Keep Your Hands and Your Words to Yourself

I just read an entry over at LA’s place, the content of which left me feeling pretty disturbed.  It triggered some deeply unpleasant memories about being sexually harassed.  My worst experience had more to do with words than it did with groping, but a lot of damage was done, nonetheless.

It began about a year after I started working at the high school.  The creep in question was an English teacher.  He knew that I was married, and was married, himself.   This man would sneak up behind me and whisper in my ear.  He always made comments about the way I walked, as well as what I was wearing and how I looked in it.  Things got so bad, I started to wear loose, shapeless clothing, and even went so far as to put on some extra pounds.   That wasn’t my conscious intention, but I have no doubt that the stress, combined with a fervent wish for Mr. Creepy to stop overtly lusting after me, had a lot to do with the weight gain.

The situation reached the boiling point and finally ended with me in tears, shouting at him to “Stop! Stop watching me so closely!  Stop looking at me like that!  Stop making those remarks! Just stop!”

After my outburst, I ran into the library office and sobbed my heart out.  The librarian I worked with at the time knew what was going on, and she was very supportive.  She did her best to comfort me, and suggested that I turn him in, but I was afraid to do that.  This was happening during the Anita Hill/Clarence Thomas hearings, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being put through what Ms. Hill was going through.  I was already feeling much too vulnerable as it was.

Fortunately, Mr. Creepy did stop bothering me after my public outburst, but I didn’t feel comfortable and relaxed at work again until he retired.  Good riddance to bad rubbish.

I had an ugly reminder of those days a couple of weeks ago when another co-worker (someone I barely know), in response to my totally innocent remark about rubbing a magic lamp, replied that he had something else I could rub.  This was not the first inappropriate comment he made to me, but it was the last straw.  I felt sick to my stomach, and once again retreated to the sanctuary of the library office.  To complete the feeling of Déjà vu, it was once again a librarian who was a witness to my tears, and who tried to console me.

I am neither a delicate flower nor a prude.  Among friends, I am perfectly comfortable with dirty jokes and conversations about sex. But this kind of thing is something else entirely.

Psychologists and social workers report that severe/chronic sexual harassment can have the same psychological effects as rape or sexual assault.

Sexual harassment hurts.

Song of the Day: Keep Your Hands to Yourself by The Georgia Satellites

My Eyelids Have Fallen and They Can’t Get Up

Hurray!  I finally made it to the seashore!  Leigh, her boyfriend, Eric, and I spent Tuesday night and most of Wednesday afternoon in Seaside Heights, NJ.  Wednesday morning, I went for a walk around 7:00 a.m. in search of coffee.  I found a deli about a block from our motel.  Speaking of the motel, which was only a few steps from the boardwalk, this was the view from my window.  Sweet.

Anyway, while I was waiting at the counter, a woman walked over to pay for her breakfast sandwich.  I looked up and was stunned and overjoyed to see that it was LA!   After much squealing and hugging, LA channeled Humphrey Bogart and said, “Of all the delis in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”

Heh!  We ended up spending the day together on the beach with our combined clans, and had an absolutely wonderful time.  I knew that LA was in Seaside Heights this week with Mick and Wolf, and did hope that we would be able to get together.  Before LA left for the Jersey shore, she made the comment that it would be funny if the first time we managed to see each other in so long would be when we were both 100 miles from home.  Well, that’s exactly what happened, but I never expected to bump into her at a deli first thing in the morning.  Talk about a serendipitous experience! When LA told Mick about our chance encounter, he remarked that he would have been more surprised if it had happened to any other people.  But, with the two of us, he’s come to expect wild and wonderful things.

One of those wonderful things happened when LA and I were standing at the edge of the water.  Mick came down and wrapped his arms around LA.  Seconds later, Wolf walked over and put his arms around me.  My heart melted into a puddle that mingled with the surf foam and was drawn out to sea by the receding waves.

I am reminded of the John Lennon song, “Beautiful Boy” every time I see Wolf.  He really is remarkable in a lot of ways, just like his mother.  Thanks for a perfectly delightful day, LA & Co!

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Today marks yet another birthday…  I am now FIFTY-FREAKING-FIVE YEARS OLD.  I can’t even begin to tell you how hard it is for me to believe that.  Lucky for me, it seems to be difficult for others to believe, as well.

During the last week of summer school, a student was talking to two of her friends about “cougars.”  She turned to me and asked if I was familiar with the term.  I replied, “Well, yes, I guess I am, considering that I’m married to a much younger man.”  They asked how old I am, and the look on their faces when I told them was priceless.  One exclaimed, “No you’re not!”  Another demanded that I produce my birth certificate.  The third further endeared herself to me by remarking that I look like I’m in my thirties.  Now I know that’s not true (see entry title), but it felt good to hear it, nonetheless.

Here’s this year’s birthday photo.   (My hair is a lot shorter than I’m accustomed to wearing it, but, believe it or not, this is three month’s growth after a particularly devastating haircut.)

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My blog (I still have a hard time using that word) had a birthday recently, too.  I started an online journal (that’s what we called it back then) on August 21, 2001.   On September 23, 2001, I posted this entry about my reasons for creating an online journal:

Anatomy of a Diarist

Since my initiation into the Online Journal Club, I’ve been giving the genre a fair amount of thought.  Non-journalers tend to perceive the phenomenon as a “Dear Diary” sort of thing.  For all I know, some journalers approach it that way themselves.  But, that’s not how I see it. I feel more like a reporter whose subject just happens to be (for the most part) my life.  Of course, I don’t “report” in a New York Times fashion.  I don’t have that kind of training, and I don’t take myself that seriously.  I try to inject a little humor into my entries, and maybe even the occasional stab at pathos.  To me, this process is more akin to journalism or writing essays than it is to keeping a diary.  While I will discuss personal matters, it is not necessarily my intention to bare my soul.  Some things are just too private.

My reasons for writing are varied.  For one thing, I find that I don’t express myself as well vocally, having a tendency to get tongue-tied.  I like to consider what I’m going to say before blurting it out, and verbal conversations don’t afford me enough time to do that.  Writing gives me the opportunity to make more in-depth observations.  Often, writing will lead me to a better understanding of myself, and even an occasional revelation.  (R-E-F-L-E-C-T, find out what it means to me!)

Before taking the online journal plunge, I indulged the frustrated writer lurking within on a fairly regular basis in the form of letter writing.  Email is a vehicle I use on a daily basis.  I also used to exchange lengthy “snail mail” missives (25 pages and upward) with a friend in Pennsylvania. (Hi, Karen!)  Our correspondences were written in installments, and mailed at intervals of approximately every six months.  We included lots of photos, and found this a very satisfying way to stay in touch.

My writing method varies.  Sometimes my mood is light and casual; at others, it is bruised and introspective.   My entries are typically full of whining, joking, and boasting (usually about my kids).  During my darker moments, I find that writing about my feelings (and what causes them) really can be therapeutic.  This catharsis doesn’t exactly purge me of all negativity, but it does help to lessen my load considerably.  Sharing my triumphs and/or failures with an audience through an online journal lightens my burden even more.  Also, I recently read that writing lowers stress-related chemicals in the body, which is another good reason to allow myself this indulgence!

In closing, I’d like to share something Daniel told me quite some time ago, in reference to Alexander Solzhenitsyn, author of A Day In The Life of Ivan Denisovitch, and the staggering Gulag Archipelago.

“When Solzhenitsyn was writing in secret in Russia, paper was such a luxury to him.  Where we in the West have the freedom to scrawl haphazardly across a seemingly endless supply of paper, Solzhenitsyn literally could not waste a square inch of paper.  Every blank space had to be filled with his brilliance before he dared move on to another piece lest he run out of pages, and not transmit his profound thoughts to a world in desperate need of them.”

How humbling. Certainly, the world is not in desperate need of MY thoughts, so I am especially appreciative of those taking the time to read this.

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Re-reading that entry makes me realize how much I used to depend on this form of release to manage stress.  It also makes me realize how much lighter my stress load is these days.  Oh sure, I still have chronic pain and financial burdens to deal with.  But there’s not nearly as much angst in my life as there was before.  After years of turbulence and heartache, I now have wonderful relationships with my daughters.   I am married to a kind, loving, supportive man who compliments me daily.  In short, I don’t have as much to get off my chest as I did in the past, which I suppose is why I don’t post here very often any more.

Still, it’s good to know that this place is here if I need it as a dumping ground, or even if I just want to drop in to say hello or show you some pictures.  Thanks for sticking around.  My world wouldn’t be the same without you.

Reading:  Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

Song of the Day:  Celebration by Kool and the Gang

God Shed His Grace on Thee

A few years ago, a co-worker/friend was involved in a terrible car accident.   The car in which she was a passenger was hit head on by a drunk driver.

Felicia suffered severe head injuries, and was in a coma for 8 months.  Against all odds, she came out of the coma, but she will never be the same.

Felicia has three children, ages 9, 13, and 16.  They are currently on America’s Got Talent.   This clip isn’t the best quality, but it is incredibly moving.  I’ve been sitting here watching and crying (along with Sharon Osborne) for half an hour.

God bless you and your family, Felicia.

In other news, Daniel will become a U.S. citizen today.  When he went for his citizenship test in NYC a few weeks ago, he told the examiner, “After marrying my wife, this will be the greatest honor of my life.”

Congratulations, Daniel!  (I’ve been calling him Mr. America.)

Song of the Day: America the Beautiful

She Leaves and Heaves a Sigh and Says Goodbye

Today is going to be pretty low-key.  Leigh is still away at college, and Rebecca is getting ready to move on Tuesday.   To add insult to injury, she’s taking my new “grandson” with her.  Meet Dexter the adorable corgi.

Rebecca will be taking a break from her packing to spend some time with me this afternoon.  I invited my mother over for lunch (salmon and pasta salad), and Becca will be joining us.   It’s kind of sad to be bidding my daughter a fond farewell on Mother’s Day.   The sting is lessened, however, because she’ll still be around for a while.  She’s going to come back twice a week for summer and fall classes at a local SUNY school.   There’s nothing comparable in the area she’s moving to, so she decided to commute until she completes her Bachelor’s degree.  I don’t know what she’s going to do about her Master’s, but I’m sure she’ll work something out.

I’m amazed at how quickly Becca and Matt were able to put this move together.  At first, it looked like it was going to be difficult to find a decent apartment, especially one that allows pets.    They were very disheartened after looking at one unsatisfactory place after another.   But then fortune smiled upon them, and they found an apartment they really like.  I hope they will be very happy there.

Goodbye and good luck, my dear daughter!  (Becca is in the front of the photo.)

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mother’s out there.

Song of the Day:  So Long, Farewell from The Sound of Music

Flying the Coop

Rebecca’s boyfriend has been working at the local Outback Steakhouse for ten years.  He started as a server and worked his way up to kitchen manager.  The next step was to become a proprietor.  A few days ago, he was offered proprietorship of an Outback about three hours from here.  He has to move to the new location within three weeks.

Accepting this offer means that Matt’s salary will be doubled.  In fact, at the age of 28, he will be earning more than Daniel and I do combined.

Rebecca and Matt’s relationship is very serious.  I fully believe that they will get married.  So, it comes as no surprise that Rebecca is going to move with her boyfriend.

Of course, I am thrilled for Matt.  This is an incredible opportunity.  On the other hand, I am feeling very emotional about having to say goodbye to my daughter.

I am well aware of the fact that children grow up and move away from home.  I know that this is a normal part of life, and parents all over the world have to deal with similar situations.  In many cases, children move much farther away.  But knowing these things doesn’t make it any easier for me.

I love having an empty nest.  I just wish my wings weren’t clipped (by not driving) so that I could fly away to visit more often than I will be able to.  The train ride is five hours long, and that’s very difficult for me to endure because of my pain.  So I won’t be seeing my firstborn daughter very often.

My heart hurts.

Song of the Day: Empty Nest Theme Song

Twenty Five Random Things

Sasha and Stefani did this  (on Facebook), and so did Mary.

Here are the directions:
Once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it’s because I want to know more about you. (I don’t do tags, but if the spirit moves you, go for it.)

1. I have never taken a picture with my cell phone.  Truth be told, I hardly use my cell phone at all.
2. I enjoy games like Taboo, Pictionary and Scattergories, but I’m not much of a card player.
3. I rarely remember my dreams.
4. I love shoes.  Unfortunately, I can’t wear pretty shoes or boots (not for long, anyway) because I have hammertoes.  I had surgery (one of the most painful experiences of my life) to correct the problem back in the eighties, but it was a flop.
5. I hate to cook.  I used to enjoy it, but after forty years in the kitchen, I’d love to hang up my apron (metaphorically speaking; I don’t actually wear an apron).
6. I prefer dogs over cats.
7. I count when I’m brushing my teeth – 15 seconds for each quadrant, inner and outer.
8. I blush easily.  It’s a curse.
9. I’m part Polish (on my mother’s side) but identify far more strongly with my Italian heritage.
10. I am a ravenous reader.
11. Music has always been a big part of my life, and my tastes are rather eclectic.
12. I am a crybaby.  Seriously, it doesn’t take much to get the tears flowing.  Being an empath doesn’t help.  (See more below.)
13. I have a potty mouth.
14. I am addicted to Kitsch in Art jewelry.
15. I don’t like flavored coffee, and I drink my coffee black, no sugar.
16. Watermelon is my favorite fruit.
17. Red is my favorite color.
18. During my pregnancies, I craved sour things, like green olives, lemons and vinegar (which I drank from a spoon).
19. I have body image issues.
20. I have a bit of an inferiority complex.
21. I have serious bed head when I get up in the morning.
22. I have been in menopause for quite a while, but I’m just starting to experience night sweats.  It’s so bad I’m considering giving HRT another try.
23. I’ll be 55 years old in August, and I’m not feeling very good about that.
24. I have an unnatural fear of praying mantises and eyelash curlers.  It’s a good thing my eyelashes are naturally curly.
25. Many of my clothes come from thrift shops and clearance racks.  A co-worker recently told me I could earn a good living thrift shopping for others because of my sense of style, and talent for separating the wheat from the chaff.  She made my day.

Back to number 12.  I wrote an entry on this topic on February 4, 2003, during my days at Diary-X.  It was one of the few entries I was able to salvage.  I’ll repost it here.

I t doesn’t take much to make me cry.  I’ve always hated that about myself, but, try as I might, I just can’t seem to help it.  I guess I’m just a crybaby.

I cry when I’m angry.  I cry out of frustration.  I cry when I’m moved.  I cry when I’m depressed (although there are times when I’m too depressed to cry).  I cry from grief, and sometimes I laugh until I cry.  I shed tears of joy, and tears of compassion.  I cry when my feelings are hurt.

Yesterday morning, I cried while watching a lame deer in my backyard.  It was one of eleven, and I stood at the door spying on them as they foraged for food.  When I spotted the lame one, I was filled with pity for it, and tears formed in my eyes.  I had to force myself to turn away.

On Sunday, while listening to music, I was stopped dead in my tracks when an old Joe Jackson tune, “A Slow Song,” came on.  I used to love that song, and hearing it again sent shivers down my spine.  It made me cry.  It wasn’t so much the song itself; it was the memory of the song being special to me.  It was the memory of younger days.  Days when I went to see Joe Jackson perform at an intimate local nightclub whenever he came to town.  Days that were exciting and filled with fun.

Similarly, I wept when I watched “To Sir With Love” a couple of weeks ago.  As soon as I heard, “Those schoolgirl days of telling tales and biting nails are gone,” I broke down and cried.  In fact, I sobbed.

That song and that movie brought back so many memories.  Memories of 1967, and of being 13 years old.  I wore big, dangly earrings, and had a gamine haircut  just like Lulu.

That was the year my grandmother took me to San Francisco.  Haight Ashbury thrilled me beyond measure.  That was a time when I was fascinated by hippies, and The Haight was their Mecca.  That was a time when I was in love with The Beatles, and in love with life.  I had so much to look forward to.  Remembering that young girl was a very emotional experience for me.  So I cried.  Oh, how I cried.

As much as I get down on myself for being so sensitive and emotional, I am starting to think that it sometimes takes courage to allow ourselves to feel bad or sad.  In a society that promotes the power of positive thinking, many of us learn to suppress our negative feelings. However, repressing emotion doesn’t strike me as a very healthy practice.  It seems to me that denying our feelings only makes for a longer period of recovery.  So, as Lesley Gore sang, “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.” So there.

Song of the Day: Random by 311

This Land is Our Land

We watched the inauguration ceremonies at a school assembly yesterday, and I cried through the whole thing.

I finally feel like this land is my land again.

Song of the Day:  This Land Is Your Land as sung by Pete Seeger and Bruce Springsteen

[Chorus:]
This land is your land,
This land is my land,
From California to the New York Island,
From the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream waters,
This land was made for you and me.

As I went walking that ribbon of highway
I saw above me that endless skyway,
I saw below me that golden valley,
This land was made for you and me.

I roamed and I rambled, and I followed my footsteps
To the sparking sands of her diamond deserts,
All around me a voice was sounding,
This land was made for you and me.

When the sun came shining, then I was strolling,
And the wheat fields waving, and the dust clouds rolling,
A voice was chanting as the fog was lifting,
This land was made for you and me.

One bright sunny morning, in the shadow of the steeple,
By the relief office I saw my people,
As they stood there hungry, I stood there wondering if,
This land was made for you and me.

Was a big high wall there that tried to stop me,
Was a great big sign that said, “Private Property,”
But on the other side, it didn’t say nothing,
That side was made for you and me.

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking my freedom highway,
Nobody living can make me turn back,
This land was made for you and me.

Scrooged

On November 18th, I received an email from a local company I’ve been doing business with for the past few years.  They make the best toffee I have ever tasted.  The email advertised free shipping, and informed me that I could pick a date for receipt of the shipment.  I wanted to give toffee to some of my co-workers, so I submitted an order the same day I received the email, and chose the delivery date of December 17th.  It did not arrive on that day.  I sent this email to the owner:

December 17, 2008 6:02 PM

Hello,

I was supposed to receive my order today (December 17th), but I did not.  I really need to have this order by tomorrow at the very latest.  Please advise.

Thank you.

This was the response:

Sent: Dec 17, 2008 7:03 PM
To: Stephanie
Subject: Re: Order Confirmation No: 359

Stephanie,

Thank you for your email.  Looking at our records, your order was shipped last evening.  You can expect it no later than December 18th. (Yeah, right.) Your desired delivery date is not guaranteed as stated on our website.  “Selected delivery date is approximate, not guaranteed.” (For the record, the email neglected to mention that fact.  Also, why would they mail something the evening before the requested delivery date??)

Unfortunately, we do not have control over your package once it leaves our hands.  (Excuse me, but they do have control over when the package leaves their hands, which is the issue here.) We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.  We ship hundreds of packages during the holidays and the best we can offer is an approximate arrival date.  For future orders, just write us a note in the comments section at checkout and we would be happy to fill and ship your order sooner.  (Why should I have to write a note in the comments section?  Common sense dictates that you don’t ship a package the evening before the requested delivery date!) We appreciate your business and wish you a very Merry Christmas.

The next day, I sent this email:

Dec 18, 2008 2:29 PM

I just wanted to let you know that I still have not received my order, which means I spent an awful lot of money on boxes of toffee I won’t be able to give to the co-workers for whom I bought them, since tomorrow is our last day of work before the holidays.  This is a most distressing (and costly) situation.

The response:

Date: Dec 18, 2008 11:54 PM

Stephanie-

We hope you receive this email in a timely manner.  Our suggestion to you is to check with your local PO first thing in the morning (before your postman leaves for his daily run) if this is at all possible.  I’ve seen cases where the postman does not deliver the package the day it arrives and we have found that our customers have found their purchase sitting at their local PO.  This does not happen often but has happened.  It has got to be there…It was shipped out the evening of the 16th.  We apologize for your inconvenience and please notify us that you have received your package.

This is the email I sent on the 19th:

Sent: Friday, December 19, 2008 2:22 PM
Subject: Re: Order Confirmation No: 359

I received my order today (December 19th).  For the record, the package was postmarked December 17th, the day I was supposed to receive it.  (You say it was shipped the evening of the 16th.  That was too late to ship an order that was supposed to be received by the 17th.)  I’m really disappointed due to the fact that,  as I mentioned before, I can’t give the toffee to the intended gift recipients because I work for a school district, and we are out until January 5th.

The response:

Sent: Dec 19, 2008 3:42 PM
Subject: Re: Order Confirmation No: 359

Once again, we are not responsible for the length of time it takes the post office to deliver a package that is 10 minutes away from our bakery. (Huh?  WTF does that mean?) It clearly states on our website “A desired delivery date and not a guaranteed one”.  We do our very best to estimate timeframes and get our packages out in a timely manner and do not want any of our customers disappointed with our service. We have shipped hundreds of packages this holiday season and have had no delivery issues with our customers.  Something we pride ourselves on.

In saying that, please feel free to return the unopened package for a full refund.  Once we receive it, we will issue your refund.  Have a Merry Christmas.

My response:

Dec 19, 2008 6:57 PM

Of course, I already opened the package.  So, instead of a refund, all I want at this point is an apology and acknowledgment of an error on your part.  You yourself said that the package was shipped out the evening of the 16th.  Surely you have to admit that a package that was shipped the evening of the 16th could never reach its destination by the 17th.

It was not my intention to make such a big deal out of this, but there was something in the tone of your latest email that bothered me.  It was not necessary, for example, to tell me about the hundreds of packages that have been shipped without delivery issues.  The fact remains that there was a delivery issue with my order, regardless of the timeliness of your other deliveries.  There is also no need to defend the integrity of your business.  I never suggested anything to the contrary.  I merely expressed disappointment over receiving my order too late to give the toffee to the intended recipients, and pointed out that the package was shipped too late to be delivered in time.  The post office cannot be blamed for that.

I really like your products, and have enjoyed doing business with you in the past.  It would be a shame to have this incident leave us both with hard feelings.

Merry Christmas to you, too.

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Is it me???  Am I turning into a Scrooge?? Or am I justified in feeling frustrated by the owner’s refusal to assume responsibility for the late delivery?  I just want her to admit that it was her fault, instead of blaming the post office.  The package was actually delivered in a timely fashion, considering that it was brought to the post office on the evening of the 16th.

Oh well.  At least it looks like we’ll have a White Christmas.

Before I go, I want to share a couple more photos with you.  This happened the same night we had the torrential downpour (and the leaking roof).  And we don’t have a chainsaw.

Oy gevalt.

Song of the Day:  Scrooge by The Muppets

Five Golden Rings

Schools are closed today, in anticipation of the big snowstorm that’s headed our way.  This means that I won’t get my last gift, and my Secret Santa won’t be revealed until we go back on January 5th.  Aww, isn’t that a shame.  NOT.

Actually, I am kind of curious to find out who would give me such crap.  I finally began to receive gifts on Wednesday, when I found three presents in my mailbox.  I guess the person was absent on Monday and Tuesday, or else they just plain forgot. Anyway, after opening the first four gifts, I have to say that I was better off with nothing.  Everything I’ve received has gone straight into the garbage.

It is very obvious that I am a victim of re-gifting. For day one, I got an ugly makeup bag.  It looks like one of those freebies you get when you make a purchase.  Day two: a sample size of stinky body wash.  Day three: a sample size of stinky body lotion.  Day four: a sample size of stinky body spray.  I imagine that day five will be a sample size of stinky bubble bath, or something like that.  Everything is from Bed, Bath and Beyond.  What I think is that my Secret Santa received a gift basket of all these items last Christmas or for a birthday, and is giving it to me, piece by piece.

It is possible to give tasteful gifts on a low budget.  I am living proof of that, having spent less than twenty dollars on the five presents for my co-worker.  On day one, I gave my gift recipient Crate & Barrel snowflake soap; six soaps individually wrapped and stacked in a clear box.

Day two: Pirouline rolled wafers filled with cocoa and hazelnut cream.

Day three: A Crate & Barrel twig kissing ball

Day four: Stefani Tadio’s popular sticky notes (That link doesn’t take you to an active purchasing site, but it does show a good sampling of this terrific item.)

Day five: A ceramic bowl with decorative potpourri

Last year I had a wonderful Secret Santa.  She gave me a really cool holiday candle, a gourmet candy apple, and pretty earrings. (I can’t remember what the other two presents were, but I do remember that I was pleased with them.) Oh well.  Maybe the real Santa will bring me something nice to make up for this year’s disappointing Secret Santa.

I know it’s supposed to be the thought that counts, but thought was most definitely not involved in this fiasco.  Bah, humbug.

Song of the Day:  The Twelve Days of Christmas

Where the Love Light Gleams

Today’s Holiadilies prompt:  Do you still live in the place where you grew up? How far away are you now, and why?

I’ve never moved out of the city where I was born, but I have lived in a lot of different places within this city.  In fact, I have moved a total of fifteen times, including the time I moved twice in one day!

From newborn to the age of 10, I lived with my family in the upstairs apartment of a two-family house owned by my grandparents.  (They lived downstairs.)  Then we moved to a Dutch Colonial on a really nice street.  I loved that house, and so did my friends.   One of them referred to it as the “My Three Sons” house.

My bedroom was on the third floor.  It was originally an attic, but my parents converted it into living space.  I even had my own bathroom.  After my mother gave birth to twins, I had to share the room with one of my sisters.

When I was 20, my mother and I had a very ugly fight, and I moved in with my grandmother.  That was a nice house, too.  The most striking thing about it was the fireplace.  Instead of being against a wall, the fireplace was its own three-sided wall, made from stone and glass.  It jutted out so that it was visible from two rooms.  One side faced the dining room, and the other side faced the living room.  The third side faced forward in the space between the two rooms.  I’ve never seen anything like it before or since.

My grandmother’s  house was on the market when I moved in, and it was sold shortly afterwards, so we moved to a condo.  At the age of 22, I got an apartment with my sister, Patti.  It was a cute little place.  But, when Patti got married, I had to look for a cheaper apartment because I couldn’t afford the rent on my own.

When I found a place, my friend, Janet, borrowed a pickup truck and helped me move.  Before moving in, I was a little concerned about the landlady, an elderly woman who lived upstairs.  When I went to look at the apartment, she talked my ear off.  One time I had to call her, and she kept me on the phone forever.

I was afraid she would expect me to keep her company far more often than I was comfortable with.  My fears were justified.  She wouldn’t even leave me in peace long enough to move my stuff into the apartment.  She ran her mouth through the whole process, even while Janet and I were carrying a sofa, for crying out loud.

After the last box had been brought in, Janet and I collapsed on chairs in the living room.  The next thing we knew, the old battleaxe was knocking on my door.  She was outraged over the fact that she saw Janet smoking a cigarette (out on the sidewalk, I might add).  That was when I realized that this woman would make my life miserable.  Having nothing better to do, watching my every move would become her favorite pastime.

Fortunately, I hadn’t signed a lease, so I called my old landlords (a young couple) and asked if I could come back.  They were very agreeable, and even lowered my rent.  Even though Janet and I were deeply exhausted, we re-packed everything into the truck and took all my stuff back to the apartment I had just vacated.

My next move was with The Ex.  We had a newly renovated apartment in what was called the historic district.  It had a cathedral ceiling and hardwood floors and curved walls.  When I got pregnant, we moved to a Victorian house that had been converted into apartments.   At first, we were upstairs, but when the other tenants moved out, we moved downstairs.  (It was a larger apartment.)

After I had my second baby, we needed even more space, and moved into an apartment above a doctor’s office.  During that time, we suffered a financial crisis and had no choice but to move in with my grandmother until we could get back on our feet.  Eventually, our situation improved and we bought our first house for $90,000.  It needed a lot of work, which The Ex was able to do himself, since he is a building contractor.  The kitchen, two bathrooms and family room were gutted and redone.  It ended up being a really nice house.  When we sold it ten years later (because of the divorce), we had two offers for the asking price of $269,900.00.

The girls and I lived in an apartment for a year after leaving our house.  It was beautiful.  The girls had a large bedroom downstairs with their own bathroom.  Upstairs, there were hardwood floors and a working fireplace in the living room.  The downside was the neighborhood.  Our next door neighbors were crackheads and alcoholics.  Every time we left our apartment, we were sexually harassed.  It was awful.

Last but not least is the house in which we currently reside.  In May, this will have been our home for four years.  I’m pretty happy here, and hope I don’t have to move again for a very long time.  There really is no place like home.

Song of the Day:  I’ll Be Home For Christmas, lyrics by James ‘Kim’ Gannon and Walter Kent, sung by Bing Crosby