How Much Do You Deserve?

Posted on April 30, 2018 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

I’ve been having a bit of trouble sleeping lately. You know, so many thoughts, so little time. So many questions, so few immediate answers. So many aches, so little head.

Well, that’s not true. I actually have a big head. I mean physically I have a big fat German head. But thanks to a galloping horse (off of which I tumbled, onto my head) and a rogue Mack truck (which rear-ended the van in which I was seated, causing nasty whiplash amongst other things), my head sometimes aches beyond what Tylenol can handle. Weirdly, this works out quite well for all those thoughts and questions swirling about because if I can’t sleep I might as well contemplate, right? Or stew? Or just lie awake tossing and turning until the rooster crows?

Anyhoo … it all works out symbiotically for my head and my thoughts and I’m a little ~yawn~ tired in the morning.

So the most recent question has to do with that oh-so-tricky word “deserve”. I ask this because a friend of mine just told me that she “deserves” a vacation. Down south. On a beach. Palm tress and all that. Now, I just returned from such a holiday and it was delightful and I sure did love most every moment of it. But did I ever even in my drunkenest revelry believe that I “deserved” that holiday?

Of course not. I don’t even know what a person would have to do to actually deserve a southern sojourn. Work more hours then everyone else? Work smarter than everyone else? Win the lottery or inherit money? What if you haven’t ever had a beachy blast? Do you then deserve it, because by golly it’s got to be your turn?

I’ve traveled more than most and certainly enjoyed many lovely vacations. Beaches. Sunsets. Margaritas. Now, here’s the thing. Should I be feeling guilty because I know a lot of people who have never ventured south? Or only twice? Or not since their honeymoon? When exactly will I know what I deserve and what they don’t? And how exactly will I know it?

This past January my beloved and I jetted to England to visit family. Not really the best time to travel but the price was right and we were long overdue. The day before we flew one of my very sweet friends said “Have a great time … you deserve it.”

And I thought “I do?” Hmmm. What exactly have I done to deserve this holiday and that great time? Did I spend last year volunteering at the blood bank and feeding the homeless? Did I donate thousands to charity? Was I nice enough to my mother? What exactly prompted my pal to tell me that I deserved more rewards?

See what I mean. “Deserve” is a very tricky word.

I once read a quote (and wrote a blog about it here) – “When you settle for less than you deserve, you end up with less than you settled for.”

That one I like, and I think I understand. At that time I was in a relationship that wasn’t exactly going as planned (do they ever?). And the more that that pesky man removed from my table, the harder I struggled to maintain my seat. It was (for me) a lose/lose situation. And that quote (thankfully) was the giant wake-up call I needed. Because the less HE could get away with, the less HE offered. And the less I accepted, figuring in my heartbroken, semi-abandoned state that any crumb was better than starvation.

Pardon me while I throw up.

I do not, will not, can not live in that Victim-land anymore. All you got is crumbs? Well baby, look at all those other restaurants! I deserve a full meal and damnit I’m going to go get it.

I believe that. I believe with all my heart that we ALL deserve to be sated. By relationships. Relationships that we choose. And that’s the kicker. Because WE choose our relationships and then WE decide if they are providing enough of what we DESERVE for us to stay in them. THAT is when “deserve”makes sense to me.

I’d really like a horse. Or a sports car. Yes, neither of my early misfortunes turned me off riding or driving. The question begs – do I deserve a horse? Or a Mercedes 450SL (is that too specific?).

Of course not. I guess if I worked really hard and made tons of money and did good deeds and paid off all my debts, THEN I could go purchase that pony. Even then – would I deserve it?

No.

No more than my single-mom friend supporting two sons on one income deserves her dream month in Italy. I may have earned it. In the way that I do hope one day she (or her kids) earn her Italy vacation (and she takes me with her). But just because she has sacrificed TONS for her kids, does she now deserve something special?

Again. No.

Because that’s just part of the job description. Sacrificing for your offspring. It’s what we parents sign up for. And once you’ve signed up, well damnit get ready for the long haul. With gratitude.

So why does my friend believe she deserves a holiday?

All I can come up with is this – we have become a society built on quick fixes. Instant gratification. Addiction and relief. Right fucking now, thank you very much. We have also become a nation of expert rationalizers. My son took a little holiday earlier this year and literally told me that he couldn’t afford NOT to go. Yep, it was such a bargain he couldn’t afford not to go.

Okaaaaaaaaaay.

Apparently my friend also can’t afford not to go. Her overall financial situation isn’t much better than my kid’s but … she deserves it. She has sacrificed oodles and now she deserves it.

Okaaaaaaaaaaay.

My feeling is that if WE feel compelled to publicize what WE think we deserve, then we most likely deserve far less than we assume. I am a huge believer in the Universe and Energy and Karma. What goes around comes around, what you give you get – all those platitudes became platitudes for a reason. As soon as you feel the urge to rationalize ANY decision you have made, all bets are off.

Because (in my humble opinion) IF you truly deserved whatever it is you think you deserve, that need to rationalize wouldn’t exist. You would just quietly go about your business not giving a Kentucky fuck about what anybody thinks.

And maybe, just maybe, that tricky word “deserve” would never even show up? Maybe you would just allow the Universe to decide what you deserve and be grateful for those blessings whenever they arrive? Maybe you would allow Energy to determine what rewards you shall reap, based on what you have altruistically sewn? And maybe Karma isn’t actually a bitch after all, but a loving, rewarding Goddess, more than ready to treat you to a palm tree or two?

Maybe.

I probably have a few hours tonight to dwell on this further so feel free to ask me in the morning.

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Are You A Traveling Fool or A Traveling FOOL?

Posted on April 25, 2018 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

I recently returned from a lovely one week stay on the island of Roatan. Well, actually one week and one extra day and we’ll get to that in a moment. Just in case you’re wondering about Roatan (most people do) it’s an island off the coast of Honduras. Home to the second biggest coral reef on this planet. And therefore a (relatively) new hotspot not only for sun-seekers but especially for divers and snorkelers pursuing an exquisite aquatic experience.

We lucked into an incredible week. Loads of sunshine every day, calm waters for fish-viewing, a first-rate dive operation for my beloved, new friends and restaurants and a charming villa overlooking the pool for us to enjoy. The sunsets were spectacular. The beach walks (for me) restorative. The people friendly and helpful.

On our first morning I sustained a nasty burn to the bottom of my foot. In hindsight I reckon I stepped (barefoot) onto an exposed nail head on the wooden pool deck. My sole literally sizzled (sounds like a song). Naturally this injury turned into a blister which most definitely impeded my enjoyment of that beach walk twice a day. Ouch.

On evening 3 we dined at a gorgeous garden cafe which came highly recommended. With good reason. The food was divine and the puppies meandering about a welcome delight. The mosquitoes also meandering (with menace) well … maybe not so much. The next morning I realized that both my legs had provided quite the feast for those hungry mites. I counted upwards of 20 bites, soon to itch like crazy and then fester and ooze. Fun, right?

I was very diligent about sunscreen and shade so even though my beloved (Mr. Un-Diligent) sustained his first-ever sunburn, I survived that flame unscathed. Poor baby him. Welcome to the real world. He also suffered with an ear issue which kiboshed diving for 2 days until he finally believed me when I said it’s probably just wax stuck to your eardrum and we syringed that beast outta there. Voila – he was cured and back on the boat.

And then came departure day. After a full 7 days of glorious sunshine, our final morning dawned wet and wild. I’m talking about non-stop torrential rain, high winds, crashing waves and general bedlam. Whilst all the while, back home in Ontario, the winter’s nastiest ice storm had pretty much shut down the province. We ended up sitting in the tiny (and I mean really tiny – only 3 gates, all in the same room, no bar and just one kiosk for refreshments and only 1 usually malfunctioning bathroom) airport for the entire day. We were given very little information (aircraft rotation problem?) and one $15 food voucher. The WiFi was so overloaded it worked only sporadically and the place was so jam-packed people had to sit on the floor.

So why am I telling you all of this?

I am telling you all of this because I am a traveling fool. I love to travel. I love to see the world. I love to discover new places and I also love to return to places that I, well, love. I like airplane food, I like getting tipsy in an airport bar, I love the smell of jet fuel and I love the excitement of a new adventure. And so every time I am blessed with another opportunity to indulge my wanderlust I remind myself that this is a privilege. A bonus. A gift. An opportunity to enjoy what many do not. I am LUCKY!!!

So what about those traveling FOOLS? I’m sure, if you have traveled only once, you know who I mean. They are at the airport complaining because the plane needs to be de-iced. They are on the plane complaining that a baby (or two) is wailing. They have to wait too long for their luggage. Their room isn’t big enough or cool enough or beachfront enough, you can’t get a latte in the restaurant, the bed is too hard, the eggs are too soft and it’s raining. Blah blah blah.

Now, I’m not saying we don’t have a right to speak up when we’ve paid good money in good faith for certain things. Even luxuries. We do and we should … IF we truly have been slighted.

What I am suggesting is that we sit back, take a few breaths, maybe listen to some music in our headphones and remind ourselves how fucking lucky we are. To travel. To see. To experience. To taste. To seek … and enjoy.

My friend L is a seasoned traveler and lover of exceptional experiences. As we languished in that Roatan airport and my random Facebook transmissions actually hit their mark, she suggested we might take our leave of the airport and wait out the endless delay at an airport hotel. In the bar. With wine.

Fair enough. Except there are no airport hotels in Roatan. We are talking third-world country quite new to the tourist trade. Trust me, it is SO worth visiting but don’t expect Cancun.

Her response made me chuckle. And then I closed my eyes, shifted uncomfortably in my hard plastic seat, turned my music back on and played another game of Scrabble against my iPad. My ass had been in that same hard plastic chair for over 7 hours. I had already played 37 games of Scrabble. And even though I do have enough padding to support that physical discomfort I was more than ready for either a cramped flight home or a beach bar and bed.

The beach bar eventually won. We all got shipped back to West Bay (best beach on the island) and one more night on stormy Roatan. It was a lot of driving over bumpy, pot-holed roads. It was two nondescript buffet meals at a nondescript all-inclusive. Another night in a foreign bed and another wait the following day at the fabulous Roatan airport. Before we finally got to board the plane in the pouring rain. Have you ever sat on a plane for over 4 hours soaking wet?

You know what I say?

I say ALL GOOD. All part of the adventure. ALL part of the great fortune of my life that I GET TO TRAVEL!

How lucky am I?

Well … 24 hours after we returned I developed the worst cast of “traveler’s tummy” (in the olden days they called it Montezuma’s Revenge) I have ever experienced. I was really, really sick with fever, chills and, well, you know. On the bright side it was an unintentional cleanse that helped me lose whatever weight I may have gained on vacation and then some. On the not-so-bright side it was just plain horrible. But you know what?

I am still not complaining. Nor will I. I will sing Roatan’s praises to any who will listen. I will gaze upon my holiday photos with delight. I will cherish the memories for as long as they burn brightly in my brain. And I will give thanks to the Universe, daily, for the gift of travel.

Because I am a traveling fool. A fool who loves to travel. But I am no traveling FOOL. I will never take my journeys for granted and I will never assume my adventures OWE me anything. They are MY adventures, to make or break as I see fit. And with them come the good, the bad and even the ugly. And even the ugly is only as ugly as I choose to define it.

My foot has pretty much healed. My bites are just teensy little scars now. The Roatan airport is a distant memory surpassed by the memory of all those spectacular sunsets. And my belly is … getting better.

You know what? In a month or two I will be more than ready to travel again. The planet beckons. I love that the planet continually beckons. So many destinations, so little time. So beckon away, dear planet.

It is up to me to decide exactly HOW to heed that call.

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Love: Why Your Choice May Be Destined To NOT Work (and there’s a quiz!)

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

Many years ago I read a book by Helen Fisher called Why Him, Why Her. This very clever woman created a questionnaire which allows you to determine if you are a Director or a Negotiator (one category) and if you are an Explorer or a Builder (the other). These “types” are all based on scientific evidence. As in brain research. You know, the study of neuro-somethings and chemical-something-elses. Okay, let’s establish right here and now that science was never really my forte.

The Explorer expresses traits primarily linked with the dopamine system.

The Builder expresses traits primarily linked with the serotonin system.

The Director expresses traits primarily linked with the testosterone system.

The Negotiator expresses traits primarily linked with the estrogen system.

Naturally, we all demonstrate aspects of ALL of the above but, much like the Love Languages that Gary Chapman identified, we all have “signature” traits that ultimately define who we are and what mate will be best suited to us.

What’s interesting here, though, is that “like” does not necessarily equal “like”. For instance, if you are a Builder, someone who likes to nest, create calm, stay put, harmonious and somehow storm-less, you will not abide well with an Explorer. By very definition we Explorers (yes, I am one) crave adventure. Excitement. Change. Even danger, peril and potential jeopardy. We want all of that and then some and we are usually willing to risk boat-loads to get it. Not that Builder, though. That Builder is content to stay home, you know, building. The slow, methodical (often quite successful) way. Getting things done. At home. Without much risk. Serenity being the goal, and all.

But then we get to Directors and Negotiators. Those Directors are “Get it done!” kind of people. Linear thinkers. Go for the goal and damn the torpedoes! Leaders of men and doers of great deeds! Nothing gets in the way of a confirmed Director. They are take-charge soldiers. Now, that’s not to say that they are only take-charge soldiers, lacking depth or soul or heart or any of those other human attributes than some of us find fetching. It just means they’ve got it (whatever it is) figured out and they are now going to achieve it. Whatever it is.

Then there are The Negotiators. My people. We’re not so much concerned with getting there than we are with how are we going to get there and how is everybody going to feel when we get there and what can I do on the way to make sure that everybody is feeling as good as they possibly can and by the way, how exactly are YOU feeling at this moment reading all of this?

Yep. We are the emotional care-givers of the world. The ones who move this and shift that and give up a bit of this so that a bit of that will have more room to flourish and we do this every single day. Gladly. We negotiate our path through life with perhaps a more pliable set of regulations because we understand that every encounter is just another negotiation. And if we can figure it out with diplomacy and understanding, WE can solve the problems of the world!

Yes, we are that awesome. Or so we think.

But … can you imagine two Negotiators together? Or two Directors, for that matter. The Directors would be fighting constantly for supremacy and the Negotiators would be locked in endless arbitration. Stalemate.

When I was married, everybody thought we were a fabulous match. Sure, we were different (me = outgoing, he = reserved) but still, a great match. Except for this:

My ex is a Director and I am a Negotiator. Yay us!

BUT …

My ex is a Builder. And I am an Explorer.

And when Dopamine challenges Serotonin guess who is staying awake tonight, churning and imploding? Serotonin never stands a chance.

I think we all choose our mates for a million different reasons. Lifestyle. History. Sex appeal. Sense of humour. Timing. Even opposites attracting.

Maybe now we know why opposites attract? On some levels, there has to be common ground. But common ground can never be enough if one of you wants to plant trees and the other wants to explore The Himalaya. Hey, if one of you wants to win the Nobel Prize and the other wants to take care of her girlfriends, it might just fly. But I can assure you, if the Explorer starts getting antsy and the Builder just keeps planting trees (nothing wrong with that, by the way), it’s never going to work. Not in the long run.

If you want to take the test – find it here: Helen Fisher’s Personality Test – The Anatomy Of Love

It won’t take too long and is well worth the effort.

My beloved just did it. When we got together everyone said it wouldn’t last. They all said it was a classic case of “opposites attracting”.

Indeed.

Turns out he is a Director/Explorer. I am a Negotiator/Explorer. We are truly opposite. And yet … the same.

There is hope. And now we know why.

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The Truth About Soulmates and Kindred Spirits

Posted on April 8, 2018 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

I always believed I had a soulmate. Probably because from a very young age I was conditioned, via movies, books, fairy tales and songs, to believe that there was one perfect person, somewhere out there, just waiting for me. Yes, I absolutely knew that someday my prince would come. And we would live happily ever after. Because that what soulmates do, right? Through sleet and snow and hail and rain, they find you, right?

Oh wait. That might be postmen with your mail.

Anyhoo, I bought that passionate plot and believed in it with all the Disney optimism my inner princess could muster.

Guess what? When I was in my mid-forties, he showed up. There was no white horse and no midnight ball, but the night he showed up I absolutely knew it was him. Literally, from our first “hello” I knew it was him. Something in his eyes. Something in his smile. Something in the way he moved …

(let’s now pause for a brief musical interlude)

We were both married to other people at that exact magical moment but hey, I’ve never been one to let pesky legal details impede the progress of soulmatedness (and geez, hadn’t I waited an awfully long time?) so yeah, eventually the prince and I got together and I wore that glass slipper for a few years before pretty much everything turned back into a pumpkin, including my heart. I got dumped and smashed and crushed and obliterated until even the pumpkin was only good for pie.

So much for soulmates.

My social life was somewhat lacking and I was feeling worse than week-old pumpkin pie so I binge-watched Sex and the City. And in one fateful episode the four chicks are sitting around brunching and one of them says “What if WE are each other’s soulmates? And what if our constant quest to find a guy-soulmate is a big mistake because we already have our soulmate sisters and guys are just for fun? And, you know, to change a tire or something every now and then?”

Okay, that wasn’t the exact line but I’m sure you get my drift.

And then I met C. Our sons were pals and had suggested we befriend and then one day I was at the piano writing a horribly sad song because I knew the prince and I were on thin ice and there’s a knock at my door and this adorable young beauty is standing there in cut-off jeans and a bikini top and she says all chirpy “Hi! I’m C!”

And I scan her up and down skeptically and then say something I have never before said in my life. “I’m just in the middle of writing a song. Do you want to hear it?”

The reason I have never said these words before is that I never play songs for anyone until they are done. And yet with her … it felt right.

She sat down, I played and sang, we both cried and that was IT … instant best friends. SOULMATES! It was screaming loud and clear. This girl was my chick-soulmate. And damn if that didn’t feel mighty fine after being annihilated by the prince.

Last year, after over 10 years of soulmatedness, she dumped me too. Because of something I said. Well, not even something I said, more like something I texted. In response to something she texted. It wasn’t vile or ugly or horrifying or even combative. It was just my truth.

She never responded. I mean, with words. She just dumped me on every social media platform possible and wrote me out of her life. She either really hated my truth or it’s because she has a new dude-soulmate and he is all she needs.

Well, okay then.

So I am obviously one hot, fucked-up, soulmate-less mess, right? My soulmates are ditching me faster than you can say “Bippety Boppity Boo.” It must be my fault, right?

And then a few months ago I am book-less and it’s Sunday and the library is closed and I want to read something so I decide to revisit Elizabeth Gilbert’s “Eat, Pray, Love.” For the fifth time. Maybe sixth. And there she is in India at the ashram and Richard from Texas is expounding on her ex-lover-thought-he-was-my-soulmate guy and Richard-the-clever says this:

“Your problem is you don’t understand what that word means. People think a soulmate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soulmate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that’s holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soulmate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soulmate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave. And thank God for it.”

Huh?

I read that statement at least ten times until it finally sinks in. Yes, Vickie dear, you have encountered soulmates. Yes, you have loved them. Yes, they have loved you. Yes, it is possible for two souls to mate and connect and reconnect life after life after life. YES!

It’s just not the fluffy, romance-laden, Disney story that we’ve been fed. Our soulmates are part of our process. But our process is OUR process. We meet, we learn, we teach, we share and then maybe … we move on. Because class is over. No harm, no foul. Our journey continues, made better by our soulmate’s participation. They owe us nothing. We owe them nothing.

If you need to owe somebody something, owe the Universe gratitude.

So what about Kindred Spirits? Not quite the same as soulmates, I reckon. A soulmate is someone who comprehends your deepest depths, without much effort. A Kindred Spirit is someone who comprehends the way you think, the way you live, the choices you make, the mistakes you make and might still make and … yes, the KS gets you. Without much effort. Maybe not way down deep like Soulmate, but enough to make you tingle and enough to make you feel somewhat seen. Which is a whole lot better than invisible.

Well, I would like to wager that the same rules just might apply. Maybe Kindred Spirits show up to teach you something. To peel off that nagging layer that refuses to release. To smack you awake, hold up that unflattering mirror, stand there without budging and say “This IS you!”

Maybe. The other option is that kindred spirits bring so much joy to our lives we simply delight in their presence. We delight in their honesty, their understanding, their interest and their empathy. With KS we don’t have to fight to be heard and we don’t have to diminish our true selves to be loved. KS has already met us on a divine path. On some level we have both already done the hard work. So when we meet, and click and know instantly that our connection is special, it is a gift. A beautiful, often unexpected, always welcomed gift.

And I guess that is the point of this missive (you didn’t think I had one, did you?). Soulmates and Kindred Spirits are gifts. It is our bad if we place expectations on them that are impossible (or improbable) to achieve. If we insist that our soulmate comes complete with a happy ending or if we don’t factor in that people are people and not Disney characters … if we don’t take ownership of our own narratives and keep waiting for somebody … anybody … to save us, well, we are doomed.

We are doomed to languish in the land of make believe forever.

Not my jam. Not anymore.

I am so very grateful for the two soulmates I know have touched my life. I am so very grateful for the ‘more-than-two’ kindred spirits who still touch my life. And I am equally grateful for the gentle souls who may not easily fit either of those categories but still bring immense love to my heart.

It’s all about expectations. Or lack thereof. I look back with gratitude. I look forward with promise. I predict nothing. I assume nothing. I welcome all new Kindred Spirits and Soulmates.

I am ready to learn.

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Would You Cheat?

Posted on April 4, 2018 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

This morning I read some pretty powerful words from Joni Mitchell. Words that resonated deeply with me. Words that obviously come from a long life, profoundly lived.

Everybody has a superficial side and a deep side, but this culture doesn’t place much value on depth — we don’t have shamans or soothsayers, and depth isn’t encouraged or understood.

Ya think? I see it on Facebook all the time. I can bare my soul in a heartfelt blog and get very little response. Then I ask people what’s on top of their fridge or what colour toilet seat I should choose and wham! Flooded. But that’s what this land of social media does. It inspires to hide all the deep and glorify the romance. Or the easy and mundane. But whether the actual romance or the romantic picture we choose to share of our lives, most of us are guilty as charged.

Joni continues:

Surrounded by this shallow, glossy society we develop a shallow side, too, and we become attracted to fluff. That’s reflected in the fact that this culture sets up an addiction to romance based on insecurity — the uncertainty of whether or not you’re truly united with the object of your obsession is the rush people get hooked on. I’ve seen this pattern so much in myself and my friends and some people never get off that line.

Oh pick me. Please. Again, guilty as charged. I’ve actually made a career out of getting hooked on that rush. I’m an addict if ever there was one. So now what, Joni?
But along with developing my superficial side, I always nurtured a deeper longing, so even when I was falling into the trap of that other kind of love, I was hip to what I was doing. I recently read an article in Esquire magazine called ‘The End of Sex,’ that said something that struck me as very true. It said: “If you want endless repetition, see a lot of different people. If you want infinite variety, stay with one.” What happens when you date is you run all your best moves and tell all your best stories — and in a way, that routine is a method for falling in love with yourself over and over.

Hip to what I was doing. I love that. Because I too am a fairly smart girl and even though hip to what I was doing, did it anyway. Kind of like that alcoholic who knows drinking will kill her but just keeps doing it. It’s all about that rush, remember? And damn but you don’t often get that rush with a long-time partner, do you? At least not daily.

And I love this theory that endless “new” begets endless “repetition” and that we all really just want to fall in love with ourselves over and over again. I mean it’s so ridiculously insane it’s brilliant. And true. And pretty fucking self-absorbed if we must get real here (and we must). Joni insists:
You can’t do that with a longtime mate because he knows all that old material. With a long relationship, things die then are rekindled, and that shared process of rebirth deepens the love. It’s hard work, though, and a lot of people run at the first sign of trouble. You’re with this person, and suddenly you look like an asshole to them or they look like an asshole to you — it’s unpleasant, but if you can get through it you get closer and you learn a way of loving that’s different from the neurotic love enshrined in movies. It’s warmer and has more padding to it.”

Oh, how I love those words. It’s warmer and has more padding to it.

Kind of like me.

But I’m pretty sure it’s true and I’m happy to say I personally know several couples who are a testament to this statement’s veracity. They’ve done the long haul and they are still in it to win it. Not because they said so, not because they made a commitment, not because they are too lazy to shake things up and not because they’re getting some gravy on the side and therefore sated. They are in it because they still totally dig their partner and with that partner is where they want to be. Hills and valleys. Ebbs and flows. No excuses.

That said, I’m also acquainted with couples who divorced after 40 years so what the hell do I know?

Well I do know this. From experience. In my last blog I wrote about my adventures with IRC (Internet Relay Chat) and even though the medium has changed, the whole flirting-via-internet thing has not. Whether it’s online dating, an old boyfriend you have reconnected with on Facebook or a seemingly innocuous email correspondence with a colleague, we all have opportunities to stretch the boundaries of propriety. And sometimes, all logic aside, we do. Not only do we do, but we do with great optimism. With huge rationalization. With the firm belief that we can handle it, take from it, enjoy it and not in any way diminish our other partnership.

Well – two points on that.

  1. Bullshit. You’re either a compartmentalization fucking genius or you’re heartless.
  2. You’re doing it because of that fairy tale Joni so succinctly describes.

You see, when we indulge in a clandestine flirtation we forget that we are only seeing a tiny aspect of our co-conspirator. The tiny aspect that he or she astutely chooses to share. So what do we then do? We fill in the blanks. We fill in the fucking blanks with whatever fantasy we choose to attach to that individual. Probably based on nothing more that our own wishes. Certainly not based on that person’s very real and possibly quite prosaic real life. We fill in the blanks with all the juicy chunks of early-stages-falling-in-love pablum that we’ve been missing. Or even falling-in-lust. Or falling-in-intellectual-stimulation. Call it what you will but my guess is we are diving head first into these shark-infested waters because as it turns out we are no longer in the early-stages-falling-in-love phase with our beloved. Nor is anyone, by the way, who has passed the two year mark (arbitrary number, chosen by me because this is my blog).

And so where does that leave the warm, padded love at home?

Weird how warm and padding have never been terribly sexy, have they? But then again, is anybody ever, always sexy?

Nope.

I know this. I have been ill these past few days. That dark knight Diverticulitis has yet again taken me down. Damn that bastard, but he shows up every few years and (literally) tries to kill me. And if his attempted annihilation isn’t bad enough, the horse pills required to ruin his fun are almost as dreadful. Almost.

So here I am, a shivering, septic mess, feverish, in aggressive pain and nauseated by gargantuan antibiotics. And my beloved is here with me, every step of the way. He checks in from work. He offers to do a drugstore run. He stops on his way home to buy me soup. He rubs my feet before bed just in case acupressure really does work (he even Googles ‘colon’ to find out where to press) and never once during any of this does he ever make me feel like the skanky wreck I truly am.

And therein is proof positive of Joni’s inspired words.

If we remain vital, curious, connected and open, there will always be opportunities to tell our best stories over again – to someone new – and fall in love with ourselves all over again too. And I will never suggest that ignoring that call is easy.

But the opportunity for rebirth, the chance to rekindle, the blessed shot at warmth and padding, these too should not be overlooked. Hard work? Yep. Worth it?

Joni seems to think so. You’ll have to decide for yourself.

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Nature Abhors A Vacuum … or … How Science Could Be Messing With Your Love Life

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

I’m pretty sure it was Aristotle who proposed that nature abhors a vacuum. I’m also pretty sure there is an explanation of that statement that is far more succinct (and scientific) than the one I am about to offer but … here goes:

IF there is a big empty hole, SOMETHING will fill it. It’s a universal law (or something like that).

When I look at my own life I constantly see this concept in action. Whenever my wine glass is empty it magically gets refilled. See what I mean? Science is wonderful.

But I have also seen this theory take down what appeared to be a strong relationship. Of the romantic kind. And how does that work? Well, if the party of the first part isn’t feeling particularly full (as in gaping holes) and the party of the second part does nothing to fill said holes, guess what? The party of the first part seeks replenishment elsewhere. And for the most part I might submit that this does not bode well for the future of that union.

That’s not to say that we can expect our partners to show up with everything. It’s pretty impossible and probably also not even desirable. I have male friends who bring all kinds of talent to my table, be it musical, historical (as in old friends and even ex lovers), peripheral or literary. These are holes my partner may not be able to fill and there is no shame in my village taking over to do the job.

But what about those other holes? And please children, minds out of the gutter now, puhlease. I’m talking about those holes that speak to romance, passion, emotional discourse, and yes … even sex. What happens when one party is perfectly content with the slide and the other is not? Or maybe not even the slide but the status quo, born of years together, children, even grandchildren, jobs and hobbies? Is it okay for the party of the first part to expand his or her personal village to include someone who can satisfy?

Back in the 90s, when computers became household and the internet an absolute wonder, there was this little thing called IRC. Internet Relay Chat. It was new, it was exciting and damn was it fun! You never knew what dark stranger might show up to help you wile away your pockmarked hours. Flirting. Laughing. Sharing. All from the safety generated by that delightful monitor. Yeah, I’ll tell you right now I got into some trouble with IRC. And I won’t blame it all on my darling ex because as it turns out I am … I mean WAS … a bit of a thrill seeker and damn if that internet thing wasn’t rife with possibilities. I will however tender that had a few more of my holes been filled at home, I may not have been starving for fulfillment in the land of delirious technology.

But here’s the thing – if you are starving at home it probably behooves you to define the menu. In detail. Often. That is, the menu you crave. If the chef doesn’t know what you’re lacking, or hankering for or even requiring (kinda like water) how can the chef possibly whip up that gourmet feast you desire?

The problem is ALL of the above demands a whole lot of effort, a whole lot of honestly and a whole lot of disappointment … a whole lot of not fun things that truth be told may or may not propel you to that place of everlasting, hole-fully-filled fulfillment. It may all be for naught, all that enterprise, because your partner’s wheelhouse might simply be unavailable for realization. No matter how much you beg, cajole or demand, it just might not happen.

And that’s when Nature shows up. Abhorring that vacuum.

Apparently Nature is a bit of a devil. He enjoys tossing wrenches into your (perceived) contentment. He delights in reminding you that you really are just a sieve, springing leaks at every turn. He laughs at the idea that your holes are tiny and in no need of attention. Or he laughs when you attempt to rationalize your divine right to fill those holes. Because that is what we do. We rationalize.

My friend B was another “victim” of IRC. She too developed an inappropriate correspondence with a man who was not her husband, many miles away. They actually even met. That’s how Nature goes with this vacuum thing. Nature sucks you across the country to meet a man you’ve only ever chatted with online (well of course you’ve seen his picture) because that vacuum is bellowing. You and hubby have slipped into complacency. You’ve become Mom and Dad, maybe even Grandma and Grandpa, and that’s all fine. Until your inner teenager starts bellowing even louder, And that is when Nature shows up with options.

Yep. Nature has a job to do.

My other pal E also answered the call. She tried for years to explain to her better half what was missing. What she wanted. What she needed. But M just couldn’t rally. Or maybe didn’t want to. Who knows? All I know is their marriage ended because someone else (who wasn’t Nature) did rally and she moved on. M was crushed and Nature just laughed and applauded. Because as you know …

As for me, well, if you scroll back a hundred blogs you already know my marriage didn’t last. And you already know that Nature’s call … that glorious, sensual, mysterious, siren’s call … reeled me in. Hook, line and sinker. Apparently I am a fish. And a pretty damn easy catch.

The difference between then-me and now-me is awareness. I now know all of Nature’s crafty little moves. He can’t fool me anymore. Well okay maybe he can but I also know how to at least try to circumvent his eventual triumph.

I talk to the chef. I tell my truth. Sometimes I tell it so many times I feel like I will explode. But I really do try to identify my holes and then share them with my partner. At least then he has a choice. He can fill them, he can try to fill them or he can ignore them.

Of course, filling is optimum. Trying to fill is admirable (and scores big points). Ignoring them?

Well when that happens you know who is going to show up. It is a law of the universe. It is a given. A scientific certainty. A truth so concrete it endures no argument.

Okay maybe that’s not true either. I suppose you could just become complacent and let life slide. You could kick Nature in the ass and say no. Nothing to see here, pal. No vacuums for you. Move on, pal.

Maybe you could do that.

I however, tend to side with Aristotle.

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How Do You Define Happiness?

Posted on March 27, 2018 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Tomorrow is my special day and I am beyond fortunate that many people will wish me a “Happy Birthday.” I will relish every greeting. I love birthdays. Especially mine. I mostly love that I’m still here and in pretty good health.

But what exactly constitutes a happy birthday? Or a happy any-other-day for that matter? Who actually wakes up in the morning or checks in at lunchtime or nods off at night thinking “Golly, am I ever happy?”

My bet is not many of us. We are all too busy chasing the next thing that we think will bring us happiness or commiserating over all the things that do not bring us happiness. My guess is very few of us celebrate in full cognizance our daily gladness.

This is probably because we are all very similar to Dr. Faustus (based on the German legend Faust), a man so unsatisfied he makes a pact with the devil. He can have anything and everything his heart desires on this earth but the moment he is truly, undeniably, ridiculously happy … well, the devil wins his soul.

Guess what? It never happens. Because that is the nature of “man”. We always want more.

Which leads me to Hyman Judah Schactel (must be another German and what can I tell you, these are my people). He wrote: “Happiness is not having what you want, but wanting what you have.”

Pretty brilliant, right? Also virtually impossible to live.

When my son was young he always wanted something. There was always one big thing at the top of his list that he just had to have. A new skateboard. A Pokemon card. A new phone. A guitar. The thing is, once he got that prize, it brought him joy for mere moments before guess what? He wanted something else.

Thankfully he has outgrown this phase (except for guitars) but it illustrates my point perfectly. We are never content. We always want more.

When I was younger … you know those ‘misspent youth’ years … I was a bit of a thrill seeker. I don’t mean skydiving or swimming with sharks (although I did drive a Formula 2000 race-car at Cayuga once). More like emotional thrill seeking. Romantic risk-taking. I didn’t marry my son’s father until I was 34 so I had lots of time. Plus I was on the road in bands for most of my 20s so I’m sure you can imagine. Adventure and stimulation made me happy. Or so I thought.

And now? Well now I have come to the realization that contentment makes me happy. The roller coaster has lost its appeal. I’m more of a carousel girl these days. Where once I excitedly drove a Formula 2000 race-car, now I blissfully walk my dog in the ravine. Don’t get me wrong – given the opportunity to drive that race-car again, damn, yes I would! But I don’t need it. Nor do I crave it.

My son and I went to see John Mayer in concert this past summer. We are both huge JM fans and it truly was a mother-son musical bonding experience. We had excellent seats and the show was fantastic. And as we were leaving I said “Do you know what my next concert will be? Yours!” My son is a musician and I would gladly drive to Vancouver to see him perform. But geez, I hated being stuck there with all those people!

Yes, I’ve become a pussy. But a contented pussy, happy to purr in my kitchen or my trailer or the ravine or another country; wherever I go that contentment (with maybe a smidgen of excitement) is promised. And that is the funny thing. In my younger days contentment was to be avoided at all cost. Yet in these sweetly halcyon days of my (soon-to-be) twilight years, contentment is becoming the gold standard. Don’t get me wrong, Fireworks and Turbulence still at times jockey for position. But I know those dudes. Hell, I was best friends with those dudes for decades. They show up at the party, drink all your booze, kiss all the girls (and half the guys) and leave you passed out in the bathroom wondering what the hell happened.

No. I do not think they are my friends anymore. My new best friends are Serenity and Contentment.

This is a hard admission for me to publicize. I don’t want anyone thinking I’ve lost my edge, my romance or my inner rock star.

Who am I kidding? I could probably Keith-Richards it until my grave. At the very least Barry-Manilow it. I could continue my never-ending quest for thrills and spills and stimulation and frenzy.

I choose not to.

I choose to choose wanting what I have and therefore … having what I want.

Happy Birthday to me.

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And What Are Your Three Favourite Words?

Posted on March 25, 2018 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Just a quickie little poll today asking women – what are your three favourite words? I would hazard a guess that for most that automatic go-to would be “I love you.” Now I reckon there are a few strays who might answer “here’s more wine” or “laundry is done” but I do believe that, for most of us, hearing “I love you” from the man we love (as opposed to, say, the deli manager or our husband’s boss) is pretty damn sweet. Especially when offered with no prompting.

And I’m not about to say I disagree. I too love the love phrase. I will offer though there is another phrase I love even more.

“You Are Beautiful.”

Not “you look good” or “that’s a pretty dress” or “nice job with the makeup, honey, you’ve really toned down your giant nose” … no, just those three exact words, uttered with quiet conviction, preferably whilst your face is being cupped in his hands and your eyes are being adoringly stared into.

There is just something so absolutely pure and loving about being told you are beautiful. I think it goes beyond physical attributes. It’s more like he is seeing into your soul, deep into your soul, and liking what is there. Kind of like in the movie “Avatar” where those blue people say “I see you.” To be truly seen and known and then called beautiful, that is an immense gift. A gift quite easily given. And one that no doubt keeps on giving and quite possibly returns to the giver much more than he might imagine.

So I’d like to offer up a little challenge. Take a moment tonight to cup the face of your beloved, stare into her eyes and say “You are beautiful.” If Joe Cocker is singing in the background, even better.

I’ll be expecting a full report tomorrow.

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It Goes Without Saying … Till It’s Gone.

Posted on March 23, 2018 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

I have a lovely old friend named Thomas Wade. Tom’s not really old but we do go back a long way and to this day I count him as one of the finest songwriters I have ever known. On one of his earlier albums he composed a song called “It Goes Without Saying” which resonated deeply with me back then. And still does today.

So many words are left unsaid. We are all cowards on some level. Afraid to get hurt, to be vulnerable, to put something out there that just might not get returned. We guard our words like precious jewels and often guard our feelings with even more vigilance. I find this somewhat amusing, given that we also live in a social media frenzy where friends toss out “love yous” (or “love ya”) with abandon. And yet when it comes to the sharing of very real (and possibly fragile) feelings, emotions and thoughts, we ration our verbal honesty like water in the Sahara.

I grew up in a household of champion ration-ers. I knew my parents loved me but they never, ever said it. I mean like ever. Sometimes I got a birthday card signed “Best wishes on your special day, Mommy and Daddy.” At first I thought this was normal. It wasn’t until my own son was born that I realized it wasn’t. It may have been a “different era” thing or a “northern European thing” (God bless those emotive Italians!) but for me it was actually a hurtful, sad thing. I am a word girl and I wanted those words.

Shortly before my father died I called them both out. “Why can’t you say ‘I love you’ to me?” I begged. “Why can’t you sign cards and sign off on phone calls and emails with those three beautiful words?”

Their answer was somewhere along the lines of “Oh Vickie, stop being so silly, of course we love you, you know we love you, you’re being ridiculous blah blah.” Well maybe, although my mother did tell me once she loved me but didn’t like me very much (a story for another blog). Still, I can go Pit-bull when required and I was relentless. I started blurting “I love yous” will nilly – in conversations, on cards, in emails and certainly every time I took my leave. I knew my opportunities at least with my father were numbered and I didn’t want to miss out. Mostly they just laughed in that “there goes our crazy daughter again” way.

After my dad died I kept at it with my mother. It was hard because the one person from whom she really wanted to hear those words was no longer around to say them. I know it frustrated her to no end when I stood in her doorway refusing to leave until she granted my wish. Like I said … Pit-bull.

And then it was Christmas. My mother lived in a beautiful assisted-living facility complete with its own gift shop. And it was an awesome gift shop! From clothing to jewellery to knickknacks to gourmet foods she always found us interesting presents. That Christmas it was glass cubes set on a batteried base. Each cube contained an etching and when you flicked the switch the entire thing lit up. My sister got a rose. My niece got a ballerina. My brother-in-law got Mickey Mouse. And I? Well … I, the crazy, relentless, irritating, Pit-bull daughter got … I Love You. Lit up in all its beauty for all the world to see. Pretty much the best gift ever.

So back to Toms’ song. It goes without saying … till it’s gone. I might gently suggest that you do not allow that to happen. I’m not sure that anyone has ever landed on their deathbed thinking “Damn, I’m glad I didn’t give in! Yeah, way to go ME, not sharing my feelings with actual words!”

Nope. I’d wager it’s quite the opposite.

Vulnerability is hard. Armour is easy. Truth is hard. Lying is easy (withholding truth is even easier). Words are hard. Silence is easy.

Go ahead. Say the words. Don’t worry if they don’t come back. Say them anyway. Say them if you mean them. Put them out there and let the universe take care of the rest.

Remember what those fabulous Bee Gee boys said –

It’s only words

And words are all I have

To take your heart away.

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Can I Help You?

Posted on March 19, 2018 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Several years ago I decided to take a “coaching course” via a website called wellcoaches.com, affiliated with Harvard and I believe reputed to be the top training site in North America. And why did I do this you might ask? Well, mostly because after countless hours at my bar, pouring wine and sorting through problems (my own and other’s) I kept hearing the same phrase over and over again – “You should be a life coach.”

So why not, thought I? I’ve already been a waitress, a singer, an actor, a public relations professional, a radio DJ, an author, a playwright and a mom. Let’s see what this is all about.

The entire course was facilitated through a weekly conference call with an instructor (and my classmates), a small practice group and lots of reading and homework. It was a bit daunting for a few reasons. 1) There was a 30 year gap between my last schooling (university) and this and 2) I learned on our first day that I was in the company of doctors, nurses, dieticians, psychologists, fitness professionals and one yogi. When my turn came to announce my profession it took all the guts I could muster to say “radio DJ and jazz singer”. Yeah, there was a bit of a stunned silence in the room.

What I learned very quickly though was that I was born to do this. It all made perfect sense to me. It was a lot of logic and even though I am blonde I will say with the utmost confidence I have a very logical brain. I loved every minute – the reading, the studying, the classes. Even the live participation. We were probably about 8 classes in when that day’s instructor (we had a different one almost every week) informed us it was the “day of reckoning!” The day that one of us virgins was going to actually have to coach someone live … and then get adjudicated by our peers. He then said that this was the toughest class of the course and, even though he would ask for a volunteer, he knew he wouldn’t get one and would ultimately be forced to randomly choose a victim.

Nope. Before anyone else could prove him wrong I raised my hand. I mean, I did it vocally since we were on the phone after all. I blurted out with all my radio-voice bravado – “I’ll do it!”

Again, stunned silence. And then from the good professor – “Wow. In all my years teaching I have never had someone volunteer period, much less so quickly.”

Take that all you doctors!

He assigned the role of my client randomly, gave her a problem which I would coach her through and then also assigned one of my other classmates to be my adjudicator. When the mock session was complete she would be called upon to assess my skills based on certain predetermined criteria before he would throw me to the lions.

Off we went. I was scared shitless but also exhilarated. The mock session finished. More silence. And then our instructor asked the adjudicator to weigh in. She began with “Before I say anything …”

Fuck. I thought that was it. I reckoned she was going to suggest I keep my day job. Keep on singing. Leaving coaching to the grownups. But what she did say was this – “Vickie is an absolute natural. I don’t know how else to say it but it’s like she’s been doing this for years.”

Well the truth is I had. Been doing it for years. Just in my kitchen with wine.

So today this all got me to thinking about coaching and if you could break it down into an easily understandable model, one that could be explained in a sentence or two, what would that look like. And then I remembered that time in Los Angeles when my son was finishing his course at The Musician’s Institute and he was having a tough time wrapping his head around what he needed to accomplish. His final few months in Tinseltown had been a challenge (he was only 18) and the poor boy was spinning. And that’s when it hit me.

We spin because we engage in circular thinking. We are so overwhelmed with so many thoughts or tasks or problems or goals that we allow them to overtake our brains and rotate willy-nilly like a whirlpool, eventually sucking us into a vortex from which there is no escape. At least that’s what we think. We think we are doomed because we feel doomed. And we feel doomed because we cannot abandon that circular thinking. We cannot move our doomed asses into …

Linear thinking. Going in a straight line. Handling one thought/crisis/task at a time and when that one is covered and only then, moving on to the next.

And so that is exactly what I did with my son. I asked him what the next thing was that had to be completed. Was it a project? Was it a test? And then I asked him not to think about anything else except that one thing. No listening to music, no looking in the mirror worrying about his complexion, no wondering about the rest of his life or the rest of this course or if he would even pass. Just finish the one immediate task. Then we’ll think about the next one.

So why I am telling you all of this?

I think because we all get sucked into that vortex on occasion, some more often than others. And if we remember this one trick, this one concept, those two words (circular and linear) then maybe when we feel that dastardly pull we can say NOOOOOOOOOO … I am not going down! I am going to concentrate on one thing and only one thing and I am not going to think about anything else until I get this one thing sorted and then and only then will I … move on to Thing #2.

My son did pass his course. So did I and not only did I finish that wellcoaches course I actually went on to coach one of my fellow coaches (from my study group) because she asked. And I was honoured. She wanted to self-publish a book and wasn’t quite sure how to get there. Neither was I but I figured I could help her sort it out. Can you imagined how delighted I was when she thanked me, in her book? Yes she got there and I was thrilled to be a part of her journey.

I am a total believer in getting help when you need it, whether at a kitchen counter or from a trained professional. But I am also a total believer in regulating your own thoughts which will in turn regulate your own actions which in turn will get you moving forward which in turn will save you from the vortex.

Onwards Linear Thinkers! You can do this!

And if you need help I am here … and by the way I am free.

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