that he wants berries in his porridge, so off they go into the forest to find berries. Goldilocks (Donald refers to her as the “blonde bimbo”) is out enjoying her morning and comes upon The Three Bears’ house. She’s very curious so decides to check it out. First,we all know she samples each bowl of porridge. Papa Bears’ porridge is too hot, Mama Bears’is too cold, but Baby Bears’is just right, so she eats it all. She finds the chair that is just right, and falls asleep in the just right bed. She doesn’t eat all the porridge,  or sit in 3 chairs pushed together,or sleep sprawled across 3 beds. Goldi practices good self-care and doesn’t settle for less than just right.

Cold porridge, uncomfortable chairs, and lumpy beds just will not do. Goldilocks has fewer choices. She doesn’t need to gather information, and read reviews until she is paralyzed with indecision. Goldilocks knows the answers are within her so does not ask half of Fort Collins what they would do. She gets quiet while she walks the woods; her own truth and honesty guide her. When Goldilocks wakes up and runs away from the Bears, she has no regrets about her decisions. She knows she is just right.

Take that Donald!