Why You Should Pay It Forward … Again and Again and Again.

Posted on February 24, 2019 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

I’ve always been pretty good at paying back. When I say “pretty good” what I mean is if I borrow money I pay it back (except for my parents – sorry about that) and if I borrow a book I give it back (except for my sister’s copy of “Eat, Pray, Love” which she is never getting back) and if I receive a dinner invitation I reciprocate and if someone invites me to spend a week with them at their villa in Italy I bring lots of wine and cook all the meals. For the record, this has not yet happened but I’m just putting it out there in case the Universe is listening.

Paying it back seems natural and honorable. But what about paying it forward? Honorable yes but perhaps not quite so natural. As children we are not “trained” to do good deeds with no hope of compensation. It is something we must experience, enjoy, teach ourselves and then do it again … and again.

Why?

Well … karma can be a wonderful thing. But that’s not the real reason. We don’t pay it forward in the hopes that something magical will befall us due to our selfless altruism. Indeed I might purport that is the opposite of benevolence that leads us to pay it forward. We do it because it makes US feel good.

And then if karma shows up to bless us, even better. But this is no bargain with the gods. There is no guarantee. So we do it just because we can.

As I prepare to move house yet again I am reminded of my first two moves. Move #1 was into a new build so the place was contractor-clean. But even though my sales agreement stipulated no such thing, I left my townhouse professionally polished. Down to every shelf and cupboard. I also left a bottle of wine on the kitchen counter with a card wishing the new occupants well. It felt nice and it felt right.

Weeks went by and my vagabond cat kept wandering the five blocks back to our former abode. The new tenants eventually did the math, called the realtors, got my number, called me and said “We think your orange cat wants to live with us.” Turns out he didn’t. He was just … um … mentally and directionally challenged. Now they could have just said “Shoo!” and ignored him but they did not. They went above and beyond.

I’d like the think karma was at work here.

When I left my second home and moved to a new city I again left my place sparkling. Alas my new (old) house was anything but. Not only had it not been cleaned, the owners had actually left junk behind. Baby formula. Jars of pickles. An old sleeping bag, some sticks of furniture and a garage full of crap.

I refused to get upset. I simply informed my lawyer, held up closing until they ponied up $500, loaded up a truck and carted all the stuff to the dump. Sure it was a hassle and sure it wasn’t my responsibility but I had every intention of starting my new life in my new town positively.

So now you may be saying “Well, see! Paying it forward doesn’t always work! Sometimes you do good and get kicked in the shins!”

No doubt true.

But Move #4 was also into a pristine property. As was Move #5. Both times what I left behind was what I entered. Hotel-room clean homes.

So I got to thinking … maybe paying it forward doesn’t always reap immediate rewards. Except of course for that “Damn, I feel good!” reward. But maybe when we pay it forward by habit we set the stage for it to habitually be paid back to us? Maybe that’s how the Universe works? They say it’s an echo. What you send out, you get back. All I know is I won a lot of super-clean houses and only one notsomuch.

So now we ready ourselves for yet another change. We already have possession of the new property and I can tell you with great glee that when we took said possession said new property was immaculate. Not only was it hotel-room clean, the former owner left us paint. And flooring. And other gizmos and thingies that we might need. Everything was labelled and beautifully presented. Plus he left us the three bar stools that had shown with the house and which we desperately needed.

Yep. He sure as heck paid it forward big-time.

So now we do the same. Years ago on one of those moves I gifted a friend with my funky kitchen table. It didn’t work in my new place, she loved it and needed it so it was a no-brainer. I also gifted another friend with my custom-made leather sofa. Again, didn’t work for me, she was in need and so she got it.

A few years ago sofa-girl sent me a note telling me that she had finally bought the sofa of HER dreams and had therefore paid my sofa forward to a young couple starting out. She knew I would appreciate the gesture. And I did.

Then a few weeks ago kitchen-table girl told me she had finally purchased the table of her dreams and did I want the old one back?

Well golly gee, just a few days before another dear friend had informed me that her son was looking for a kitchen table. Bingo-bango and he’s got the table and three old broads are happy.

Today a lovely woman came to buy a day-bed we no longer require. When she realized we were moving she told me she loved ALL of our stuff and asked if anything else was for sale. I replied “Sorry, no, the rest is coming with us.”

As she was leaving, filled with gratitude for her sweet deal (hey, I’m a soft touch) I looked up at the huge bouquet of fake flowers that adorns our front hallway. Now if you’ve ever put together a HUGE bouquet of (good quality) fake flowers you know it ain’t cheap. But I looked at her and said “Do you like those flowers?” And she answered with a big grin “I love those flowers!”

And so she took them home. For free. Incredulous. Thrilled. Grateful.

And I spent the afternoon smiling. Because it felt so good.

Will it come back to me? How will it come back to me? When will it come back to me if it ever comes back to me?

Who knows? Who cares?

Today it felt really damn good.

And just so you know I’ve already lined up an amazing cleaning service to leave this house unimpeachable when we depart. Even though the sales agreement says “swept clean”. And yes, there will be a bottle of wine on the kitchen counter.

Because paying it forward is how I roll. And you just never know what tomorrow will bring.

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It’s Bell Let’s Talk Day so Let’s Talk and … Tell The Truth

Posted on January 30, 2019 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Many years ago I went through a period of feeling pretty darn depressed. Like sad to the point of crying – or actually weeping buckets – for weeks on end. Finally a close friend dragged me to my doctor to get help. My good doc suggested anti-depressants.

I thought umm … no. I don’t need chemical help. I don’t want meds. I want to know WHY I am so perennially sad. I’m quite sure it had to do with boys and loneliness. I wanted to work on the WHY so that I could manage it without tears and angst.

So my good doc suggested counselling.

Okey doke, I thought. Let’s give that go.

You know what? It worked. A few sessions of honestly discussing my shit and I finally understood it, I accepted it and I was able to move forward. Talking was good. Talking with a professional was good. Sorting through shit was good. Making a new plan was good. It was all good.

Since that time I have become a therapist. Armchair therapist, I know, but I did take a coaching course and I learned that I could help. I learned that I could listen and actually hear (big difference) and maybe even point in a new direction. Man, did that feel good!

I’m still an armchair therapist but last fall I found myself back in the patient’s chair. There was an avalanche of stress in my life and the weird thing is, most of it was the stress of those I love. My own personal stress was actually quite minuscule. But handling all the stresses surrounding me was beginning to choke me. I was incapable of saying “No” because I never say no to those I love. But my health took a hit, my blood pressure rose to dangerously high levels and my headaches were off the chart.

Back to the good doc I went. Except I have a new doc now. Loved my old doc and love my new doc who actually takes the time to listen to me and HEAR me. He’s young and super cool and up on all the latest and the first thing he did was prescribe a sleeping pill.

Whaaaaaaaaaaaat? I don’t need no fucking sleeping pill.

“Are you sleeping well?” he asked gently.

Umm … nope.

“Then just take it for one week. One week only. You need to get some rest to even start getting these numbers down.”

So I took the damn blue pill. Yes, I did. Not only did I take that blue pill, I fell in love with the blue pill. I mean Holy Shitballs! Who knew a little blue pill could do more than spice up your love life? This little blue pill allowed me to shut down. And in shutting down so completely I was able to bound out of bed before the birds, bright-eyed and ready to tackle the day’s traumas.

A week later I returned to my good doc and said “I am in love with this blue pill. I want to marry this blue pill. Pretty please can I have a prescription ad infinitum?”

Umm … nope. No you cannot. Nope. These blue pills are highly addictive and we’re not going down that road.

(aside: since then I have learned that a lot of people I know are highly addicted to these blue pills and loving every long blessed sleep … but that’s another story)

As I hung my head in sorrow, wondering how ever I would cope with life again my good doc said “I’m going to put you on a little yellow pill”.

Up my head perked! Yellow pill, you say? Oh do tell.

Please know that although I do take prescription meds (remember that blood pressure) and Tylenol for the occasional pain I am not a pill popper. I’ve had some pretty painful surgeries in my life and all that Oxycontin and Demerol and whatever else I was prescribed went down the toilet.

The new yellow pill did not. He called it a chill pill. Just a little something to take the edge off. Absolutely non-addictive and hopefully helpful in the long run?

Long run, I asked? My short run is pretty messed up right now.

Just take it, he countered. In 6 weeks its effects will plateau and you will see and feel the worth.

I did.

And I do.

You know what I feel? I feel better. More able to take on life’s challenges. More able to navigate through mucky bogs of stress and more available to help those around me, the sources of those mucky bogs of stress. I do sleep better (although am still available at 3am if you need me) and I am … wait for it … much more content with my circumstance. I am grateful and optimistic and realistic and … content.

God, how I love that word.

Now some my call this an anti-anxiety medication. I honestly never though I suffered from anxiety and even if I did I knew it was my poor estrogen-deprived soul kicking and screaming and I was able to quash it. But here’s the thing – the yellow pill quashes it now. So now I can deal with all of life’s slings and arrows.

I can assure you that all those stresses that led to autumn’s meltdown still exist. I am just handling them better. Maybe one day I’ll stop the yellow pill? Maybe not. Right now I am loving the new me.

So … let’s talk.

Because I never ever thought I would be a pill-taker. And here I am, madly in love with my little yellow pill. Much like I was madly in love with the therapist who hauled my ass through that previous crisis.

We all need help. Sometimes we ALL need help.

Get it. Please get it. Whether it’s a conversation or a medication please get it.

And by the way I do think I’m a pretty decent life-coach and I’m absolutely free. As in NO COST. I made that decision years ago when I passed my course with flying colours. I am just a phone call away. And as much as I am grateful for the help granted me, I am more than willing to offer it back. I can’t prescribe those yellow pills but I am here to listen … and to HEAR.

So yeah. Reach out.

Let’s talk.

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Are You Taking Care Of Yourself?

Posted on January 13, 2019 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

We read about it all the time, right? How self-care is important. How we (women) must learn to set aside time for US. How we spend so much energy and effort caring for others – children, husbands, parents, friends – that we often end up at the bottom of our own totem poles. We neglect our own needs because we are so tired from tending to everyone else’s needs that when we get a moment to ourselves we crash on the bed. THAT is our idea of self-care. Grabbing some sleep so that we can do it all (for others) tomorrow.

Okay, so that’s the spin. I will admit right here and now that it’s the spin but it’s not really my personal truth. I am one of the fortunate ones who has time for self-care. Yes I have a son who requires attention on occasion and I have a man who does as well. But they are both adults and quite capable of tending to themselves. I have friends who need to talk and sometimes drink some wine (and that of course is never a hardship) and I have family to cook for (also not a struggle) and a part-time job which I enjoy immensely. Oh yeah, there’s also a dog that needs walking.

But I am in no way run ragged. Which is why I have the time and opportunity to muse on this subject. Because I do see so many women who ARE run ragged. And that’s why I have decided we need a self-care handbook. Something quick and easy to remind us how important WE actually are.

Years ago I had a friend who was a single mother, working full time to earn a living and raise her daughter. I often tended to that daughter after school until mom would stop by for some wine and dinner (and to pick up her kid).  She always said to me “Oh, I wish I had time to work out. I want to lose 20 lbs and feel fitter but I just don’t have time.”

In those days I was still working full time and my job involved a 40 minute commute each way and I still got up early so that I could log 20 minutes on the treadmill before I hit the road. And so I asked her “Why not just get up a bit earlier and log 20 minutes on the treadmill?”

And she replied “Oh God no. I’d much rather sleep.”

Aha. There’s the question. What speaks more to self-care? Working out or sleep?

You decide.

Then there was another friend. who rarely took a sip of wine. She couldn’t because she was always driving her kids somewhere. Sports, music, school activities and then there were appointments and full-time work to boot. That girl was always running somewhere. She never seemed to have a moment to breathe … or sip.

Until that rare night occurred when she did. And that dear girl would sip so enthusiastically she’d be blind-drunk in two hours.

Now I understand that we do need to tend to our kids but I also understand that sometimes we have to tend to our own needs. Breathe. Sip. Chill. Take care of self.  And I don’t mean once a month when a rare moment arrives. I mean weekly. Even daily.

My favourite time of day is 5pm. The music comes on, a glass of wine gets poured and dinner prep begins. My beloved knows that this is the perfect time for him to get lost. I don’t mean out in the big bad city, I mean go to your office and DO something. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to hear about your day (yet). I want to listen to music (loudly) and create something delicious for us to share. THAT is my daily therapy. THAT is my daily self-care.

I am fortunate that he takes nothing personally and happily escapes to his lair.

But my self-care is not all wine and Carole King.  It also takes discipline. That dog gets walked every morning no matter what the weather or my disposition. I have to be really sick to forego that walk. And it’s not so much because the dog needs it. it’s because I need it. I need to zone out, commune with the Universe, get my heart rate up and hopefully even work up a bit of sweat. Yes even this morning in -10C I came home somewhat damp because I walk hard. I walk hard because my high blood pressure and mental well-being demand it.

And that’s the funny thing. I’ve been walking hard for over 20 years. It is no longer a chore. It is my joy. My happy addiction. It is the self-care I never knew I needed and now can’t live without.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?  You’ll never really know what your daily joy is until you live it daily.  Until you find the time to discover it, practice it, make it a priority and then do it again tomorrow. We can all be disciplined in what we eat or how much alcohol or water we drink or less caffeine and more green vegetables and blah blah blah. But what about joy? Daily self-care joy?

There is a moment in Elizabeth Gilbert’s book “Eat, Pray, Love” where she is in Rome and walks past an upscale lingerie store. This is not a familiar place in her shopping repertoire but she goes in nonetheless, spends a fortune on lacy underthings, goes back to her apartment and lays out a picnic. A picnic for one.  And then in her very expensive silky new nightie she sits on the floor and delights in that beautiful repast. Alone and content. She is no longer shackled to a man or his needs. THIS moment is ALL about her desires.  HER sensual pleasures. Spending time (and money) on herself simply because SHE is worth it.

I love that moment. And yes, I get it.  Those expensive lingerie picnics are a one-off.  But most magical moments are, right? Why not create one just for yourself?

Many moons ago when I was profoundly broken-hearted I was finding it difficult to eat dinner, much less make it (just for myself). But one night I decided that LACK of self-care had to stop. So I put on some very loud music and danced around my kitchen.  Like crazy dancing, the kind we did back in high school. Once I had completely exhausted myself I set out to cook dinner. I don’t remember what I cooked but is was a true grownup meal, not just cheese and crackers. I lit a candle, put on some jazz and sat at the table like a proper adult enjoying my creation. Alone. Not even the cat joined me.

And that moment made me laugh. And then made me proud. Because I had spent so many years cooking for men and kids and friends and family I didn’t even know what it felt like to cook just for me. I learned.

We learn in increments. By trial and error. But the word trial involves TRYING. We have to at least try to feed our bliss, walk off our stress, bathe in lavender serenity or listen to music loudly while cooking. Whatever it is that leads to our caring of self, we must practice regularly.

Without guilt.

There it is – your self-care handbook. Figure out what makes YOU happy and then do it regularly.  Yes, even if those around you suffer with the loss of your ever-available selflessness. They’ll figure themselves out eventually.

You figure yourself out. Care for yourself. Love yourself.  Make yourself a priority.  At least sometimes.

Because you know why?

You’re worth it.

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The Beginning Of A New Journey

Posted on January 1, 2019 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Do you know when a new journey begins? Every day. Every single day. THAT is when a new journey begins.

This magnificent revelation came to me this morning when I was vacuuming up evergreen needles from our living room floor. It hit me that, as much as I love Christmas and all its fancy finery, I also love January when life gets back to normal.

If you know me at all, you know that I love the festive season. I start decorating in November, at about the same I start listening to holiday music. By December 1 it’s pretty much all holiday music all the time and our home is fully festooned. I mean I even decorate the powder room and my son’s bedroom!

And I can honestly say this past December was one of the best. As in … ever.

Why?

Because I stopped trying to be all things to all people and I stopped accepting every invitation and I stopped fighting for relationships that no longer serve me or my well-being and I stopped sweating anything that was even vaguely small and I stopped expecting a “magical Christmas.”

Instead I just took it as it came. I loved on old friends and new ones alike. I saw (almost) everyone my heart requested and was thus blessed with family time, son time, girlfriend time, yoga time, couple time, puppy time and music time. I ate well, drank well, laughed well and still kept walking.

And you know what happened? When I stopped expecting a “magical Christmas” I actually got one. Because I discovered that magic doesn’t come from the perfect gift (given or received) or the perfect party (hosted or attended) or the perfect romance, friendship, family dynamic or even song.

Magic comes from embracing every moment with people you love. Even yourself.

But magic also comes from not hanging on. Not hanging on to perceptions, notions, approaches or expectations. Magic comes when you let go of anything or anyone that is counter-intuitive to your own well-being. Magic comes when you prioritize YOUR people without apology.

But hey, magic also comes when you are vacuuming balsam needles and looking forward to a new month and a new year. Magic comes when relishing the changing of the season, whether from summer to fall or spring to summer or even, dare I say, Christmas to January. Sure, people talk about the January blahs and I suppose they may show up. But today on this first day of a new year I have January excitement! January optimism! January intoxication!

Not from the wine, honest. From the anticipation of what this new year will bring. This new journey.

I have long been a morning person. And I finally figured out why. You wake up, you pour that first cup of coffee and you wonder with childlike anticipation what the day will bring. It could be anything. It could be everything! It’s a blessed marvel just waiting to unfold. Kinda like Christmas morning.

That is exactly how I felt this morning. The antique ornaments were lovingly wrapped in tissue and stored away. The twinkle lights (well, most of them) packed up. Our most beautiful tree out back, naked yet noble, awaiting the charity pick-up this weekend. The needles vacuumed away for another year.

It is January and we are ready. I am ready. Ready for the new journey which begins today.

And will begin again tomorrow morning. And the next and the next and the next.
It doesn’t require tinsel or twinkle lights or shortbread or champagne.

All I have to do is wake up tomorrow morning and pour that first cup of coffee. Whether January 2 brings magic or mundane is yet to behold. I can hardly wait to find out.

Happy Journey, my friends. Happy Newest Day and Happy Newest Year.

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So Why Exactly DO We Have To Put The “Christ” Back In Christmas?

Posted on December 3, 2018 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Sorry folks, but I am really tired of watching that meme float around my social media universe. Really tired.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for anyone and everyone having an opinion. I’m all for anyone and everyone LIVING their opinion (as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else). I just have difficulty with sanctimonious drivel. I have even more difficulty with people who are incapable of opening their hearts and seeing a bigger picture.

See the thing is, I don’t think you have to say “Merry Christmas.” But if you want to say Merry Christmas please, by all means say it. And if you want to say Happy Holidays or Season’s Greeting say that. I simply do not believe that the actual spirit of Christmas is served in any way by narrowing down our salutationary (yes, I just made up that word) options. What? We’re only allowed one? Because of course Christmas is a Christian holiday marking the birth of Christ (who of course we all know was a Jew) so we better make damn sure we get his name in there somewhere, right?

Wrong.

Because to me Christmas is something so much more than a religious event. To me it is a time to be a little kinder. A little gentler with yourself and those around you. A time for generosity. A time to be reminded that giving is a good thing. Giving to the poor, the homeless, the forgotten, the disenfranchised. A time to include EVERYONE in your circle of love. No matter what their religion and no matter how they greeted you on the street.
I mean seriously, wasn’t that Christ’s mandate? To love and accept everyone? Like, even Conservatives?

Kidding.

Kinda.

That’s what I don’t get. Why was it cool for Jesus the Jew to love and accept everyone and not give a flying hoot if there was Christ in Christmas? But now I am supposed to. I am supposed to proclaim loudly that I am a CHRISTIAN who insists that two words and ONLY two words be used during this festive (oops … bad choice of word) season?
Um … nope. Please be festive. Even if you’re not a Christian please be loving and kind and generous and festive. The spirit can exist amongst all of us, regardless of our personal beliefs.

Years ago I happened to be dating a lovely Jewish man and come holiday (oops again) time I invited him to my office soiree. It was Hanukkah and he had to light a candle first but he did show up (late) and we had a marvelous evening. Celebrating Christmas with my colleagues. I didn’t care and HE didn’t care that he was an orthodox practicing Jew. What we cared about was each other and sharing the season (I’m not saying oops again).

My son, whilst becoming a rock star, works in the hospitality industry in Toronto. He doesn’t have a hard time getting Christmas Eve, Day and even Boxing Day off work (he loves Christmas and being with his family) and you know why? Because the hospitality industry in large cities is populated with non-Christians. And they are more than happy to work the holidays. And to those fabulous folk I say “Thank you and God bless!” (you pick your deity). I am SO grateful to you because YOU are the reason I get to celebrate with my son.

Do I make a conscious effort to say Happy Holidays to those wonderful people? Ya know … cause they don’t believe in Jesus?

Nope. I say Merry Christmas because that’s what I say. That’s what I’ve always said. Even in England (where I have spent many holidays) where everyone says Happy Christmas I always said Merry Christmas. It’s how I grew up. It’s what makes me happy. Yes, Merry makes me Happy.

But please know beyond any doubt that I don’t say Merry Christmas because I am keeping the Christ in Christmas. I know far too many people who haven’t been to church in decades (apart from weddings and funerals) who have posted that stupid meme. No offence my friends, but walk your talk or please embrace silence. Because here’s the one thing I do know – the God of Jews, Muslims, Buddhists and Christians ALL preaches love. And that should be enough.

That should be ENOUGH in December and it should also be ENOUGH in January when the tree is down, the presents are unwrapped and the carols are no longer sung. Love, acceptance, inclusion … should be enough.

I think Christ would have agreed.

So please … say what you want, believe what you want, celebrate what you want and love who you want. Just don’t ask me to blindly be a sheep, simply because you re-posted a meme. The truth is I don’t think that meme is Christian at all.

I don’t think that meme is anything.

I think the Grinch said it best (I wonder what religion HE was?).

“What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?”

I’m pretty sure it does.

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What Is Your Type … and Why Do You Even Have One?

Posted on November 21, 2018 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

I have a bunch of single friends and I, aspiring to be cupid when and if I can, am always attempting to fix them up. More often than not, however, after I’ve offered up a descriptor or a photo, I am rejected firmly with a “Sorry, not my type.”

This reminds me of a story from back in my band-on-the-road days. Our keyboard player was very talented but a bit of an odd duck socially. He was always trying to find a girlfriend so I once asked the bandleader what A’s type was. He responded with a laugh “His type? Two arms, two legs, that’s his type!”

So when people now talk to me about type I think … why? Why do you have a type? Why have you narrowed your pond to just the goldfish and the angelfish? Have you ever tried a different school? Oh my Cod, if you haven’t then please let minnow why not? Did you lobster and never flounder? You hate shrimpy dudes? You’re not interested in a crab with no sole?

Okay I apologize.

But I just don’t get it. And so I want to float this idea by you.

Okay sorry again. Please … don’t tuna me out here.

Why have a type? Why limit yourself before even starting? Why not approach every prospective suitor as the individual they are, get to know them and THEN decide if they are your type?

My pal G definitely had a type. Tall, thin, pretty – that was his type. When he met F he liked her immediately. They shared interests, ideals, passions and senses of humour. And she was damn pretty. But F wasn’t tall or slim. She wasn’t fat either but he described her as “chunky”.

So even though it was obvious she was totally into him and he totally enjoyed her company he back-burnered her completely when R came along. Because R was his type. He was SO going to explore a romance with R because she was tall and slim. That was his type.

What G didn’t factor in was that R was also haughty, self-absorbed and demanding. Like seriously demanding. And when, after a few months, all of those delightful traits came to light G hoofed it out of there as fast as he could and guess where he ended up? Yep … back with F.

Guess where he still is 6 years later. With F. He is happy as a clam (oops, sorry again) with F and they are making a pretty fantastic life together.

I say “Yay G” because he learned an incredibly valuable lesson and for most dudes past the age of, say, 35, that is virtually impossible. He learned that his “type” was not the be-all and end-all. Sure it might be a starting point but it can just easily be an ending point if your “type” doesn’t factor in at least a hundred variables.

P also had a type. Back in high school P only wanted to date the good-looking dudes. The popular boys. The jocks. She was a damn pretty girl and she had her pick. Never mind that M totally adored her and was pretty much her best buddy. No way she was going to date M because he had a big nose. And he was super smart and maybe a little geeky. Nope … she was going to date the super-cute dude and in fact not only date the super-cute dude but marry the super-cute dude. See ya later, M!

Until many years and a few children later she discovered that super-cute dude was cheating on her. Pretty much all over town. But not before M had resurfaced. After a couple of decades and a burst of newfound technology M showed up in her inbox. What a surprise! His nose was still big. So was his bank account. And his lifestyle. His job. M’s world was fucking huge because he had made a huge success of his brainy geekiness.

They never did end up together even though P did leave super-cute dude. M too was married and that was that. But P told me wistfully that it would always be a regret. She would always regret choosing her “type” over honest exploration and discovery.

And then there’s me. Yeah, I know, there’s always me.

I was playing at a bar in my twenties, middle of August, deathly hot. It was an old hotel so not much AC. During one of our breaks I was chatting with the bartender about the heat and I said “You know what I need up in my room is a fan. I need a fan!”

And the dude sitting alone a few seats away started to clap. He just started to slowly clap while his eyes remained glued to the television.

I was feeling pretty bold because I had just spend exactly 7 minutes chatting with the best-looking dude in the room who had turned out to be not only extremely handsome but extremely boring so I strutted over to clapping-guy and exclaimed “Why are you clapping?”

“You said you needed a fan,” he replied sardonically. “Here I am.”

Hilarious.

Long story short we spent some time talking, he invited me out to dinner, I accepted (hey, I was a poor musician and free dinners were magnificent!) and we ended up dating for almost a year. I can assure you clapping-boy was not my type at all. Best-looking dude was my type. Until I actually got to know them both.

Can you spell tables-turned?

So if you are single and still searching for your type, I ask you to write down ALL of those attributes and then … throw that paper in the trash can. Because trust me, you truly have no idea what the heck your type is until you fall in love with him.

I’m 5’6″. I still like high heels so the possibility exists that on date night I will be 5’9″. For this very reason, back in my on-line dating days, I never even considered anyone under that height. Ever. Even the guys who said “Hey it won’t matter in bed!” … hugely funny and please read that with sarcasm dripping.

This was a ridiculous choice when I remember that one of the great loves of my life was 5’8″. Well he would argue 5’8.5″ but whatever. He was no basketball player and yet I adored him. And since then I have adored other vertically-challenged dudes. Oops … was that politically correct?

What I mean is I thought my type was “tall” but maybe it is not?

I also enjoyed (sometimes) a 2 year relationship with a tee-totaling vegetarian. Yes me, the certifiable lush who delights in ripping barbecued flesh from the bone learned how to drink tea and cook tofu.

Sorry. That was a lie. I did learn how to cook tofu. Whilst drinking wine. Because as we know, in every relationship compromise is key.

My point is that dude was tall. But he wasn’t other things. And eventually other things got in the way.

And then there’s my darling ex. Of British extraction and I spent so much time in England, a country with merit but not exactly my soul’s home, visiting his family and wondering if our child would also have bad teeth, I vowed my next lover would be Italian! British is just not my type!!

Guess what? My current lover is …

British. And I mean the real deal with the accent and everything. And guess what else? We go to England every year to visit family.

And guess what else?

I like it. I like England and I like his family and I like visiting and then, well sometimes we … hop over to Italy.

My point is … I gave up. On types. I gave up on criteria. I logged on to exploration and discovery and POSSIBILITY and I gave up on any other guidelines.

Henceforth I solemnly swear that the only type I shall entertain is the type I type when I type this blog.

The ocean is FULL of fish.

Please do not carp if you can’t reel in your type. Expand your net. Adjust your perch. Scale different heights. Don’t trout …

Okay … you know I meant pout and now I think I’m done with horrible puns.
Seriously … try something different. Something new. Something against type.

Just for the halibut.

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Are You Aging Gracefully or Gratefully?

Posted on November 9, 2018 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Today I visited my dear friend G. In hospice.

G is just a few years older than I am and has pancreatic cancer.

He also has a thousand watt smile that still lights up the room. A sharp mind and beautifully articulate voice. A fortitude that defies his prognosis and yet a dignified and reasoned acceptance of his fate. He is an absolute marvel.

So is his mother. She just turned 103 and today he said with resignation and also perhaps a tiny bit of pride “She will probably outlive me.”

When I left my dear friend after our visit I was overcome with gratitude. Gratitude not only for knowing him and loving him but gratitude to have been given a chance to share THIS part of his journey too. Gratitude for ALL the memories we made. And yes – maybe selfishly – gratitude that I am still here on this planet, alive and ready to kick some more.

And then I got to thinking about the concept, typically applied only to women, about aging “gracefully.” I just read a Facebook post about this and I think (could be wrong) what that poster meant was aging “naturally.” So I wondered – who decided that natural and graceful were synonymous? And why is graceful so important? I mean damn, sometimes I’m as clumsy as an ox and I’m pretty sure I’ll never be a fan of wrinkles and gray hair. You know, on me. On MY person.

And then it hit me. Aging “gracefully” is simply not on my agenda. If it’s on yours, and by the way you can define gracefully any way you like, then yay … go for it. But if you want to Botox your forehead and plump up those lips … go for it! Wash that gray right out of your hair … do it and go blonde! Get laser treatments and chemical peels and facials and a face-lift … it is YOUR call. And no one can tell you that you are not aging “gracefully” just because you would like to look as young as you feel.

No one.

By the way I think Jane Fonda is aging FABULOUSLY and fully admits to getting work done. I also believe so is Ali McGraw (remember Love Story?) and apparently she is all original.

The truth is – I do not care how you age.

What matters to me, for you AND for me, is that we are granted the privilege of aging. Whichever “higher power” deals those cards, or even if it is just random dumb luck, what matters to me is that IF we are given the opportunity to age we chose to age GRATEFULLY.

We don’t waste a single moment of the moments we have left. We love deeply and truly. We feel every emotion and heck, appreciate even the bad ones because every emotion reminds us that we are still in the game. We check in with the big picture, do not sweat the small stuff, express appreciation every single day and stop judging anyone, even backhandedly, for their choices.

We are all rare and beautiful individuals on unique journeys that, oddly enough, will end in the exact same place. G and I talked about that today. And as I love to say (in my best southern drawl) – “We all gonna die!”

So how we choose to LIVE, how we choose to facilitate our golden years – should we be so fortunate to enjoy them – is as exclusive as our fingerprints. You are the architect of ALL of your life.

Gratitude is such a simple thing. And yet a thing that some of us forget to express, feel and LIVE IN on a daily basis. Which I think is why I have blogged about it more than once. We ALL forget. We ALL need reminders. We ALL get so caught up in minutiae that we forget to be grateful for every single breath.

Those breaths are numbered.

I’m going to say that one more time my friends – THOSE BREATHS ARE NUMBERED.

Don’t waste them.

Be whoever it is you want to be in whatever package makes you feel yourself and do NOT let anyone else tell you you’re doing it wrong.

Just be grateful that you are still here.

Doing it.

Just like G.

 

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This Lady’s Not Home … (thank you Melissa Manchester)

Posted on November 2, 2018 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Back in the 70s, on one of her first albums, Melissa Manchester sang a song called “This Lady’s Not Home Today.” Even then, when I was a mere babe, fresh and innocent, those lyrics resonated with me.

Got a house on the hill
And it’s constantly filled
With a number of passing acquaintances
But I’m tired and spent
From all the friendships well meant
And the rents getting high on my maintenance, Lord

In recent weeks I have found myself humming this very song over and over again, mostly under my breath. Not so much because of friendships well meant (although there have been a few of those) but more because I am feeling increasingly tired and spent.

Now I’m not a big fan of pity parties. I rarely throw them for myself and I sure as hell don’t like attending those thrown by others. We’ve all got shit, right? Figure it out and move forward. Don’t waste your life stalled in self-induced muck. Or even muck induced by others. Shovel that muck into a ditch or ditch the person mucking with you. I always thought it was fairly simple.

Until the muck really started to pile up on my head and I found myself drowning in it, even with shovel in hand madly scooping. I won’t bore you with the details of that shit-storm. Suffice to say it has been ongoing and suffocating.

But the worst part is it has sent my blood pressure skyrocketing. Yes I am already on meds and have been for quite some time – I was blessed with pregnancy induced hypertension when my son entered this world and it kinda stuck with me. I was also blessed with a genetic predisposition to big numbers. Both my mother and grandmother had high BP (and both lived long lives) but my father, with his LOW BP, made up for it with a decidedly Type A personality which he thoughtfully passed along to me (thanks Daddy).

So here I am, Type A with high BP and I sound like some fucked up alphabet soup about to boil over and splatter against the ceiling.

Actually, THAT is how my head feels. Like my brains are trying to escape through my ears and splatter … anywhere.

Okay damn, this IS sounding suspiciously like a pity party.

But here’s the point: the point is as much as I have been fighting the inevitable – “This lady’s not home today.”

I mean, she is, but she is unavailable for consultation.

Okay that is not true either. Today I have consulted with my son, my best friend, my partner, my sister, my neighbour and my dog.  Apparently I am unable to simply turn off. Oh, how I wish I could.

Well I can’t be a fool
Though I’d like to come through
With a satin edged blanket for comfort
But, I got needs of my own
I’ve been too long left alone
Without somebody shoulder’n my hurt, Lord

I am now consulting with a glass of Pinot Grigio , new medication and a new conviction to let the world carry on without me, at least for a few days, while I decompress and hope these ridiculous numbers drop. No more charitable endeavours, no more long “helpful” chats. No more picking up all the pieces and no more making all the plans.

No more.

Time off for good behavior
Time off to be my savior
Stay in touch with your indecision
So I’ll have something to return to
After this brief intermission

I DO want to return after this brief intermission. I would very much like to return with my brains still residing inside my skull. And when I DO return I want to be available. As I’ve always been available. For consultation, for conversation, for consideration and of course … for wine.

But I am reminded now of the plane/child/oxygen thing. Take care of yourself first or you won’t be taking care of anyone. Period.
And that is why …

Right now I’m relighting my fuses
And tending to my bruises
Trying to find my direction, Lord

MY direction is towards better health. Less stress. No more headaches. More vitality. All things that will lead me back to my people. The people who need me. The people I need.

Self-care is so incredibly important. So why do we leave it to languish at the bottom of our to-do lists? Are we so full of our deluded sense of self-worth that we don’t believe the planet will spin without our constant involvement?

I am probably more guilty of that particular brand of hubris than most.

But no more. The world will turn. And yes of course I will return to that turning world.

But – for now – I’m hanging out the sign:

Say do not disturb me this lady’s not home
Today.

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